The Stranger

The Stranger

Grief is such a stranger to me

That might sound like something magical, wondrous

But it is quiet and dead and dehumanizing

The lack of grief is a very reason to grieve

The lack of capacity to grieve 

Signals the presence of the monotonous, the mundane

I guess I need to set aside a coffee date

Maybe it is time to meet with grief

See all that I’ve missed over these last 30 or so years

Not so I may dwell in death or despair

But rather that I may dwell in life

I don’t want to be a stranger anymore

Little Feet

I found this poem in my journal and I wish to dedicate it to Isaiah on his "gotcha day" today.

Little Feet

I love these little feet

They have walked across African soil

Now they rest and sleep

These feet have seen the women weep

They have seen the men’s great toil

In the dry and barren streets

These feet have stepped on paths of death

Yet they thrive now in the light

These feet have known what hunger is

They have known the darkness, known the bliss

They have known the agony of the night

They have felt the wonder of the breath

I love these little feet

These feet that come from African soil

Now they rest and sleep

And in my heart I sense the deep

And the pleasure in the tumultuous toil

That brought him from the barren street

And now he rests at home

Each Life

I'm posting this poem today in honor of our son Isaiah's "Gotcha Day."

Each Life

This is what it’s all about

These are smiles of heaven’s shouts

This is life that sets one free

This is life as it’s meant to be

This is a picture of the kingdom of God

A picture that was taken on this earthly sod

This is a picture of heaven on earth

This is a picture of what love is worth

This is a sight of the look in God’s eyes

This is the cost of the most priceless prize

This is the world in the way it should be

This is the way that we set the world free

Each life makes a difference

Restore

I wrote this poem for a patient of mine. She was an infant with a terribly progressive terminal disease. I guess you could call this poem a "statement of faith" if you wanted to, but as a physician I despise when it seems that illness wins and my patients and their families lose. So in light of what most would call a hopeless situation, I decided to do the only thing I could do: write hope. 

I read this poem again tonight as I was going through my journal, and I felt like I needed to share it. I feel like there are lots of people who need hope, and if you are one of those, then this poem is for you. If you know of someone who needs hope, then please share this poem with them. I think it makes the world a better place when we take something born out of great tragedy and pain, and then help to turn that around for great good. Thanks :)   . 

Restore

The very things meant to destroy your hearing

Will be used to spread the sounds of heaven everywhere

The very things meant to destroy your vision

Will be used to reveal the colors and the beauty of God

The things meant to destroy your soul

Will bring healing to the nations

God has spoken, it is true

Those things brought as destruction against you

Will be the very things that lift you higher

Higher than one has ever been before

So keep looking for the door

The Angel

The Angel

There is an angel outside my window

Standing amongst the trees

Standing amongst the remains of the giants

Always looking to the gates

Standing, watching, in silence he waits

Watching the entries, the exits

The comings and goings

His head lifted slightly toward the sunsets

He reminds me often that my life is up to me

Yet there remains a guardian

Not a guardian to keep fear and pain away

No, a guardian to allow fear and pain to play

In the midst of my noisy din,

In the midst of my normal day,

Along the paths of chosen friends,

I find I live in the presence of my enemies 

While drinking the choicest of wines

Breathing the breaths that are most sublime

All the while my guardian keeps watch by the windows

What he knows no one knows

What he’s seen, what he’s heard

The gusts of the wind, the songs of the birds

The cries of my heart, the darkness of my eyes

The stillness of my soul that has been mesmerized

By the things he can see and hear every moment

But there are no moments in eternity’s scenes

Space without time, movement within rhyme

And without

I swallow pride, I swallow doubt

Nodding slightly to my silent guardian

Who still has head lifted toward the sunsets

Who can I be?

Who is this that is me?

He sits there quietly 

The gusting spring winds scattering flowers abroad

So that it appears the snow has fallen once again

A snow of pinks and purples and whites and yellows

Stories of newborn sullen fellows

Whose lives were a scattered glance

Yet in all their beauty, all their romance

The yearning lingers on

A light, a stroke, a sing, a song

The angel still keeps his watching, long

As the seas still swirling

The shoots unfurling

This life is just a whisper away

Clover

Clover

Isn’t it amazing

That in the midst of nowhere

God places his nicest beauties

In the places where feet trod, unbeholden,

Stomping the life out of it all

Completely unaware, uncaring, of the life being crushed

Yet right there is where His beauty lies

Right there is the place where I can decide

To keep on crushing with these weather-worn boots

Or to stop and cherish the moment

I think I’ll stay right here for a while

Intricacies

Intricacies

This is amazingly intricate

Accidental it cannot be

Every tiny fiber making it’s small contribution

Every contribution critical to the mass

I refuse to see through a looking glass

Whose lenses are shattered by mere reason

That is why even in the deadliest season

One can see that beauty exists

Beauty lives

Beauty speaks in the loudest of voices

In the quiet intricacies of our human choices,

In the fallen leaves of winter

It only takes the size of a splinter

To open the heart to reality

Reality that goes beyond our dark winters