It seems the world has had more than its share of storms within this past month.
I. Asleep, My Lord?
Fear rocks the boat in waves of disbelief,faith crashes into splinters….and the Lord sleeps.
Bailing doubts that wash unbidden into the keel,we try in vain to tie down vagrant, flapping sails;all our tattered hopes whip free in the ensuing gale.
Fear rocks the boat…and the Lord’s asleep.
Straining at the oars against a head wind,we search for the safety of solid ground.The boat floods in despair’s crescendo waves.
Our Lord sleeps, curled up, eyes closed, innocent…And the boat begins to sink.
In the wreckage of our faith….He sleeps,and when in deepest anguish we shout out to Him: can He still hear us above the roar of the storm?
The night shatters into sudden, quiet calm.Christ stands in the very center of our lives…The impression of a rope distinctly coiledacross his left cheek. Not asleep.
He knots our fears into absolute silenceand awe….our faces still wet with sea spray.We may not know who commands whom,but we know who is Lord—-the captain of this storm.We know the power of His single word.
In honor of Father’s Day This was written about two decades ago while my father was still alive and coming
to terms with his humanity and fallibility…
He reflected the sun, the moon, the stars to me,
His armor bright, polished, gleaming.
I shadowed my eyes with my hands
in order to watch him in full regalia
charge through life’s tourneys—
large and valiant, a hero—
my father, my knight.
mirror-like silver, dull grey patina,
black, no light reflected.
Retirement. Discards of past victories
shelved away in labeled boxes in the hall closet.
Memories of Truth, Integrity, Honour—-
Forgive an old fool.
Sorrow of wisdom won—late.
The castle sold; milady moved.
The armor doesn’t fit anymore,
perhaps, it never did.
I pick up a piece of it, rub it with my sleeve.
Still silver underneath the black.
Not a hero, not a statue up on a pedestal,
not a knight pursuing some holy grail—
a man, my father.
A few dents on the breastplate, battle-scarred.
We walk together; his hair a helmet of dun grey metal,
mine a scarf woven with a thread or two of white.
We stroll across a bridge side by side.
Grandsons tug insistently on his wrinkled, greave-less hands.
We stand before the mirrored surface of a lake.
We may never understand completely our reflections there…
The choices we each have made.
The intensity of feelings fade— Pax Familia.
Teach Me to Pray
Palm to palm
finger to finger
each coal black worry,
into the workings,
the anguish of a prayer
leave these there
in glistening diamond tears
let His peace, calm
into your innermost being
when its time
your heart rhythm
slow and steady
open wide your hands
let it all drop into His
raise yours now
palms open to heaven
fingers spread wide
in wordless wonder
c.2017 Darlene Moore Berg