Sitting, staring, silent as we approach,
Mind struggling, slogging through thick mud,
Grasping toward wispy memories, realities,
Of what and who and from when we come.
Recognition sparks, tears flow, hand reaches out,
Soft, weak, slightly limp but warm,
“I want to hear what Jimmy says.”
We pull up chairs and lean in.
Speech comes slowly, comprehension, too,
A box of pictures from long ago, sifting through,
“Such a waste,” in response to wartime images,
A perspective never voiced before.
Well-groomed, well-fed, well-attended 24/7,
Still, “I want to go home,” through tears he says, and
“A walk won’t do me no good without a miracle,”
It’s coming, Dad. Your new miracle body is coming soon.
“Mom was supposed to come today, but she didn’t,” he says.
“She had to go to the doctor today,” brings yet more weeping.
Though hard to watch, close to insufferable for him to endure.
Day by day, this slow agony weans us from his earthly companionship.
Since these present sufferings are nothing compared
To the weight of glory to come, unspeakable glory must await!
“Lord Jesus, come quickly! Your servant waits and searches for You.
Comfort Your servant in this long, darkening night,” I pray.