Eternal Weight of Glory

This is a dual story of family suffering.  Several years ago, a family in our church lost their baby daughter to an infection as they served on the mission field.  As you could imagine, that event still radically affects that family’s daily life together.  They will never get over it, at least in this life.

I started thinking about their unrelenting sorrow and my own family’s experience with an unrelenting thing.  While my family’s own suffering at the hands of autism is nowhere near the level of pain that our friends suffer, it is still something that never goes away.

Anyway, the comparison got stuck in my mind and this is the outcome.

__________

some time ago

we cried as one—

brother

and sister

had lost

their joy—

the girl

cut down,

willow sapling

felled

as buds

burgeoned—

and the

unbearable load

of leaden sorrow

pressed down

like stones upon

the chest—

to cry:

“more weight

and let me die”

would be

in vain,

for there

are no

more stones

to weigh,

for they

have all

been used

for this—

the quarry

now a vacuum,

an vacant room

used only

for weeping . . .

and then

some time before

we cried as one,

my sister

and I,

as joy was

interrupted—

the boy

was

alone,

lost

in a wood,

yet blind

to trees

surrounding—

and the

throbbing

burden

of unrelenting

minutiae

pressed

down

like an

unwanted

palm upon

the shoulder—

to shrug

and flail

against it

would be

in vain,

for there are

many hands

to weigh—

waiting their

patient turns,

steady for

the days

to come

(2008)

And We Will Know

This is my first overt poem about my son’s autism.  He is such a gift to our family, just like he is.  But I can’t deny that I look forward to the days beyond this existence, when I will have the privilege of really getting to know him.

__________

sit in that chair

and talk to me

of three little pigs

and trains with faces

and tell me all the stories

that line the hastily-drawn pages

of the stapled-together books

in the fantastic library

of your magnificent aloneness—

but school is out

and that library is closed

for a long, Florida summer,

locked up good until . . .

the Opening

when

we will sit together

in grand chairs

and you will know

and you will talk to me

and not just near me

and you will tell me

and I will listen

and you will make me know

and I will know

and you will know

and I will know

and we will know

(2008)

Prayer

For a long time I have admired the work of the Imagist poets of the early 20th century and tried to imitate their knack for capturing and succinctly describing a snapshot of detail within  a larger picture.

This poem was written one Sunday when my autistic son, Jack, was having a hard day and needed to leave the sanctuary.  While our friends worshiped in the next room, Jack drew pictures and his dad did what you read here.

__________

a three-finger pinch

of glasses at the temple

removes them

from the face—

with smooth, downward motion,

metal and glass

pivot expertly

between fingers,

swinging wide,

avoiding collision—

palm presses to forehead

and the warmth

and the weight

the weight

the weight

against the skin

(2006)