sixthgen
pastoral publishing in the 21st century
pastoral publishing in the 21st century
While observing an ore ship on Lake Superior, fighting the NE winds out of Duluth, MN.
I set my face to the wind; My bow to the breakers. I point my nose in the untamed direction; My hull to the white-capped waves. I have seen the casualties of the tempest; Vessels rusting in the deep. But they had not my courage, nor my certainty. They knew not my compass, nor my harbor. I embark from the place of freedom. I come from the sacred port. I journey with One who has been to the distant shores. I am captained by the Keeper of all horizons.  There is an eternal tale,
That "all life is frail." The Autumnal season speaks the word. Fall is seen and Fall is heard. Green leaves are the lungs of the earth. And green is the color of life and its worth. Brown is autumn's deathly call. Piles of compost littering Fall. There is an eternal tale, That "all life is frail." But is this tale really eternal? Could there be something alive that's supernal? When leaves will be green perpetually, And life will march on indefinitely? The hospital is a place of commerce.
A whole industry formed around healing. But for her there is no healing. Under her robe, a body of pain. They sanitize the smell of death. Bleached is the stench of decay. She moans, "Doctor, do you know?" "Do you have an answer?" "Do you have any relief for me?" But there is no healing today, and no miracles. Just sterilized hallways painted off-white. If there was a healer, I would reach for him. If there was hope of relief, I would stretch out my hand. And maybe I could touch him. Even just the hem of his robe. |
