Awake again, to my surprise.
What's this? Another day?
In the same room, same body, same life
to while the hours away.
What should I do with this new gift?
Fill it, pass it, waste it, or create?
Perhaps a combination of those all
would sufficiently compensate.
I look back on my collection
of days, weeks, months and years
and see patterns, pockets, trends
of various paths with laughter and tears.
Here's the child so early broken
by others' cruelty and abuse.
Then simultaneously occurring
joyful play and friendships to amuse.
So many versions I can't count
or remember all so well.
Just that some lifted up to heaven
while others skirted boundaries of hell.
All remembered as my dad lies dying,
filled with useless, hurting shame
that he's not worth the gift of Jesus
and the grace given in His name.
Then I realize as I wake,
with another jolt of surprise
that I likely wonder to myself
if even I am worth that prize.
Yes I know, it's not about earning,
or working hard, as if grace is pay.
That it's a gift given at great cost
for us all, each and every day.
But like my dad, though I am closer,
I doubt sometimes that it's for me.
That the story of it's giftedness
is a cover up, you see.
And so my dad will pass so soon,
and I can't help him now.
And never could or never would
not that he'd listen anyhow.
But my prayer is this,
that Jesus himself will be there when he dies
and let him know he's welcome too,
then carry him up to heaven's skies.
And when it's time for my life's gift
to meet his own appointment with death
I hope my dad and I'll be there
to help him with his first eternal breath.