Beside the pool

As I sat one morning pondering Jesus' question to the invalid in their encounter in John 5:1-9, the following lines came to me:

The stranger’s question haunts my heart with hope:

            Do you want to be healed?

The flickering embers of “what if” had long since grown cold.

38 immobile years taught me “I have no one.”

Resigned to see nothing but impossibility:

            “While I am going another steps down before me.”

I’ve chosen the path of self-protection –

            isolation in the midst of a needy multitude.

But DO I want to be healed?

My lips tell him it can’t be done before my heart can truly decide.

And then in an instant he gives me wholeness –

            Grace I never knew

“Get up, take up your bed, and walk.”

This stranger knows my deepest desires better than I.

January 7, 2017

And here's a much older poem that I recently rediscovered, written for my mom on Oct. 4, 2010:

"Clear Fingernail Polish"

It’s nearly gone now.

The invisible link that strangely binds us across the miles

You’ve probably forgotten the gift

But I remember – as I see my hands each day,

I’m reminded of your care

The quick strokes of love that left my fingers

            shining as I flew off for adventures

                        - in trust

                                    - in freedom and dependence

            on the One your hands and mine lift to praise.

Though I know I will when it’s time,

I don’t want to cut them.

Perhaps an inner longing has kept the solvent away –

            sitting untouched on the bottom shelf,

                        unable to sever our ties

Which I know – with thanksgiving –

            run far deeper than the remnants of

            clear fingernail polish gracing my fingers

with the tender kiss of yours.