The following poem we found embedded in Eugene Peterson's The Contemplative Pastor (1989), and we felt that it spoke to us as we reflected on very troubling illnesses crushing the lives of two precious teenagers that we know personally.Curing Souls: The Forgotten Art
Blessed are the poor in spirit
A beech tree in winter, white
Intricaces unconcealed
Against sky blue in his emptiness
Ripeness: sap ready to rise
On signal, buds alert to burst
To leaf. And then after a season
Of summer a lean ring to remember
The lush fulfilled promises.
Empty again in wise poverty
That lets the reaching branches stretch
A millimetre more towards heaven,
The bole expand ever so slightly
And push roots into the firm
Foundation, lucky to he leafless:
Deciduous reminder to let it go.
We found this poem helpful as we sought God for help and healing for what seems a slow response. Without anchoring verse, our lives will run on an emotional pendulum. Should we shout, "Master, Master! Save!"? There is a thought that if we scream long enough and hard enough, God will hear. From a human perspective, if we scream long enough and hard enough someone will eventually hear us and cut out our tongues. Yet, what is there left to do if Jesus remains asleep on a cushion? The storm is affecting us! Or do we only think it is a mighty storm and we are simply being conditioned for an even mighter one? We need a break from this - to cry tears of joy and awe. The verse helps to regather our perspective and to have a little faith. May this cup pass.
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