His Hands
His age
more than a score more years than mine,
his hands
large and strong,
still
bearing the sinews of his brick laying years,
yet
generous and soft, like a cushion or a cloud,
inviting me
to lay my burdens down.
Our visit
was over,
his heavy
eyes betraying the weariness
of his frail
frame struggling to heal itself.
“Two more
weeks before going home,” the verdict rendered.
A good
thing, I thought as I looked and I listened.
He wheeled
his chair closer to the bed tray to reach for his water.
His lips
were parched and his throat was dry.
We spoke of
things both lowly and holy,
though
which was which might be debatable.
But he is
no longer capable of complicated theology, so he said.
He had
given me the remnants of his pastoral study some time ago.
After I
listened, I sang a song of the season:
“God in
flesh made manifest,” sings the refrain.
Then I took
his hands in mine to pray “Our Father.”
But the
longer we prayed,
the more he
took my hands in his,
and then it
was no long my hands holding his,
or his
hands holding mine,
but Our
Father holding both of us.
“God in
flesh made manifest.”
David Tryggestad
Reflecting on my visit with Fred
Norlien
January 24, 2013
Copyright ©
2013 David Tryggestad. All Rights Reserved.
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