From the Dead

Revelation 7:9-17

After this I, John, looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands.  . . .

Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, “Who are these, robed in white, and where have they come from?” I said to him, “Sir, you are the one that knows.” Then he said to me, “These are they who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.

 

From the Dead

 Memories drifting,
Swirling softly in the morning mist,
Dreams, recollections of
Holding the hands of the dying,
Praying.
Crying in the dark,
I see them.

My brother
Sparkling soulful eyes,
Golden freckles, sweetness.

The father of my son
Tormented in the chaos of
The life he created,
The life that ended him.

A friend, tall, lean, weathered,
Finding happiness in the Lord
Before her life was snuffed out.

A friend
Betrayed by her body
Unable this time to fight
The cancer that stole her away
From the family she loved.

My own father saddened
By his lonely ending
Yet always knowing there were
those who loved him.

Memories coaxing me
from sleep to waking,
I rose from the bed,
Pulled my robe close,
Walked to the kitchen
Poured a cup of coffee,
Turned on the radio.

“Happy All Saints Day to you."
The host announced.
"It’s a favorite holiday of mine,
A time we set aside for
Remembering family and friends,
Considering and honoring
those we love who went before us.”


I'd forgotten.
Between sleep and waking,
Between spiritual and earthly,
Between rational and irrational
There lies that space we call Spirit.
It knows the movement
That defines our life,
That defines the days and nights
of souls and saints,
Who having endured the great ordeal,
Now sing and dance in the presence of the Lamb.
Except on this night, when
The Spirit brings them to us in memories,
Swirling in the mist
Of dreams and recollections.

When it calls us to consider those
We loved, sleep will not protect us.
We cannot escape its call
As we reach through the mist
To touch them, once loved, now dead
To be assured that they are in a better place,
To be assured they will prepare a place
For the time when we join them,
To be assured they will give us
the courage always to love,
And love again.

In life and in death
In joy and in grief
We will love.


2019

 

One thought on “From the Dead”

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