Almost a Monologue

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Son, you come to me


This New Year’s Day

Taking stock perhaps

Seeking direction.

You sense it’s hard

Routine job

No great challenge

No great thanks

Disabled wife

With large demands

Children living their lives

Friends few

On the horizon

No formal church connection

No desire either

In that direction.

This your 65th year

Will work, yet

And you wonder

About significance

And legacy.

Many large names

In your ken

Are gone

And all but forgotten.

What do I want of you?





A listening ear

A smiling disposition

Words in season

To downtrodden

Or confused.

Oh, and there are your writings

I haven’t forgotten

Touching a small readership

Glorifying my Son

Holding forth my Spirit

Some of the works

Have pleased me

Proved that you were






Passing along.

And in such writings

An inkling for you

Of what I really want:

That you worship me

Utter my name before others

And the hope that comes

From my Son

The real life that comes

In my Spirit.

And do it where you are

That factory

That family

That neighbourhood

That marketplace

That readership.

And when you are ready

Perhaps a turn

In the road.

Don’t rush

You have barely begun

Your service

In me, for me.

Do not ever fear

The sand in your glass.

You were not born

In some exotic place

Neither am I sending you.

So Son





Happy New Year.

In my Now.


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