“Time is
of the essence.”
Schedule
and plan for treatment carefully
balanced
between speed, accuracy;
agreed
upon by consulting professionals,
plotted
for patient, family, friends to follow.
Operational
risk deemed necessary,
surgical
trauma’s recovery time measured,
monitored;
maximum strength, recuperation
desired
before next step can follow;
and then insurance inserts its monkey wrench.
Hands of
the clock, O Lord,
have been
spinning out of control since
the first
visit’s diagnosis erupted
into our
lives, shattering all
previous
measuring devices.
Time as
chronology has become the new enemy,
upping
the ante from wrinkles, creaking joints
to an
all-in that is beyond our ability to cover;
minutes,
hours, days, weeks, months threaten
to become
obsessive-compulsive vortex.
Torturously
second guessing ourselves,
squeezing
all talismans in hopes of going
back in
time to replay the scene;
frantically
seeking a holy do-over,
begging
the clock to cease its unpredictable palpitations.
Give ear,
O God, to swirling chaos;
bring us
a new understanding of time–
a measure
of holy kairos:
clock of
your love, grace, plan;
birthing
in us the gift of your “right time.”
We don’t
just need pie-in-the-sky
assurance
of unimaginable glory beyond
our
breathing; give us measuring gifts
for these
days, scales by which
to
compare our fear and pain
in the
balance of your
mercy,
forgiveness, wholeness.
Bring us
to the place where we can touch
the
in-the-flesh promise of Messiah:
one who
pitched a tent in our yard,
not as
temporary tuxedoed visitor,
but daily
companion in the struggle.
Let us
synchronize our watches
with the
balm of Gilead’s tears;
give us a
sense of the palpable presence
of the
one whose healing flow washes
over all
who cry out for help.
 |
| Photo by Katie Jenkins |
© 2014
Todd Jenkins
No comments:
Post a Comment