Slice of Life:
The Birth of My Son
His pink, wrinkled body, is held up by the nurse so I could get a look. Pointed head, wrinkled feet, puckered fingers and squinting eyes. He is not sure where he is or where he's going. Swaddled and handed to me, I speak with my eyes trying to connect at a level deeper than words. Flesh of my flesh. Bone of my bone.
The room is cold and I begin what becomes a lifetime of concern for his safety, his comfort, and his care. Reluctantly, I hand him to the nurse who cleans the remnants of his mother's womb from his now independent body. He squints and blinks at the light flooding his eyes. His senses are trying to catch up with the outside world.
Dawn shudders from the chill or the anisthetic but she smiles warmly at the fulfilling of her nurturing work. She has brought forth a child. Flesh of her flesh. Bone of her bone.
To us a son is given, a child is born. It is a resurrection experience deepening our lives in immeasurable ways. The nurse hands me a now quieted boy. Warmed, blanketed and curious. Every sucking sound or stretching finger a blessing to my soul. I try to catch his gaze, to lock eyes, but he's not read for that.
"Hello. I'm your Daddy. I love you, son. God bless you little boy." And so starts the beginning of his life and the rest of mine…
A Man With Death On His Shoulders
I just talked to a man with death on his shoulders. He tried to smile but his eyes weren't in it. He looked down and to the side and only briefly could he catch my eye. We're friends, this man and I, but a gap, a chasm separates us. It is his grief that I can not understand and we both know it. I go home to my wife each night. He only finds his memories waiting at home.
But we're friends so he courageously stopped by to say Hi. I could see the unshakable cloud. It hovered around and about and mostly caused his shoulders to sag and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes to deepen.
Yes, I saw a man with death draped on him like a murky, clouded night. It darkened him and try as he might-he couldn't be light. In less than a year, the bubble had burst and the joy of living had slipped through his hard working hands. He once had it all, now he stands alone on the edge of living and deeply connected to death.
I saw a man with death wrapped around his face and draped across his heart. He was a man I respect and dearly would love to reach. Perhaps in time. But for now-he was a man with death on his shoulders and he alone must carry the load.
May God touch his weary soul.
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