March 10, 2010; updated September 21, 2023
Trapped in the din of exuberance
I shrink behind a stoic smile
as children of Mirador
shake the sanctuary walls,
submerging my senses,
drowning thought
in waves of chaos washing by,
composed of shouts
and soccer balls,
giggling swirls of almond girls,
rice krispie squares and lemonade,
the dreams they share
of lives unfurled
beyond the world of Mirador.
But can we ever comprehend
the calculus of blessings?
How karma comes so well
disguised. How butterflies
somewhere will sway,
the wind will shift another way,
and through the swirling
stardust currents, God speaks
Child to empire’s fringe.
How echoes anchor minds
that wander, crack the armor,
fill the arms that ache to cradle,
fill the lives that ache for more.
And how the winds of Mirador
bestow in trust a brown-eyed boy
to bind my soul a blessed hour
adrift on complicated tides
unbidden thoughts impressed inside
from child or God I cannot say –
Are you among the modern magi,
those who wander far-off byways
searching for a holy child
to bless with gifts then walk away,
to one day join a jeering band
in casting lots for what remains
when charity gets out of hand,
declares ‘shalom’ then works for change?
At the open church door, threshold
to the gleaming muddy world beyond,
a red-dress girl but five feet tall
lays down her youth, reclaims her child
and lifts the face of timid grace
to offer what she holds inside
her blessing, a beatitude —
Be happy, spoken word for me
from God or girl I cannot say.
Madonna child of fourteen years
squares her back and turns away,
with watchful baby over shoulder
skips past puddles, rounds the corner,
treading lightly on the pathway
down her mud and gravel days.
as children of Mirador
shake the sanctuary walls,
submerging my senses,
drowning thought
in waves of chaos washing by,
composed of shouts
and soccer balls,
giggling swirls of almond girls,
rice krispie squares and lemonade,
the dreams they share
of lives unfurled
beyond the world of Mirador.
But can we ever comprehend
the calculus of blessings?
How karma comes so well
disguised. How butterflies
somewhere will sway,
the wind will shift another way,
and through the swirling
stardust currents, God speaks
Child to empire’s fringe.
How echoes anchor minds
that wander, crack the armor,
fill the arms that ache to cradle,
fill the lives that ache for more.
And how the winds of Mirador
bestow in trust a brown-eyed boy
to bind my soul a blessed hour
adrift on complicated tides
unbidden thoughts impressed inside
from child or God I cannot say –
Are you among the modern magi,
those who wander far-off byways
searching for a holy child
to bless with gifts then walk away,
to one day join a jeering band
in casting lots for what remains
when charity gets out of hand,
declares ‘shalom’ then works for change?
At the open church door, threshold
to the gleaming muddy world beyond,
a red-dress girl but five feet tall
lays down her youth, reclaims her child
and lifts the face of timid grace
to offer what she holds inside
her blessing, a beatitude —
Be happy, spoken word for me
from God or girl I cannot say.
Madonna child of fourteen years
squares her back and turns away,
with watchful baby over shoulder
skips past puddles, rounds the corner,
treading lightly on the pathway
down her mud and gravel days.
Other poems from Costa Rica:
- The Girl's Guava Tree
- The Night Music of San Rafael de Guatuso
- A Friday Morning Devotional in Iglesia Evangelica Metodista
I found this verse touching, compelling .....and wish I knew more of this young girl's story....Her future fate.
ReplyDeleteAlso I recognize faith, the acknowledgement of being "open" ...listening for words from God...They are spoken by friends, strangers, acquaintances, and foes alike: "From God's mouth to my ear". We only have to listen.
Brenda
"But can we ever comprehend/the calculus of blessings?/How karma comes so well/disguised. How butterflies/somewhere will sway,/the wind will shift another/way,"
ReplyDeleteThis resonated with me. What I was thinking is that we think we know exactly what constitutes blessing (all the "having it all's") but, while thinking we can recognize fortune and blessing may comfort us, it may not be accurate. Not sure if that makes any sense.
I was wishing for more photos as I scrolled down the length of the poem--just a reaction.
Also, I am not sure what you mean by "God speaks/Child to empire’s fringe."
Beautiful poem, Daddy.
I met ‘Jessica’ on a mission trip, in a Darien village in the southern jungle of Panama, October, 1958. She, like all the other Salvation Army dressed Jessicas, was very young, a child on her hip and a belly that spoke of another to come. And yet, she had a serene expression on her face that transcended a ten-year-old boy’s understanding. In her time and place she was happy, kissed her fingers, pressed them to my cheek and said, “Vaya con Dios, mi amigo.” So I did, and now I am, a modern magi, raising my hand, to once again say ‘shalom.’
ReplyDeleteRichard
Thank you Bob. I really appreciated this poem. I especially liked the allegory within regarding the Christ-child and who he became, and who the world could not tolerate and reacted in cruel hate.
ReplyDeleteHow precious are these children on the fringe of empire, who God passionately loves and who give the world so unconditionally with their innocence, joy, and laughter. No wonder why Jesus says, “Unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the Kingdom of Heaven (Mt 18:1)”
But these same children, the victim of the fallen world, have their childhood so easily hijacked. What does compassion and mercy call us to? God calls us to be generous givers of life to them, and in so doing we find our greatest joy.