The first time you didn't know what to do.
It was in London, and she was a pianist with something
of an international reputation.
She showed you the injured hand; she told you of her concert;
and you left her then, thinking
How do I start, Father?
You walked along the Embankment with the sun
behind you and the Thames still slugging it out
with the upstream barges. Pray! You prayed.
But prayers have terms. At Westminster the day
rebuked you: the Monday earth rustled, the sun
shone, children played. You remembered
the first record of creation when
God said, "Let us make man . . .
after our likeness." And everything
He made was "very good." Then,
"Cease ye from man, whose breath is in his nostrils,"
cried Isaiah. The sun shone,
the children played, and you remembered
Jonah giving thanks in the whale's belly;
Jesus at the tomb of his friend, Lazarus,
giving such thanks ... aflame with his love.
That's what was meant by seeking Truth,
not for the loaves and fishes but
out of a gratitude that floods the heart.
Gratitude, then, for the deathless perfection
of God's creation, of His dearly beloved sons.
Yes, man was always
God's dearly beloved.
