Journal of Sacred Work

   More than anyone else, caregivers know birth and death. Called to the bedside, they live present to agony, joy, & sacred longing for healing that often eludes.

   As my grandson travels his postpartum path, I await the chance to travel to Boston & his presence. Meanwhile, I miss precious first days & weeks living instead on photographs & sweet-told stories.

   Look at the difference in him already – from minutes old, reaching for Love in his world – to two weeks.ag
  

   Longing is a price of Love. I wrote something to him that I hope will help will ease the private pain of your own unmet desires:

In Another Country

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In last light, cardinals & wrens evensong each other home to night’s nest. 

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Only the mockingbird remains.

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You live in another country. Mountains, the layers of cities, the long span of age, the worries of others all separate you from me.

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Clear as I speak, you cannot hear me. Hard as you cry, I cannot feed you. Hard as I cry you cannot hear my need for you.

Do you miss the comfort of your mother’s within, the whisper of voices, the muffled bells of love?

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New to the world, you test earth’s air with fresh arms, strong legs, the power of your lungs.

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You live in another country. Mountains, the layered walls of cities, the long span of age, the worries of others all separate you from me.

We share a single strand. It weaves through your blood with other threads that tint your skin, texture your bones, focus the color of your eyes, signal our lifelong bond.

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We are blood brothers.

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From another country, my father wants to know you. His father wants to know you.

These men greet you through ether’s blood.  I want to hold you amid the sinew of this world.

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How do you hear the colors of the day? What flows through your hands & into your heart when you find your mother’s skin, your father’s arms, the curious touch of your sister’s fingers, or hear your grandmother’s sighs?

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When will I see the curve of your shoulders, the dark of your eyes & feel the silk of your hair?

When will I hear the timbre of your voice & feel the heft of your body as it claims its part of the world?

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 I tire of longing. I am done with the absence of ecstasy.

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Son of my daughter, grandson of my wife, child of the earth, I reach, now, across the mountains, the cities, the distance of our ages. I raise you to the clouds, read the raw, unlived chapters of your life.

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May I see you before I leave?

May I hear your voice before you begin to sort out the world’s words? 

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-Erie Chapman