April 28–May 4 ❘ Law of Consecration

Law of Consecration

My last child before an emptied nest
is doing homework at the kitchen table.
He is without guile, easily frustrated,
unable to hide it. But he plows on:
reads history while listening to ragtime,
practices chords on piano and banjo,
bakes chocolate chip cookies after school
for a friend who needs a treat. We laugh
at old home movies he plotted and played out
with older brothers, then he goes down to bed alone.

I wonder at my loans coming due—the acres
of good ground I planted, the drops of soul
I wrung out to water them, all for others to reap.
This is my consecration to the poor
that cannot be taken back,
the child of my old age on the altar,
my Samuel sent to answer the Lord.

God calls me to wake and arise,
but I linger in warm dreams,
wanting just five minutes more.

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April 21–27 ❘ In Our Midst