I was given a gift, and it was beautiful; it was good.
3 years of care of that gift, every day, and many nights.
I spent dreaming of caring for the gift.
But I could feel it slipping from my grasp,
I tried to hold onto it, but it was taken away.
Was I no longer worthy of the gift?
Or was it something that only needed a steward?
Now it is gone, or rather, I am gone from it.
I thought the gift was about community, about engagement;
I thought it was about play, about interaction.
But all of these things needed something, and that something was missing.
It was hidden in my life and the situation in which the gift exists.
Every exchange, every interaction, was thought to be eternal.
Yet every “good morning!” needed a response.
Every action engendered an obligation.
How could I pay it back?
I looked at the one who snatched the gift from me.
He represented a story that is hard and unyielding
He embodied a world where accounting caused bleeding.
He cried from his shame, but not outward feeling.
I lost the gift, and She spoke with compassion.
And I knew I belonged; that compassion is my compassion.
I had been looking for compassion in a world framed by “year-end” fashion.
And She spoke, and embraced, and held this old man,
Gave ground under my feet on which to stand.
She said “I love you,” and “Your gift hasn’t left you.”
She mirrored the compassion I had all along.
She showed me how I was ten times as strong.
Our strength is our weakness, our humble address.
Our Gift is mercy, and loving compassion.
Our Gift is grace, which is not mine to possess,
Our Strength is recognized when our gifts have departed.