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Illness and God's Faithfulness



A Prism

by Carol Brinneman

 

A prism sitting on the sill,

A teardrop chiseled into glass,

A beautiful image to fill

My teary eyes, remembering

Past facets of my life

All but disappeared.

A prism? A prison!

Seemingly for me...

Then I lift it up and

  hang it from a string.

As sunlight beams pierce

The cold and jagged cuts,

Out splash tears of light,

Not white,

But rainbow hues prancing,

Bringing multi-hued promises

  of God’s faithfulness,

Splashing, splashing

Into my heart

Hope; a covenant of healing

  and redemption are ever afloat!

God sees His rainbow even as

  it dances on my bedroom walls—

And will not forget.

 

November 15, 1994

 

 


Lest I Die

by Carol Brinneman

 

Plink. Plink. Plink.

Celestial drops splashing,

Rendered precious quashing,

Quenching parchèd palates.

 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Crimson globules oozing,

Rendered priceless cruising,

Saving sickened systems.

 

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

Oxygen molecules rushing,

Rendered miraculous hushing,

Energizing ebbing existence.

 

Father, Son, Holy Spirit,

Rain on me. Reign over me.

Transfuse me. Infuse me.

Respire me. Resuscitate me.

Lest I die.

 

July 30, 2002

 

             

 

Sapped

by Carol Brinneman

 

Crunching through maple leaves,

I peer up at trees

In bursts of sunlight,

Glorious in their hues:

Yellow and purple, orange and red!

 

In the midst of being sapped

They know they soon will willingly stand

Stripped and naked in the cold.

Yet with thin arms determined to stretch upward

In praise to their Maker.

 

The leaves, splashes of a vibrant past,

Are freely shed.

For soon, with cupped hands, the needy will draw on a sap

Made wonderfully sweet and delicious—

The product of weakness, pain, time and obedience—

A balm to those desperate for energy and healing.

 

*sap : any fluid vital to the life or health of an organism; vigor, vitality

 

November 5, 1997

 

       

Tired

by Carol Brinneman

 

Tired, so tired...

The delicate thousand fingers of the trees

Gently massage my spirit.

Lightly swaying,

Calming the tenseness of my soul.

The breeze relieves my brain’s tight-fisted clench on life.

Sunshine swells in a crescendo of healing balm

To a battered body crying for release from fatigue’s demonic clutches.

 

 “He makes me to lie down in green pastures ... He restores my soul”

Psalm 23: 2, 3. 

 

April 28, 1996