Interlude - Lindquist

Now for something a little different. :)

In the quiet of the morning, there is peace.
Shafts of sunlight—mere hints of the whole—
Flicker through the cracks between window and blind
Promising a new day, a new opportunity, hope.

The telephone rings. Wrong number. Peace shattered.
An email brings up heated discussion;
I thought we’d settled that, but here it comes again.
Another head of Hydra, the never-dying one.

What to eat? How many points is it?
Why does saying “No” so drive me to say “Yes”?
Door bell rings. Mail arrives. Phone again.
This time it’s the right number.

Off in a new direction.
Fix this. Do that.
How could I have forgotten a dentist appointment?
How could anyone forget a dentist appointment?

Out of milk; out of ideas.
What should we do about that?
Am I allowed to say I don’t care?
If only there were four of me. No, make it five.

The only thing worse than having too much to do
Is seeing all the other things that could be done;
Like a cat meowing for food they annoy me
Instead of making me sympathetic.

Like small children, who simply won’t give up,
They take me by the hand and pull me
Until I no longer know which way to turn,
And I stand exhausted, wondering where I lost my way.

Solve this. Sort that. Fix this. Mail that.
One task after another that must be done or—or what?
Does anyone care? I mean really care?
Does anyone else even know?

Or am I wrapped up in a cage of my own making?
Scurrying hither and thither like a hamster
With only God watching—
Amused, or pitying?

If I stopped, would anyone know?
Well, anyone but God, that is.
He would know. But would he care?
Ah, as Shakespeare said, there’s the rub.

Is this for him? It was in the beginning.
Is it still? Or is he now calling me in a new direction?
Has the purpose been served and I am marking time until—?
Until what? What is next, Lord?

Will tomorrow dawn with a new promise that will bring resolution
And something beyond that gleaming speck of hope?
Is there a sliver of satisfaction yet to be mine?
Will I look back one day and say, “This is good,” as you did with your creation?

It isn’t what goes into the body that is unclean,
But what comes out.
Could something that is not good
Come from your child?

Does a loving father
Give a shard of glass
When the child asks for a cookie?
Not my father.

One of these days there will be a new promise and a new hope,
The old shall pass away, the new will come,
Daintily, on tip toes, creeping in, little by little,
Tapping gently on my arm, not demanding but offering,
Not monopolizing but giving;
Not telling me what I must do, but asking me what I need.

Perhaps tomorrow, the flickering of sunlight will turn
Into a full-blown smiling sun.
Perhaps the next day.
All in his time.

www.njlindquist.com