A Poem

My arms are so full

Of parcels and things--

I want to let go

But I'm too persistent. 

So my fingers will cramp

And I'll shudder with pain. 

But I can't let go. 

I can't let go. 

I can't let go. 

I can't let go because they're my hopes and dreams

My deepest wishes

My greatest mistakes

They're maps and statues

And things to keep

To remind me of who I was

Who I was

Who I was long ago. 

There is a Person taking parcels

From the arms of the travelers

But I won't give them

I have earned them

They are MINE,

And I've taken them this far

This far

This far.

But He says, That is heavy,

And this is my job. 

Please, you will, please believe me:

For you are mine

You are mine 

You are mine. 

My heart says He's right

And I groan inside. 

If I'm His, then these parcels--

These parcels are His. 

They're all His, and it's His job

To take them away. 

But the price of giving them 

Is too much.

So I will keep keeping

Keep keeping

Keep keeping them safe. 

But I can't

And I know that

And without another Word.

So I drop just a little pen into His hand. 

But it's nothing compared to

The pot-bellied stove that I carry around my middle. 

I HAVE to keep that. 

But the rest He can have, I guess,

If He must

If He must

If He must. 

Off with the suitcase, the textbooks, the scrubs,

The kettle, the apron, the pool, and the checkbook,

Down go the beads and the ledgers and books,

And lastly, with a grunt,

Lastly, with a grunt, 

Lastly, with a grunt go my dancing shoes. 

Heave ho! I am fine,

Pot belly and all. 

It hurts, but I'll manage, probably,

I think--

Sigh, I'm wrong. 

But I can't

But I can't

But I can't!

Not the oven full of buns,

The source of our heat

The warmer of hands

And the cooker or meat. 

Not the embers round which

All our family talks

Til it's late in the night

And we've built on our Rock. 

Where the knickknacks from holiday Traditions collect

And pieces of artwork

We made stand erect. 

That potbellied stove is 

The thing I would like

To be seen of me first when 

In churches I stride. 

But His eyes are like fire

Wilder and warmer than the embers

And I feel safe

I feel safe

I feel safe handing it over. 

That potbellied stove! 

I feel safe handing it over. 

So light now, I am sent onward 

But what can I do?

What is tomorrow?

Don't I have somewhere to be?

Something to do?

My things--my tools--

They're far off behind me

I'm lighter, but loster. 

With nothing in my hands,

And no way to care for my own...

What shall I do?

What shall I do?

What shall I do?