Hannah's Price

His weathered hand gently rests on the old
wooden gate as evening overtakes the day.
He's remembering the times it was left hanging
open by his son now so far away.

Her heart aches again gazing out the back window
at the swing hanging still from the tree.
Her grandchildren's laughter would bring it to life,
but they're out of arms reach across the sea.

In the hours before dawn she tries to imagine where
her grandchild and great grandchildren sleep.
Holding tightly their memories, praying softly through tears.
She commends them again to His keep.

And sisters and brothers and the closest of friends
pay a price for a calling not theirs.
For on birthdays and Tuesdays, in life's triumphs
and trials, you need to be present to share.

Considering the cost (I can't pay) to those we love
left behind to serve Him in a distant land.
I wonder...
Is the price worth the privilege? Is obedience an option?
With all else,
I must leave this in His nail-scarred hands.

February 2001