Bucket
The preacher props his elbows on the writing desk Monday afternoon
Creative energy at low ebb.
Sunday's now past but another looms;
And the hunger of the church's belly cries to be fed.
The little bucket sits in the feed bag.
With a long nudge of her nozzle the dog makes clear her intent.
"Get the bucket; feed me."
People are dying
Really they are;
Hospice, hospital, and corner office alike.
And folks are lost--
Like the driver today asking directions for Peachtree
Stuck in the wide lanes of congestion
Getting no where fast.
Lord, what will the preacher say
When congregation waits with expectancy
What word of hope lies latent upon the pages of books upon the desk
That gives voice to your words.
Faithful is a difficult thing
To be faithful to.
Poured out each week until the bucket's sides are dry
And remaining still to be filled again when drops drip sparsely--
Like a leaky faucet.
Annoying, really; leaky faucets.
O Lord, to be filled with the free outpouring of your Spirit!
But if it means that I need to quietly wait, paying attention to the drip, drip, drip
And holding the hand of those who are dying
And giving direction to the lost
And sitting in a meeting
And talking to her on the phone
And saying prayers with him
And reading these books
Yes, even these books that speak about You;
Then.
I will be your bucket.
Carson Reed
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Reader Comments (1)
Still, The Preacher needn't feel like the "Lone Ranger" in this: others pray for him as he delivers the message; others feel much of the same weight though maybe with different lenses on the waiting, watching and suffering world; others look into the eyes of desperation walking down Peachtree--some to find a warm doorway to sleep in for the night and some to drive the BMW 740 to West Paces Ferry.
Brother Christian and Preacher, we all need to follow your example and lay our pain out for comrades in faith to examine and to share. Thank you and His Peace.