In the innocence of my youth, old folks were wise,
The flow of their lives distilled into a wondrous elixir of perfect understanding.
God, being older, was wiser yet, intoxicating.
And so, though I could not comprehend, I believed that if I should die before I wake,
God would send me to a fiery furnace or a beautiful garden,
Based on His tally of my young deeds.
In the self-absorption of adolescence,
I deduced that followers of God
Were drunk on their own self- righteousness.
Words did not match deeds.
God benefited their own salvation. He was their God.
Not the God of those who questioned, or, God forbid, doubted.
Not my God.
Then, the stunning arrogance of youth.
Ah, then all could be as clear as Caribbean waters. All could be understood.
The world defined, made rational through diligent study and observation.
Look hard enough. One would always equal one.
Everything had a purpose. Everything had a place.
Not God. That Opiate.
Then came my son and daughter,
And I began to suspect miracles.
Who fit all the intricate parts into such small packages?
What told that one tiny cell to become so many, and take on so many forms, so many functions?
And by what means did the million descendants of that single cell know
When to crawl, to walk, to run?
To mold themselves into such delightful beings,
I suspected miracles, but life was too busy
To track down the source of my suspicions.
Now I am one of those old people.
I marvel at the beauty of the rose.
Sorrow at the brief moment of its life.
I am humbled by majesty of the mountains,
Swept away by the vastness of the universe.
I weep at the cruelty of those who claim to love a loving God.
Yet, I am not wise. My world still floods with questions not answered.
But I have learned to let them be,
I seek, but do not demand,
And failing to understand,
I lovingly embrace the mystery
That may be my salvation.
© Carolyn Brumbaugh, 2014
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| Seneca Rocks ~ West Virginia Photo by Tony Russell |
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