grandfather: a poem
Today is the last day of National Poetry Month, so I’m finally posting a poem. Better late than never, right? ; )
I wrote this the day after I came upon my Grandpa sitting in his rocking chair in the sun room, peering toward the outside beyond the window, and quietly singing “Amazing Grace” and “It Is Well with My Soul.” It was a beautiful, simple moment in which I felt overwhelmed with love, respect, and reverence. Grandpa gave me a gift without compare. I’ll never forget it.
grandfather
by Courtney Cantrell
he is ninety-four years old
and much has changed
he has set aside the politics
he has rejected the lies
he has turned his back upon the old ways
that once told him
grace is conditional
deity is wrath
love depends on the boxes you check off
tradition becomes less necessary than Truth
he is ninety-four years old
and can barely see
old retinas give him darkening blurs
where faces used to be
and yet some Sight remains
and yet he can still recognize
the children of God
the house of the Messiah
the bride of the Savior
clarity becomes less important than Compassion
he is ninety-four years old
and the musica universalis is his symphony
his rocking chair creaks
like his voice as he lifts it in praise
“sometimes i just have to sit and sing a little”
his wavering melody weaves peace into the heart
cruel death has no power
he rests in amazing grace
it is well with his soul
proficiency becomes less significant than Passion
simplicity is his father’s wont
love is his father’s Word
these are his father’s world
and he adores his Lord.
This is my Father’s world, and to my listening ears all nature sings, and round me rings the music of the spheres.
This is my Father’s world: I rest me in the thought of rocks and trees, of skies and seas; his hand the wonders wrought.–Maltbie Davenport Babcock