The man in the hospital has bright eyes and there are tears in them
he is so afraid and so glad to talk and he knows
God is with him or hopes he is. He is nearly bald, his old body
wrinkly and pale—I can see it from the waist up,
the slack, ropy skin—and his wife has a gentle voice and is kind
and I feel the Spirit moving among the monitors
like the light in the green fields outside the window, and I feel
a love for this man, my brother, my friend, and I lift up
my hand and bless him, and I, too, am filled with tears.
What I feel is gratitude, what I feel is thanksgiving, and I know
then, O Lord, that You are there, that this is grace, for we are
not grateful for what we have done. We are grateful
for what we have been given. Three boys come up to me
at communion, little boys, in descending order, their mother
behind them, and when I raise my hand to bless him,
the oldest boy solemnly raises his hand and gives me a high-five—
and then his brothers, first one and then the other,
they high-five me, too, slapping my palm and walking
back to their pew, and I laugh, I pray,
I say it again: rejoice.