Who Are They?

He has a craving, a fire inside, which he cannot explain.

She weeps over shadows, for unknown reasons, like seasons of rain.

He signs away his days, as if he knew their outcome;

He talks of a valley, full of clusters of grapes,

Always within reach, and yet just beyond—

A hunger fuels his wayward feet.

She wrestles with the facts, as if they really were true;

She speaks of children in the streets, as if she already knew their names,

And can hear their laughter, or tears—

A smile meets her misty cheeks.

He stands at a pulpit, with words of grandeur on his lips;

He stares oddly at the back, as if the curtains are opened,

Revealing the myriad tents of ten thousand tribes—

One can almost feel the burning flame.

She flips through pictures, pointing at charts and figures;

Her mind seems to forget the burden of the day-by-day,

The necessary conquests of ordinary folk—

And yet she is so very ordinary, too.

He packs a bag, or two, assured of his course;

His eyes are steely, his hands eager to labor,

For he is strangely confident of the dark—

Victory is but a step of faith away.

She stares from the heavens, looking down;

The formation of unknown hills greets her from below,

And her emotions rise in anticipatory glee—

Surely there is treasure hidden underneath!

He steps, at last, across the river that once blocked his path;

He is Joshua, David, a conquering king,

With a psalm prepared to meet each foot of ground—

Already he is singing.

She is greeted by the warmth of a land of promise;

It is flowing with the honey of her dreams,

And all its smells and sights, though strange, tell her she is home—

Her mouth utters a sigh of peace.

His story is prepared, but he soon discovers

There are giants in the land.

She had visions of home, but she uncovers

The towering walls that stand.

His words fall on deaf ears, though his goods are coveted;

He strains to speak, and soon discerns his impotent voice,

Which he casts like a net over a desert sea—

He learns of hardship, and naivety.

She draws near to them, the faces she saw in dreams;

They recoil from her heart, dancing with her sentiments,

Pulling her in, pushing her out, and then spinning—

She learns of the dizziness of difference.

He reforms the line, and orders his spirit to engage again;

His counterattack fails, and his sails are torn by an imposing wind,

And he finds his feet quivering beneath him—

He has heard an enemy’s cry.

She strategizes and plans, and calls out for support;

Surely these new initiatives are not in vain,

But the calamity of inconvenience had lain in wait—

She had not planned on rain.

He agonizes on his knees, to renew his strength;

She takes solace in the absence of hope.

There is a quiet power, found in a quiet place,

That can shake their bones again.

Again he runs into the fray, to give more away;

His heart is somewhere in between

An awakened hope, and a suspicious but lively fear—

He learns the posture of the plow.

Once more she loves, and loves, and loves;

Her joy in the morning always tested

By the fires of the noonday sun—

She learns that night precedes the dawn.

He lifts his eyes once more, to gaze upon the hills;

He squints for the answer, he strives to hear a trumpet-call,

Above the squalor of a thousand broken hearts—

His soul is taught to wait.

She rises again from the table of daily bread;

Her countenance mirrors all that she saw, and all she has seen,

Despite the cold and colorless valley she treads—

Therein she finds a curious peace.

Then one day, a wind meets his face, and a leaf returns;

She plucks from the vine, half-convinced of its mirage.

But the taste is sweet, and its wine is pure,

And the breeze is sure—the fire yet burns.

-R

(Dedicated to the memory of the many saints who have come and gone before us, and to the faithfulness of the One who sends them...)