How was your living today? How was your first breath spent? Was it to pray? As your eyes strained to open, did you feel a great dare? How was your living today? How was your loving today? Did you offer a smile? Did you listen a while? Was forgiveness your gift? Did you ease a friend’s trouble? How was your loving today? Did you feel every beat of your heart? Are you certain that you will remember The roads you have travelled, the souls you have touched? Did you feel every beat of your heart? How will you rest this night? Will the history you’ve made be right? Is all that you’ve done true to the Son? How will you rest this night? How was your living today?
We don’t all pray in the same church, but we all wait in the same checkout lines, glancing at gum racks and tabloid lies, half-watching the kid with the runny nose and the old man counting nickels. We don’t all vote the same, but we all curse at traffic lights, get cut off by the same kind of jerk in the same kind of hurry. Then we go home and try not to lose our temper at someone we love. We don’t all eat the same food, but we all sit in waiting rooms, staring at worn-out magazines, pretending not to worry as our name creeps closer to the nurse’s clipboard. We raise flags for different reasons, but we all stand quiet when someone folds one and hands it to a widow. We teach our kids different songs, but they all cry the first time they see something die and ask if it hurts. We build our fences, paint our houses, make what peace we can between the news and the night. And when it’s done— when the breath leaves and the hands fall still— we don’t ask ...
Camp Tom Welch We met at the Boys Club, luggage in hand, city boys bound for that promised land. Ten years of summers, seven weeks long— each one beginning with a bus ride and song. The ride was a racket of chatter and kicks, til the city gave way to trees and sticks. Then roll call barked out through the warm, dusty air, as counselors herded us here and there. Steel bunks awaited with spring nets wide, thin mattresses curling just slightly on the sides. We claimed our spots, made beds in a heap, and learned which guys talked loud in their sleep. The pool was blue and the water cold— first swim in June never got old. Lunch meant hot dogs, always with beans, on plastic plates that stayed mostly clean. Rest hour meant comics, quiet and still— though some cracked jokes and never could chill. Canteen followed, a rush to the stand— sweet treats and sodas in sweaty hands. We raised the flag as the bugle blew, then lowered it later in twilight’s hue. Swim le...