Let the mystics care to go into the heart of God.
I cannot seem to leave this earthly place.
But this I know about the heart of God,
I will lift you up on eagles wings
You that are shouting and marching in the streets among strangers
Railing against the machine that is causing our climate to change
and it’s hidden, awful possibilities for our own suffering and destruction
ignored by those in power who hurl us toward this future.
I will lift you up on eagles wings
You that have fled your own family home amid bullets and suffering and destruction and
horror, who now simply ask, without common language, how to find the food that you
need to provide for your children a meal and how, then, to get it home to your tiny, empty
apartment without a car or knowledge of transit or arms enough to carry the many plastic
bags of flour and oil and onions and spice and then what is this kitchen place and how
can I make it smell like home, all strange dials and small pots.
Where is my family and how shall I live without ever seeing them again, how shall I raise
my children in this place of safety when all that was familiar is gone and replaced by
strangeness without grandparents or sisters and cousins all around
I will lift you up on eagles wings
You who have decided that not living is better than living.
You who have witnessed so much suffering that you cannot withstand anymore.
You who have wished for not living for so long because the act of trying so hard to live
like those around you when you don’t feel anything like those around you and the voices
in your head are so loud, you simply, after careful planning, leave this world, even
though those who loved you wished for you to stay.
And you who left with no warning, taking your own life in front of your best friends,
leaving them to forever question why and your mother to weep and walk and wonder.
I will lift you up on eagles wings
You, my son of an Afghan mother, who cannot be still for a minute in case you should
remember the moments of terror and loss in your own life and those memories might
overpower you and you will break.
You, young man, not allowing yourself to reflect on memories of your own lovely
mother, your serious father, your brothers and sister, dead now, murdered and buried
somewhere that you do not know; you push those memories away lest they break your
strong heart and you bleed forever.
I will lift you up on eagles wings
And you shall rest with the fawn by the stream,
bathed in the light of the sun,
still and knowing that I am God,
my kingdom shall come
and you shall have your daily bread,
warm and fragrant and enough.
________
Marla Mulloy is a writer with an evolving collection of essays, poems and stories, having been recently published in “The Timberline Review” and “Brevity Blog”. She has been a teacher and now works with refugees in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. Her writing reflects the experience of those who are finding refuge in new places, including relationship; seeking harmony in life as it is. She continues to share her writing through her blog: www.tossingwords.wordpress.com.
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Photo by frank mckenna on Unsplash
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