(Every five years our graduating class from a missions school
in Japan holds a reunion for a weekend at a different part of the
U. S. These thoughts are a reflection upon seeing a photo of
all of us sitting on the side of a hill in our host's backyard.)
Hewn from Eastern granite,
Then scattered on foreign paths,
Now gathered again at time’s intersection
We stand, spit and polished, as monuments of grace.
To the young, we are fossils trading tales
Of ancient history, of petrified memories.
They walk in our midst like visitors
To our makeshift museum of sentimental revelries.
But we see stories yet untold
Of braver conquests and lovelier dreams.
And our forms, yet to be chiseled into their final beauty,
Await the sculptor’s benevolent, yet harsher schemes.
Will I be spared?
Will I be loved?
Will I be forgiven?
Will I be found?
The monuments leave,
Back to stanchions of choice and providence,
Living by grace, dying in mercy,
Sharing in memories caressed by friends.
