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Kangaroo Korner

posted Oct 23, 2015, 10:37 AM by Bowmansville UMC

A very Happy Thanksgiving to you all!  Isn't it a blessing in itself to recount one's precious moments, even in the face of whatever trials and concerns are currently joined to this chapter of our lives...I wish you all the very best as we continue with this rather lengthy segment of our story, excerpted from the writings of Paul O'Neill for the Trans-Siberian Orchestra.

Part 3

   Finally, our little angel noticed a businessman sitting alone and appearing to be sorely troubled.  As the man turned to leave, the angel felt moved to follow him.  It was then the angel noticed a trail from drops of blood in the freshly fallen snow.  No human could see this trail, as it flowed from a wound of the soul.  Gently touching the man's hand, the angel caused him to pause for a moment as he read the man's heart.

    It seemed he had once been a very different individual, having been raised in a very kind and religious family who taught him that man was made in God's image.  He had been a star athlete, an excellent scholarship student, and had married his college sweetheart.  His life and career were moving along a seemingly perfect path until his wife died in childbirth.  Their child however, a boy, had survived, but with severe brain damage.  In the depth of his grief, the father, seeing the foundations of his entire life collapsing, looked towards heaven and screamed:  "This is Your image?  This!  I see nothing of God in this!"  He handed back his child to the nurse with instructions to have the boy institutionalized.  For the next forty years he abandoned God, the rest of his family, his friends, and all else, preferring to live alone within his wounds.

     After the angel had taken in the man's story, he stepped back, staggered by the depth of the wound to this man's soul.  As his hand pulled away from the man, the man's head seemed to clear and he started once more walking home, the angel following.  In front of a toy store, the man saw a small girl of about five years old, well-dressed in an Imperial Russian styled winter coat.  This girl awakened misty memories that he could not quite focus, but also awakened questions regarding his own son that his mind refused to ignore.  So he called the institution, where he was told that his son had learned to walk but not speak, although he seemed able to understand most words.  He was now living in a boarding house and working at the city hospital.

     "So he was now alone in the darkness between the past and future caught; not knowing what to do as his mind flooded with so many thoughts.  Some beauty comes too early while its moment never waits, and some beauty is always there but never seen till it's too late.  Look!  There is a moment, it has just slipped away; and so we lose our lives in such ordinary ways.  Where do we get our dreams from?  Where do we get our faith?  Is it something that we are born with or is it something for which we must wait?  The mist of things we once believed, the childhood truths for which we grieve, and in our lives could we have missed those, that in the dark, the angels kiss"...Finding himself at the hospital, the man soon learned that his son worked in the Maternity ward, rocking 'crack babies'.  The nurse said he had never taken even one day off, and never left until each and every child was peacefully resting, even on this night, Christmas Eve.  The father felt his entire world once again collapsing before his eyes as he stared at the son he had abandoned for 'not being born in God's image'.  He now saw this son, consoling the inconsolable, healing the hopeless; this son so clearly reflecting the infinite compassion and mercy of God, and so much more in the image of God than himself, the great athlete, the intellectual, the successful businessman.  He could not conceive of a way to approach this man, his son, whose existence he had so long denied.  Would his son recognize him?  Would he hate him?  Then, through a window, for the briefest of moments, he thought he saw the outline of his wife's face appear in the still falling snow.  Slowly, he started to move across the room...

    When he reached the rocking chair, his son looked up at him and then glanced at a picture propped up on the windowsill next to him-- a picture of his father and mother as a young couple. 

     Next to it was a yellowed manila folder marked with his wife's name and the words: "Personal Effects of the Deceased"...The son's face broke into a huge smile, a smile of pure love and forgiveness, a smile that held no animosity or hatred for past wrongs, only joy that his father was there now.  After a few awkward seconds, the father picked up one of the trembling infants and sat in a rocking chair beside his son, where together they rocked away that entire Christmas Eve.

     "What child is this who laid to rest that I now find here sleeping?  Do angels keep the dreams we seek while our hearts lie bleeding?  Could this be Christ the King whose every breath the angels bring?  Could this be the face of God, this child, the son I once carried?

   What child is this who is so blessed he changes all tomorrows?  Replacing tears with newborn years in hearts once dark and hollow.  Could this be Christ the King whose every breath the angels bring?  Could this be the face of God, this Child, the son I once carried?"

 

Next month:  "The Conclusion"

 

As we enter the Advent season of welcoming preparation, may God's peace be yours, and please remember the children...Mary   

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