The Remedy

A poem.

The Remedy

That time again,

  when little irritants

  water his eyes and

  blur his vision.

When my waiting hands

  hold drops

  that would sting but renew,

  above lids squeezed tightly shut,

  he hating

  every moment.


And how like me he is.


The remedy for my

  broken vision

  wounds my flesh,

  raises my hackles,

  threatens self-love.

So I pull back

  from the painful Truth that would


  renew strength,

  give comfort,

  bring peace.

I turn my face away from

  convicting thoughts,

  and slap at faithful hands

  that would wound to heal.

Instead, I plead my case

  in the internal

  examination room.


My vision blurred,

  Eyes filled with tears

  of self-pitying grief,

  I pray that they will work


Rather than welcome

  the drops that sting,

Or bless the patient hands

  that hold them,

Or thank the loving Physician

  who provided them.


And strangely,

  like my son,

  I find,

  those times

  when I allow the Medicine

  to work,

  the pain stops.

And in the moments

  I allow my flesh to die,

  God is glorified.