Have You Seen The Child?

He was my son.

He was my friend.

A little friend, but the closest

I had even been to anyone.

With me in my waking,

in my sleeping,

in as many hours I could in between.

I him I saw me...in eternity...

the continuance of the self

long after the last traces of who

I was had been blown into oblivion.

I him I saw God...His creation

...and mine.

I could not love him less.

All that I am and all that I own

I wished to give to him:

My laughter and my tears...

For what is Christ without the yoke?

When we were together

we were perfect

as father and son could be.

Each moment a sharing...

a passing on of present to future...

A wish that what I was be made greater,

more glorious in him...

rising above the lowly earth...

Finding triumph above the pain...

(for all pain has such purpose)

To continue the spirit's becoming...

that we both will be.

O, but the flesh had been cut...deep...

torn asunder...God's blessing

cast aside, impelled by the cold,

icy west wind.

O the spirit had been tainted

by images of the old self

that had long been denied

at the rebirth...

The foul rotting flesh resurrected,

the old made new again...

And the hearts that have once awakened

to the glory of God's love

have been roused anew to anger...

Memories melted into into the cesspool

of hatred...

I could not comprehend...

I could not accept...

I could not deny...

could not forget...

could not but go on loving.

If only...if only...if only...

Have you seen the child?

Pray, tell me...

That I may find fulfillment again.

God's Being

Why don’t we start at the very beginning, just before creation. When there was nothing. Or at least what we might perceive as nothing. The kind of nothing from which all things came from. It cannot be a something because then, that something must come from another something. The only thing, then that would have no beginning and no end would be a ‘nothing.' And surely, it can’t be an ‘empty’ nothing. for where or how else can everything come from. It certainly must be a dynamic nothing, that which is capable of producing something out of nothing. For want of a better term, let us call it god…or God!

At that beginning, what can be said to have moved that ‘nothing’ to create something? Things do not just appear; they must have some kind of purpose, and that purpose must necessarily come from the creator, that beginner of things. At this point, what could only be the most logical reason for creation is for that creator to express itself? That simple. To let whatever that is kept within itself to come out and be born. What could be said to be born cannot be a ‘something’ in the material sense; it has to be something intangible, too, coming as it does from a ‘nothing’ entity, but which must of necessity be possessed of a reality in order to exist. Existence is a positive indication of being. Through this positive expression something comes into being, an addition of a something into the void that the universe was at that beginning.

What could this ‘nothing’ be that is capable of such positive expression? And if it really is capable of self-expression what could it possibly express except itself. If there is anything in the emptiness of space and the nullity of time that is capable of positive expression, one which cannot be nothing else but of itself, it cannot be anything else but Love, whom we today call God. It is the only ‘thing’ that can exist primordially and which in itself is capable of expressing itself. More than that, it is the only expression that is capable of continuing in expression and just as capable of returning to itself in like manner, if not greater, or just as great as the nothing from which it came. It is limitless, indefinable, and all-powerful as the nothing from which it came, even as it is said to be so vulnerable to that self-same power, and yet by that same power is capable of overcoming all.

This is our world, a world of Love that somehow we cannot seem to fully understand. A world that by its very nature brings about so much misery because of its capacity for misunderstanding, but which promises an eternity of happiness hidden in the recesses of its nothingness. Its secrets are open to everyone, all within reach, but so elusive. We only have to understand its true nature that was there from the beginning of time and which continues today: NOTHINGNESS. But a dynamic nothingness out of which all things became.

Beginning

A mistake, she was,
you might say,
unplanned by the man...
By the other? Who knows?
By her he had to take the vow
as the right thing to do,
for so he believed,
although now, to think of it,
God never willed it so,
no vows were made,
the God of love saw none
save for the one that came after.
For, indeed, no error was hers
and love was fit for her own sake
and gladly given.
And so with her the father made the trek
for one brief while,
for the man had yet to find his feet
in a world he had too quickly
been rushed into,
having yet to find out
what love truly was,
though feeling inside
a love poured out
from God's own bosom
for the child of human error born
yet God's own plan given.
Two made one unreal
soon were torn asunder,
first by place,
then by time,
and then by man's writ
for never had Love intended it.
Too soon, too soon left
without a mother's love.
Too soon, too soon,
given only one brief yesterday,
a time not enough to even remember,
save from letters send now and then,
read from the father's knee,
that to one so young
were nothing more
than long drawn lines,
yet given love by a father's voice
who rightly saw from the heart
what the child needed and yearned,
that, too, was writ in the soft sad eyes
of her early years.
What the letters lacked
the father gave
with all the caring he knew.
With his voice he tried
to make his child
feel what she needed as best he could -
a mother's love that the written words
could not yet convey to the little one.
And deep in his heart a hope lay
that the love of mother conveyed
would bring to the little one's heart
his own,
deeper felt as it was,
and deeper given in every embrace and kiss
in every day and evening shared,
though in a house not their own,
father and child,
though in a home yet being built
in their hearts.
A home, alas, never to be fulfilled
for the young heart never found a home.