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Calculated
Blessings
“Bless
the hearts and hands
that have prepared this food”
Grandpa at the Christmas feast
would implore the Lord.
I and he had watched those hands
—Grandma’s and her
daughters’—
seen them at work
sinewy, supple, strong,
watched them
kneading, pounding dough,
tearing guts from helpless hens sprawled
naked on the kitchen table,
chopping off in merciless strokes heads
and tails of carrots.
Bless these hands, he prayed
and meant, I think:
Lord, tenderize them
like their hearts that soften
when the children stub their toes
and run to aprons meant for wiping tears
It is (he knew from Hebrews) a fearful
thing
to fall into the hands of the living God.—Ken Gibble,
Greencastle, Pennsylvania, is a retired
Church of the Brethren pastor. These
days, instead of writing sermons, he
writes poetry (mostly) and other stuff.
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