To Our Closet

How can I know?
The trials, afflictions my neighbor bears?
You see, I cannot feel, touch their wounds.
As Jesus bid Thomas to see his hands,
put his hand into his side.
I would if I had any such wounds to show my neighbor…
To prove the genuineness of my concern,
but I don’t.

Does my neighbor even know I care?
Then again, do I?
What can I possibly say?
To the man, woman or child
who bears a poverty
of mind, body, soul and spirit?
Oh, I can tell them of my faith in Christ,
All that Christ has done for me…
yes, but…
doesn’t that seem a boast of my good fortune…
a flaunt of God’s grace before their worried, anxious faces…
men, women and children facing
empty cupboards;
illness stricken bodies;
and frazzled minds?

Do I tell them that I pray for them?
Then, did I pray?
Or do I walk away… and quickly forget…
possessing not even a hint of regret.
God forgive me… it’s happened. I did not pray, not always.
Even once is a time too many, even once upon a time.
And to think that every opportunity to know…
a neighbor more dearly, a need more clearly…
I should be a doer… a healer if I could…
if I had the wherewithal…
But if I can only pray, I pray that I have.
Earnestly, fervently…
for Father hears… He knows…
t’is a simple investment in prayer and time,
with such a rich reward…
a deposit of purest gold in a King’s treasure…
where the door of His safe is to our closet.

Millpond Ink Poetry, 2016 (edited, May 2022)