Sunday Afternoon

By Bruce W. Young

A light whose gentle glow outshines the lamps

Now fills the room with a golden shimmering

And mends the tattered edges of our gathering—

The squealing bundles and the whispering camps.

Voices stumble into harmony

And clear the past week’s dusty accumulation

From my inner chambers, in preparation

For the waking of my memory.

A silent conversation fills the room,

A glow of reverence for an unseen friend,

As young men kneel and struggle with the sounds

Whose sense reminds me to remember Him.

I strain in silence to clean out my heart.

I bow my head, rubbing at the lingering stains,

Knowing that another heart sustains

The blows that purge and make my heart unbend.

I receive the bread of life that makes me whole,

The morsel that fills, warms, and soothes the aches,

And the living water that washes and wakes

The drowsy fibers of my center soul.

As I offer all I have and am to Him,

A clear and silvery stream of light flows in

And waves of healing fire flood my being,

With promise that I might no longer be alone,

With whispers drawing me to distant friends,

Reminding me of things that I have always known.