In Remains of the Day,
A life can be lived out in servanthood,
But not unhappiness.
For the real servant works with a happy heart.
And will rest peacefully at sunset.
I know it now for sure,
I am nothing.
Because You made me,
But nothing of myself.
Let me squash the foolish pride,
I once held dearly,
As if I was somebody.
And drop my head in shame,
For a life lived in me, not you.
It is now clear,
No better life has been given to anyone,
Than the one You gave me,
To either savor or squander,
Of which I have done both,
With great purpose … if not direction.
It ends now,
With the knowledge of surrender,
After my Emmaus journey,
I AM aware suddenly,
Of my worthlessness, to myself.
It is only what I do which you direct,
Which is useful,
All other is self-serving,
As I see this through new eyes,
Opened and aware.
Today, I will recall one event in my life,
one which someone hurt me deeply.
Now, I will stretch deep down and forgive that one happening, and those that caused it,
truly and forever and lose the baggage that goes with it.
So today, shall I use the logic of reason?
Driven into me in years of study,
Psychology and behavioral science,
All designed to have me do the right thing,
According to the law,
Or to Freud.
Now I am going to the fresh air in,
The love of my fellow man,
The thinking which happens in the deep,
Where many don’t want to go.
For fear of some indefensible action.
Like thinking with my heart.
Made as a companion,
The most essential of all.
Beautiful, but touchable,
The other side of man,
Softer, but stronger.
Smaller, but larger.
Slower, but wiser.
Built with curves not edges,
To feed and love,
And be fed by all.
The loving cradle of creation. Behold this sight.