Through her final hour he gently clasps
the icy silence of her pallid hand,
her plea to keep him close. She stirs and gasps.
The end is near. He doesn’t understand.
Inside the room the beeping grows intense.
He rises, goes for help into the hall,
and looks about him, lost and seeking sense,
then squints and sees he’s not alone at all
His spirit climbs to meet her, tall and strong.
He smiles to find belief in prayer can cure,
and cries, At times it’s good to be so wrong.
Passing thoughts don’t make him feel unsure,
although she lies in there while standing here,
and though she calls him Dad instead of Dear.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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But we can’t do it without readers like you.
Our goal: Raise $150,000 by November 1 to sustain First Things in the year ahead.
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