She sits, patient as Job, head bowed,
unable to communicate, but I
still hear the echoes of her voice.
Beneath the surface of inflated skin
cinched fast by angry scars, her soul
anticipates deliverance while we
who sit with her will watch and wait,
reflect upon the brevity of life.
Few are called to bear the long goodbye,
endure this type of suffering,
and though my grieving heart still questions
why these things must be, my trust remains
in One who loves and hides us in His hands
which wound and heal, allowing storms
He works in ways mysterious to calm.
Patti McCarty 2009