At an undesirable hour of the night, I cough and sniffle and cough some more in ways that I am wholly unable to suppress. Trying to stifle the urge to cough more, I roll over on my side and attempt to bury my head into my pillow. No good; the stuffiness of my sinuses already inhibits breathing, so being nestled into a pillow is not exactly the best way to get oxygen. In frustration I turn over on my sid,e remaining uncomfortable in all sorts of ways and simply unable to settle. I breathe in and sigh—only to have my chest seize the opportunity to cough more. The nape of my neck is damp with sweat, yet to crawl out from beneath the covers would leave me cold and desiring warmth. This is not exactly the ideal situation when I want to get some rest.
I look at the clock. 3:13 AM. I’ve slept about six hours at this point, which is pretty routine for me, but I was hoping to sleep ten hours to knock out the sickness I’ve come to wrestle with. I attempt to sleep again, the coughing having subsided just long enough to trick me. Then, I’m stirred again with a very brief fit of coughing and the clock reads 3:45 AM. I stare into the darkness towards my ceiling, trying to hash out with God why I can’t sleep.
It started out harmless. All I had was a little bit of congestion, little bit of a scratchy throat… Now, four days later, it’s an all-out assault on my respiratory system with no prisoners taken: Cough, scratchy throat, stuffy ears, stuffy—and runny—nose. Headache. My insides feel squeamish, yet that could just be due to the fact that it’s so early in the morning and I’m not ready to be this awake. Clock now reads 5:18 AM. At least I’ve been able to kill some time on the computer, completing a poem, while trying to figure out why in the world God would have me awake at this, seemingly, ungodly hour. I’m still trying to figure it out.. In the mean time, coughing seems to have subsided… that’s a good sign, unless it’s trying to trick me all over again. Sickness can be so cruel in its teasing.
The Comissioned
Nestled individuals, settled and cozy
among the woodlands of glass and steel,
just within arm's reach
and close enough to feel its city-breath
and waiting for the harvest-
She stands before the unknown.
Near-sighted and fumbling through a saturated faith;
it's more than a fidgety feeling
when you're standing in the daybreak of twenty-three.
Longing to see the fires of glory,
red and yellow and white hues
bringing to light all that isn't seen by men--
As though gripped by the innards
by something that won't relent...
In the same manner as the purple, velvety richness of night
when punctured by a million stars and satellites
Captured by a beauty held east to west,
and setting her hands to eclipse her face,
she is brought to nothing.
Cacooned in God's grace
being made perfect, holy, and pure
for the day his face will be seen -
perfect and holy and pure -
He sees colors so fantastic
which have never graced mankind.
She sees fruits and grains desperate for harvest,
heavy for more than just the field they stand in,
bowed with burdens unseen, unheard
Yet where are the harvesters?
Do they wonder what it must be like
to taste the colors that we have yet to know?
Do they ponder what it must have been like,
seeing now only an Eden shrouded in fog?
Hearts aching for a day yet to be revealed,
and she hears their silent longing
She comes to serve, desirous of unblemished humility,
though struggling to spread wide her palms-
torn between faith and fear of the unknown
yet burdened for the sights and sounds of hallelujah
YB 07 3 4
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