I wrote this poem this morning, based on a true story that happened to a very good friend of mine, yesterday.
SUFFERING IN BURMA
In the forested mountains of far off Burma,
A group of doctors trek over terra firma.
An eight-hour drive, bamboo rafts over rivers,
Hours on a tractor, jungle hikes, to be givers.
Backpacking supplies and medical equipment,
Medicine, labs, still not enough shipment.
One of the young doctors, a very special friend,
An amazing woman, a grand heart, I contend!
A twelve-year old boy with a life-ending disease,
A grieving mother sobbing down on her knees.
Held by my friend, the boy breathing his last,
Watching and grieving as his time here did pass.
The next morning a small coffin was made,
Next to the boy, toys and candy the father laid.
The mystery of suffering, the pain of heartbreak,
Down to our core an inconsolable ache.
“The child is at peace. The child is with Me.”
That is our anchor, that child, again, we will see.
Oh God, where are you when death pounds on our door?
“The same place as your friend, sitting on the floor.”
“Like your doctor friend holding that small, little child,
I sat right there, holding them both, meek and mild.
Amidst the grief I gave her My presence,
As she reflected the wonders of ‘withness.’”