We came here each evening to sweep away the water
those twenty-eight years ago.
Now, our children grown and gone,
our backs and knees recall those years,
and each is precious for its pain and trouble.
They’ve been quilted together,
each a few words stitched into His poem,
for we are His workmanship.
I want that worn-out, “spare” lawnmower
to belch its smoke when I turn the key.
It should, by now, be rusting in the front yard
of the lawnmower man on Highway 13
or crushed into a compact block
in the scrap yard off the Bucsville exit.
I want that Merry Tiller my daddy used
to rid your garden of weeds again this spring
and the paper clip to hold its throttle in place.
I want to be the hand of redemption for these old scraps
as you have been for me.
It took patient conversations by the fireplace
stitches on Saturday mornings,
the words you put into my lunch bag each day,
the times you asked if I liked your new recipe,
the times we prayed together and overcame
to hold our pieces together.
the broken stuff He has made beautiful.
He has sewn those pieces together just right
using your hands.