It is said that poetry gives new and meaningful life to “things” around us. Each element must be honored for its’ place. While appearing to be inanimate, they can speak to us. The poet listens and records in his own vision, the message they have to give us; often providing the needful dialog between man and things of creation.

This Sunday my wife and I stood in silent prayer there in the same row of pews where we had come nearly every Sunday for decades. Before us was the very front pew. We had chosen the second in order to hear better, and be away from the blow of the heating system;  but mostly because we are front -sitters.

During that time a thread of the following poem emerged. I call it ;

“The Custodian”.

• My Head is bowed, hands spread wide upon the troubled rail
• of the Pew before me
• It’s Oak-ness  cleaved from the trunk that God had long created
• for this very purpose
• It is now warm as if lingering hands had just moved away
• leaving the unmistakable DNA
• of a multitude of the prayerful
• So many prayers were thrust onto its’ sturdy back
• covered with faded blood-red cloth
• How pleased each bench must be to have
• served God these many years
• Allowing souls to burden them with
• their woes and confessions
• Even as they may seem silent each eve,
• listen for their faith-full voices
• Echoing forth in resounding refrains
• of Hope and Fulfillment
•  Each row in harmonious unison, singing;
• “Praise God from whom all blessings flow”
• “Praise God all creatures  here below”
• We stroke them tenderly once more as we leave;
• that they will remember all the many prayers
• of those who leaned upon them in supplication 
• We leave in witness of their noble role;
• Custodians all, of
• comfort……..peace…….. and restoration
•