Therese Gramercy . . . the girl named Trees

Looking above at golden leaves and evergreen


Brothers and sisters, please tell me that you will spare the time
to read this poem about a gentle one who weighs upon my mind,
for you have probably met one or more in your travels on earth,
minister, priest, rabbi, or chaplain, all preachers they are.

A daunting life task they have chosen to take on, week by week,
to encourage us through the thoughtful words that they will speak.
They listen and share our burdens so that restfully we can sleep,
while our confessions of weakness, forever, are the confidences they must keep.

Like doctors, they are used to answering calls in the middle of the night,
for despair, death and destruction need attention that can’t wait until it is light.
They remember to pray for us and ask that those we love are always kept safe,
and they are the ones who will pray over us when we must go to our graves.

Life does not make it easier for them than it does for the rest of us,
personal illness, family tragedies, and sadness, they are never spared.
The only difference is that in their own suffering that they must go it alone,
For who offers them comfort? Who dries their tears when they moan?

Still they listen to our woes and use their gentle ways to comfort us,
guiding us to see the light, keep the faith, to feel a higher presence.
So please remember to include your preacher when you say your evening prayers,
for healing our spirits through the words of grace that they bring down and they share.