From The Seasoned Sojourners

By: Christina Cheng

This poem is part of the Claritas fall 2024 issue, Margins. Read the full print release here.

There is His witness,

clad in a turquoise sailor shirt and fedora atop silvery hairs,

clutching his tattered Scriptures and his heart

as he shares a conversation with a child.

And he watches the child, wrinkled eyes home to tears and

recalling days of sin and sorrow.

A decade

of air laden with the scent of ethanol and ash

the wails of comrades in the thick: 

his beloved, taken home, 

and a pain too colossal to grasp.

Ten years of confusion

following twenty years wandering,

knowing of the Father, but an ever-widening chasm between.  

The Father brings him deep into pain

so glorious redemption may radiate.

So let tears likewise well in these young, curious eyes,

and let the child sing along 

with eyes transfixed on the lit screen of his weekly letter

etched with hymns of praise in large serif print

praise for the fifty years he has now dwelt in the Father, 

praise for His redeeming work.

Let me embrace curious conversations at the precipice of dawn,

the hours of mutual unburdening,  

and the pain and tribulations.

And I shall be a witness

to the boundless grace in him and me. 

There is a landscaper, 

armed with shears and brimmed sun hat,

tending to the gardens of his abode.

On Cheshire Way, six doors down from my culdesac,

he watches the young child 

displaced from 48 Archer’s red shutters and rusty teetering swings,

seeking a companion like that which inhabits the mirror

not the gray-haired gardener.

For what matter was age to a youthful, naive soul?

Yet, he welcomes the child

into his planting grounds,

to tread the seed and pluck the pears from canopied branches. 

And gracefully the child grows

in intellect and countenance,

learning to propagate tomatoes in the garden and kabocha on the vine, 

bearing zucchini, planted back into the very cultivating hands who taught.

But time steals the child from memory,

long discussions in the garden bed replaced with curt waves and smiles during evening walks.  

Yet though the child no longer frequents his garden, 

his labor of love perpetually inspires. 

As the deer-trampled leaves in the soil are cheerfully replaced, 

so my lips are patient in the midst of strife. 

As strawberries are sweet on the tongue,

so my words offer gentle and pleasant affection.

As mesh nets protect the saplings from vexing deer

so the Spirit shields from sinful tact. 

He is our Vine

and we are his branches 

bearing fruits tangible and for the soul. 

There is the tape measure,

the chipper voice reminding me of imaginary inches I’ve accumulated since last I saw her, 

only a sliver of time passed in truth.

And she surrounds me, 

arms laden with the chilis and spices of Hunan

shallot and cucumber in the sea of buckwheat mian tiao

heaps of spicy noodles migrate to my plastic plate,

my tongue cannot handle. 

And she says eat, and eat, 

that I may grow tall and strong.

Her hands bear the jagged paths of time.

There is warmth in her noodles and her service, 

warmth I discover at the crossroads of culture and cuisine.

And greatly I am reminded

of the Father who provides

and His son’s body broken and blood poured out we celebrate

the beauty of Communion

and feasting in the warmth of fellowship.  

So though loneliness may lie on the lanes of life,

it is you I shall remember

and our moments I shall cherish. 

The strings of my hollowed, ebony driftwood will resound

with rippling notes from Be Thou My Vision, 

the heartfelt melodies that filled your choir days. 

Song was fortitude in your youth: 

may it now provide the same steady rest for your weary soul, 

a shelter of hope and peace against raging storms.

Your body grows feeble with every flowing day: 

may my garden’s beets and pumpkins find their way back to you 

within a soup to nourish, a pie for warmth. 

My tables will brim with nian gao and gyoza:

may I learn to cherish my roots

and share the joys of cooking and provision. 

The body ripens, grows frailer,

but the soul grows younger, 

and I yearn for your childlike faith. 

You who inhabit the margins of the world’s attention, 

linger in so fleeting of times,

eternity is your portion.

So before you go home to the Father above 

may your wisdom I see.

Let your vessel pour into mine love 

that the Lord may overflow and abound in me.