Prodigal Son

My mother gave me to God.
I was three and sick unto death
and she was thinking,
if she gave me to God, I’d survive.

German measles, bronchitis and pneumonia.
The doctor said
there was nothing more he could do.
And I did meet death:
a fuzzy white cloud with a face.
What I learned was fear.

This dream recurred for years.
Thinking God was calling,
I always answered like Samuel:
Yes, God, "I’m here!”

Those calls brought me often to the altar,
so many times
that my father, embarrassed, intervened.
But to me it seemed
I'd committed an unpardonable sin.

Still I felt God calling,
a calling to do what was needed.
And, indeed, I tried.

Now retired after many hard years,
I have no regrets,
even knowing my struggles were pointless.

I hold my life tight in my hands,
speak the truth I know,
and support the creation of beauty.

Tell my father to kill the fatted calf,
I am headed home.