On a Note of Grief--(v)

And then a poem—a long one.

Grandpa's father-in-law, a seminary professor, frequently penned what some call "doggerel," poems written in rhyming verses and traditional meters. Grandpa too had a penchant for such things. Perhaps in the days before TV, many did. My father inherited the same poetic wit and agility, and often wrote epic stanzas for weddings and banquets and what not else. Funny things. He was good at it.

The note my grandfather sent to grieving parents is five pages long, three of which are poetry. It's remarkable to hold that note in your hand and realize he took the time to write out eight four-line stanzas of poetry that, he says, meant a great deal to him and to Grandma. But he did.

For a time, I hoped that maybe the verses were his own work, but they aren't. They belong to a 19th century Scotsman named John Dickie. The poem is five stanzas long, has no title. Here's the first stanza:

I am not sent a pilgrim here,
My heart with earth to fill.
But I am here God's grace to learn,
and serve God's sovereign will.

Sure feels like a Calvinist's poem. There's more.

He leads me on through smiles and tears,
Grief follows gladness still;
But let me welcome both alike
Since both work out his will.

The strong man's strength to toil for Christ,
The finest preacher's skill
I sometimes wish,--but better far
To be just what God will.

Why?--I don't know, but Grandpa chooses to fill the page with this poem. The paper is lined, and on all the other pages he observes the boundaries; but here—look for yourself--for some reason he fills the page by writing top to bottom. I don't know why.

But there's more to this title-less, author-less poem.

I know not how this languid life
My life's vast ends fulfill;
He knows,--and that life is not lost
That answers best his will.

No service in itself is small,
None great, though earth it fill;
But that is small, that seeks its own
And great that seeks Gods' will.

Poems, originated as memory devices, means people used to remember significant stories or sentiment because rhythm and rhyme helped people hold on to what they didn’t want to forget. That's why Grandpa spends almost two pages copying out this one poem.

Maybe I’m wrong, but let me be an English teacher again. The poem has a kind of tethered anger, every last stanza marching the reader relentlessly back to God's will. Time and time and time again, the poem corrals unruly thoughts, as if should it not, the human soul would simply take some varied, dangerous path away from God. And the truth is simple, but very hard to swallow at the death of a child--life is all about God's will.

Some readers might say the poem deconstructs its own theology, urging a degree of comfort it can't accept itself.

Here's the final stanza of the poem Grandpa sends to the child's grieving parents, and note the way he underscores bear in the final line:



Then hold my hand, most gracious Lord,
Guide all my goings still;
And let this be my life's one aim:
To do or bear thy will.

Grandpa underlined that word bear, the only time he underlined anything in the poem. That punctuation underscores the determined character of the poem--what happens in life is all a matter of God's will: sign on or you’re lost. Bear it. It's His.

___________________ 

Tomorrow: Yet another poem.