— Crossed Hands Over the Dawn

The old man leans
on the frame of his bed
the way a reed leans on the wind,
and he rises
one last time.

Luz comes back to him:
a stone for a pillow,
a ladder of fire,
and a voice that said,
“I will make you fruitful.”
Through all his winters
that promise kept burning
in him like a coal.

Rachel comes back too,
laid by the road to Ephrath.
Sorrow and blessing
have long shared
one room in his heart.

His sight is dimming
the way the stars fade
before the sun.
“Who are these?”
Two boys born in Egypt
are drawn into his arms.

“I never thought I’d see your face,
and God has shown me your children.”
Grace pours
past the rim of what he had hoped.

Joseph arranges them by custom,
the elder at the right.
Then the old arms
cross like branches
over a single root.

“I know, my son.
I know.”
His eyes have gone dark,
but his heart is lit
by a light that doesn’t come from the sun.

And I ask myself:
how often have I set my life
in the order I thought was right,
and called it wisdom?
How often has Heaven
crossed my plans
and called it love?

He prays:
“The God before whom my fathers walked,
who has fed me
all my days,
the Angel who redeemed me
from every evil—
bless the boys.”

Bethel, Peniel,
the limp, the long exile:
his whole life
is gathered into a single breath
and given away.

“I am dying,
but God will be with you.”
The wick sinks low.
The light moves on
to other hands.

Hidden Redeemer,
when I reach for the right hand,
cross my hands gently.
Teach me to bless
the future You see
and I cannot.