A man came to see me today
looking for God’s protection
in human hands.
His own hands were weathered,
shaky from age and illness.

And it was clear and then clearer
that he was adrift in a sea
of broken memory and
phantoms of pursuit.

What could I do, but listen?

Words fell from his mouth
in a jumble and I wondered
how much of him was in them.
Was it genuine the way
his face turned bright
when he spoke about music
and its power to save this world?

Does it matter?
In an hour, he was on his way,
lost again, unmoored, and scared.

What could I do, but listen?
But sit and lose time with him?
But force my shoulders to relax,
my schedule to subside,
and let him grasp my hands
in his own shaking hands?

What could I do but that?
Was it enough?
And does it matter?
It was all that I could give then.
That and the earnest prayer that he felt something of Grace in it,
and the trust that God, too, was there.