In this chronological remembrance, we're in the newlywed years. Lord, have mercy (and thankfully He did!) Today I'm re-sharing a poem I wrote for my husband's 43rd birthday last year. ...............................
43 years
A poem* for my husband on his birthday
Ninety-two, ninety-three, I most remember
As the winter a blizzard shut us in and we are
Broke from a hard two years as newly wed
Where the meager provision of being
Student, employee, father for our first born
Son and now another one on the way, we've
Neither a degree nor cash. Dreams die in
Fatigue and bank accounts give way as you and your
Muscle and sweat and hope fall in to make
A loss. We lived in two bedrooms down the
Hallway from kind friends in their nice
Neighborhood. Or that has all really
Happened and we go to Johnson City where,
Thanks to Rick Jindra and Steve Conroy,
You get a job cleaning cars at Dependable
Auto Sales. It’s all a backwards dream, a slog
To get a life and home before the next
Arrival of another son, your dogged days
Of honor. A church acquaintance
Has encouraged us that giving when we
Don't think we have anything to give keeps the
Scarcity of our mindset overwhelmed by
The bounty. I love the mentors, at least I
Think I do, in their wisdom, their attempt
To find ways for us to find a living from the WIC
Office. Otherwise the early years seem
Like a country music ballad. A stunned
Twenty-something man runs from school to work
And home up three floors of the apartment house on Frederick Street,
Chasing a toddler with the second-born in hot
Pursuit where otherwise you sat up late writing
Required lines, planning for your next degree
And child, a daughter. We were waiting to get our
First salary and listening to the Yankees win the pennant
On the radio. You worked, you dreamed, you wrote the
Fifty-two pages of your thesis, the new baby
Arriving near the end. I slept on the couch and
healed and nursed and cried while you stayed up
Thirty-six hours straight, determined. Then that
Summer there is the day of the great Teaching Job
Offer, we move to Conklin -- Richard T. Stank
Middle School, beloved George Schuster
Down the hall. You read “Goodnight
Moon” to your children and Teddy Roosevelt
To your students, and Rick Patino for the team.
Then it’s winter again. My water breaks
And we head back to Lourde's Hospital
And we welcome another daughter, and
Sometime just about then you must have almost
Seen yourself as others see or saw you,
people like Dr. Jagger and Scott Gravelding, but could not quite
Accept either their affirmation
Or their equally anointed naming. Uncertain,
Afraid, you kept at it. A few years later
Crisis and pain and forgiveness fall in to make
A calling. You lived into yourself, a man named.
Crisis and pain and forgiveness fall in to make
A calling. You lived into yourself, a man named.
You are still the father, student, teacher, much the same,
but now also mentor, pastor, friend.
Now you are happier, I think, and older.
Those of us lucky enough to know you say
That we have won the Brian Murphy lottery.
but now also mentor, pastor, friend.
Now you are happier, I think, and older.
Those of us lucky enough to know you say
That we have won the Brian Murphy lottery.
*ADAPTED FROM "YESTERDAYS",
A POEM BY ROBERT CREELEY
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In this season that I do not have time to write, this is the idea God gave me: For me to ponder and notice again the words I've already written once, to keep praying the beads of memory to discover this sacramental life.
Won't you join me?
I'd welcome your company along the way.
