Lisa and I bore fruitless until late in life,
Wondering were we physically broken
Or spiritually barren?
A pastor, son, and grandson of pastors,
I felt I was losing faith.

In prayer one day, as luck would have it,
I heard the voice of God,
As clear as crystal and large as Imax,
“I am real,” he convicted,
“You don’t understand.”

When she announced her expectations
Most were fearful
I was speechless;
What further pain?

Nine months later, he was born.
We named him Jon, the greatest man,
I always thought, for though anointed,
He always pointed, to David,
His rival and best friend.

When he’s your only
Child and future, how it pains,
His rants and raves, his rejection
Of priestly line to leave his home
And live on streets.

He grows his hair,
Like Beatles or Marley,
Eats naught but natural,
And wears organic.
At least he doesn’t do drugs.

Was it our God he forsook
To rail against the government?
Or rather does he pave the way
For deeper spirituality,
More intimate theology?

Our greater fears have given birth,
He finds himself imprisoned
By those he tried to help.
In Horrid’s dungeon words he shouts,
Forgoes that shush to save his life.

If he ignores the powers that be,
I fear he may lose his head.


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