A poem by C. He was 13 when he wrote this.
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I am a son of my Father.
I wonder when I will meet Him.
I hear Him, for He is life itself.
I see His works and gape.
I am a son of my Father.
I pretend not to know, but He knows all.
I feel His eyes upon me, as He smiles at my triumphs and frowns at my faults.
I touch a baby and feel it vibrate with a glow, only which He could bring.
I worry I will falter and be dragged off by an undertow of sin and temptation.
I cry when I'm in pain and the wolf draws near.
I am a son of my Father.
I understand life isn't just given to you like a present, you have to give yourself.
Those blisters of turmoil will be rewarded.
for He loves His servants, to serve Him.
I say spread your arms and embrace Him, for He is as mighty as ever!
I dream of running through Eden, everything perfect.
I try to appease Him. I hope He is proud.
I am a son of my Father.
I am a daughter of my Father. He died when I was 16 I know I’ll never meet him – In person, but I hear Him, for his writing, his words, his deeds Keep showing up anew – The things he did before I was born and after When I was too little to understand. I see his works and smile ----- I am a daughter of my Father. Sometimes, I feel his eyes upon me. What would he say to me now, to know me as an adult? He was an activist, he hated injustice. What would he say about the world now – to have been able to grow old in it? He would have liked that – who wouldn’t? I worry I’m not as determined as him I have to be determined, to not falter or be dragged off by an undertow of negativity or bitterness --- I am a daughter of my Father. I understand life isn't just given to you like a present, you have to give yourself. To push on. Those blisters of turmoil are their own reward. I say spread your arms and fly! Run through this world, which is still our Eden And think of our fathers and mothers – the good ones who laid the foundations And the bad ones who haunt us still. --- I am a daughter of my Father.
Once upon a time I was suicidal. Many years ago. Feelings are not things I like to talk about, unless abstractly. This was a thing I could not tell my parents when I was feeling it. But when I finally could speak, it was my father that I told. My father is my rock. He is not a particularly emotional rock, but I think that is why I like him and love him so much. Neither am I.