Calling Summoned to the bedside of the dying, I slip into a house where every room is heavy with grief's incense. This is not my first time through this door, just weeks ago I sat in this front room, listening and praying, anticipating all that was to come, that is now here. What can I do but sit here listening and praying once again. I pull out of my pocket a small jar of oil and take those still warm hands in mine: "Lord lettest now thy servant depart in peace." The fragrance of the oil anoints the air as I depart, leaving transfigured grief. Unsure of what to do I make my way uphill, to find a churchyard bench where I release the breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding in. I sit and watch three birds who circle gently in the distance over that same house which I had visited and then, as I watch on, they make their way, towards me, and beyond, and out of sight. "You cannot bear this weight in your own strength." Those ordination words come to my mind and I find comfort in the thought. I watch a buzzard spiral upwards, hear the breeze flow through the bracken, watch the ants at work, and place myself within the larger whole of God's creation, full of grief, and joy, and life, and death, and life. And in my hand I feel again the little jar of oil, still warm and fragrant, like the tears that fall. © Rich Clarkson 2026 richclarksonpoetry.com
New poem: Calling
a reflection on the line from the ordinal "you cannot bear the weight of this calling in your own strength"
#poetry #ordination #ministry #grief
