My friend and I are hard-luck kids
In Sunday School

He’s dying of cancer.
The teachers try to take an offering
Of the bright yellow candy we both like
But rarely get

Perhaps a taffy
Bright yellow
Wrapped in a twist of waxed paper
If not a hard candy wrapped in clear plastic

But when the offering comes back
There are only a handful of pieces
Instead of the mountain we’d hoped for

Not just the kids
But the parents
Have no sympathy for him

One of the moms
Talks about how lazy he is
Refusing to even admit he is sick

Epilogue

I see a tree
With yellow flowers
Like the candy we wanted

The tree of life
The fruit of grace

Reflections

I can’t be angry with them
They are terrified of death
Their own death
Which feels so imminent
That they can’t spare any pity
For a dying child

And maybe it is foolish of me
Of us
To ask them for grace
Rather than going to the Source
And asking Him

The church is stingy with grace
Because they feel they have so little
Even if it seems like a lot to us
Who consider ourselves outcasts

Suddenly the picture inverts

They are the dying children
I am the child who lives in the garden
Under a tree
Where grace falls
Like ripe fruit
At harvest time

Surely I am the one
Who should collect the fruit
Take as an offering
To share with them

And maybe if I do
They will feel safe enough
Secure enough
Rich enough
To take pity on my friend
And share grace with him