As we welcome the new year, we're pleased to share this poem by Mike Bonikowsky.
In the group home they are waiting...
In every season, in every storm In moments of questions In moments of fear In moments when everything seems so unclear Be still and know that you are loved
There is a subtle panic in her eyes: she is trying to read me, trying to understand what it is I could want from her, but she picks up nothing at all from my best encouraging face.
My silence can be holy, if I feel The presence, and the touch, of those who care. A gentle hand, or word, makes joy more real, And griefs gain substance in a loving prayer.
I have seen that shape before And now I find it troubles me. Those hands held in just that way. But I can't place the memory.