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Aimee Reid

About this Christian Poet:
Aimee could usually be found as a child, squatted wherever she happened to be, reading. Her Kindergarten teacher took her to the school library, where a mesmerizing world opened to her. Words are still her joy. Her library sack regularly groans with the weight of a fresh load of books. At present, she is an editor for the Gather 'Round curriculum project.

About this poem:
I was captured by the courage Abraham showed in following God despite an apparent delay in receiving God's promise. This poem is drawn from Genesis 12:1–9, 15:1–3, and 17:1–8.  

Abraham

I see him there—
Father of the faith—
Standing amid uncertain hooves and sweat
Of desert beasts: furrowed brow, a billowed robe,
And eyes that sweep the arc of all he’s known.

His sandal lifts, strikes out.
Dust swirls, and he is bound for land that You will show.
No map to steer his trail but slender thread of promise,
Flung out from your lips into the vast unknown.

His face is fixed. Behind him kinsmen,
Home. He forges on, seeker of a country.

If he had known the trials, lonely paths that lay ahead,
The years of greying hair and still no son—
Still alien—I wonder, would his hand have
Trembled when at first he bowed to grip the tent peg,
Wrench it from the earth that held his father’s bones?

He falters, fails, yet you, God, seek him out, and in your eyes
Glint visions of a choir of angels, singing of a birth.
You stoop to hear his questions. Speak of stars innumerable
As prostrate Abram lies, yielded upon the sand.
And by faith he obeys.

I, too, have felt the thirst and pang of
Rootlessness—of desert journeys under distant sky.
Burning eyes, head bowed against the sun, I see no distant stream.
The promise seems to shimmer out of reach. Doubt
Whispers with the sand: You are forgotten.

Yet here—a solitary speck upon the barren ground—
I kneel.
With rocks that blaze I build to You my altar.

Oh, God of might and mystery, whose words sent planets whirling,
Thou who callest things unborn as though they are—
Great Renamer—call me.

Oh, Lord who speaks to shepherds, summon me, still fearful,
Yearning, from the tents of my small vision out into the
Holy reverence of the night. Have mercy on my frailty.
Draw my faltering footsteps closer to your side,
And let me find my courage in your eyes
That, laughing, I might stretch my hands—my palms upturned—
Out to the bosom of the sky and leap, oh Faithful One,
Into your arms.

Copyright ©2006 by Aimee Reid