A Box of Gavels

You come on them at the flea market,
a box of gavels, all sized,
the patina of age worn by years of use
and sentencing, of

declaring truth with a swift judgement,
and with a loud “crack!” of wood
against wood,
determining truth without time,

too often, without context, sure
of the rules, sure that all measurements
are precise and sure,
so unlike God who sets aside

his gavel again and again
and gathers us in his arms,
hoping to win our love more by four
hundred and ninety chances,

even more, counting more on loves
heart of persistence
than power and rules.

than power.

About this poem.

More and more in life I become aware of how many of us hide away brokenness and heartache, feeling judged before our journey is complete, instead of encouraged as we struggle through the journey.

I wonder sometimes, what God thinks of this. He, who through Jesus, expected not just second chances, but forgiveness “seven times seventy” times, which I believe was more a starting point, simply a crazy high number to say we all deserve chances to begin again, and again as we struggle to become the person God wants us to be.

It is never, I have learned, too late.

Tom

PS – the picture was taken at the Washington County Antiques Fair a couple of weeks ago.