In Remains of the Day,

A life can be lived out in servanthood,

But not unhappiness.

 

For the real servant works with a happy heart.

And will rest peacefully at sunset.

 

The lonely veranda sits empty on a sun-setting summer’s eve,

Replete with chairs, old and modern,

Organized in a clutter of emptiness,

Void of chatter,

With might disturb the neighbors.

 

How I long for that missed company,

Those who have passed me by,

Even for a fleeting moment,

Exchanging words, or even less,

Just a glance as they walk by to shop or stroll.

 

Their footprints and voices remain,

Not at all distant as you might think,

Easy to remember the smallest encounter,

As it is just happened,

And it was important.

 

Now it seems, I am older, but that is just a number,

Here I sit, full of the experience of many lives,

Tears, love, shame, challenges,

Families working their way through life,

For just showing up for another day as they close the door behind me.

 

While all appears empty, it is not so.

I am full of wants desires, memories,

But most of all longing.

The longing of the connection again,

For those who mean most to me.

 

Which is all of you.

 

I know it now for sure,

I am nothing.

Well something,

Because You made me,

But nothing of myself.

 

Let me squash the foolish pride,

I once held dearly,

As if I was somebody.

And drop my head in shame,

For a life lived in me, not you.

 

It is now clear,

No better life has been given to anyone,

Than the one You gave me,

To either savor or squander,

Of which I have done both,

With great purpose … if not direction.

 

It ends now,

With the knowledge of surrender,

Full surrender,

After my Emmaus journey,

I AM aware suddenly,

Of my worthlessness, to myself.

 

It is only what I do which you direct,

Which is useful,

All other is self-serving,

As I see this through new eyes,

Opened and aware.