What Those Strained Eyes Still See

Thursday. Just after lunch. George Cromarty had navigated his chair on auto-drive down to the sun room. The warmth felt good.

His nephew Stewart was waiting for him there, just like clockwork. Every second Thursday.

"Hi Stu. Glad you could make it. How was traffic across town?

"Pretty much the same, old fellow. Krista sends her love. Wants you to know we will be up Sunday afternoon with something special. Pie. You already know the flavour."

"How is she keeping, Son? You know, the fibromyalgia?"

"It seems to be a little better with this spring. Doctor has some new twists with the treatment. But really, how little they know about this one. We pray, as always. We are thankful right now for the relief."

"I know Stu. Give her a kiss from me, will you? Until Sunday. Now I have the book. Same one as last time. A real personal favourite. Go to page 65. Dear old Rutherford. Transformed to poetry by Faith Cook. I have read it and re-read it for decades."

The selection was entitled An Absent Christ

Who can discern Christ's secret ways,
For with love's chain He fettered me
Then ran away and left my soul
To mourn in sweet captivity?
I dare not call my Saviour harsh,
Though He may come and go at will,
Feed me with love, then clear the board
And leave my soul a-hungering still.

My tide is low, my sea is out
When my Beloved goes away;
Yet still I clamour at His door
Nor give Him rest by night or day.
In Christ's kind hand I place my need
Whose bounty is my sole supply;
For my best riches are those wants
That Christ Himself must satisfy.

(To Lady Culross, Aberdeen, 1637, Letter 222)

(Picture near Kirkudbright, Galloway)


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