No, Not Yet

 

No, Not Yet

There was a voice on that sterile hospital morning,

silent as breath on glass.

soft as wind slipping through leaves,

That answered the questions I never said out loud.

I remember asking if my time was up,

If the surgeon’s knife were the last thing I felt,

and the answer rose through the stillness,

"Go back to sleep, not yet."

As the anesthesia pulled me under,

I drifted back to the day they arrived,

our little ones, brash and fragile,

Hearts full of hope and trouble.

I didn't know if we could make that trip,

If we had enough strength within us,

and the voice leaned close again, "You will, but not yet."

I saw myself standing behind a pulpit,

all nervous with notes in my hands,

Suddenly, thoughts scattered like papers in the wind.

As I salvaged what I could, the Spirit whispered

through the shaking in my knees, "Do not quit, not yet."

In front of my first high school class,

armed with attitude and lecture notes,

I asked myself for the thousandth time

If I could really do this.

The answer came as it always did,

simple and steady, "You can, but not yet."

In the twilight now, I ask again,

“Can I still do what I was called to do?

Can I lay it all down now that I’m older,

tired, worn, and ready to be done?”

The persistent voice meets me in the night,

the one that’s carried me through scalpels and sermons,

through classrooms and crossroads,

And through every trembling start.

As I ask the questions, hoping for a yes,

The answer is the same,

Full of promise, gentle and firm,

"No, my son, you're not done. Not yet."