Several years back I was connected with a site called The High Calling, which was an online publication “dedicated to the integration of faith and work.” It has since been folded into another site called The Theology of Work Project. There’s lots of good stuff over there. You should check it out.
Those were good, good days. I learned so much, got to write a few pieces, and made some dear friends. Those retreats at Laity Lodge on the Frio River in Texas are among my most treasured memories.
Sometimes on the site, we were encouraged to participate in a Random Act of Poetry challenge. Cuz poetry belongs at work. Just ask my friend Glynn Young. He wrote a whole book about it titled—ta-da—Poetry at Work.
So anyway, one time we were asked to choose a poem that had had an impact on us and then write about it. I’d forgotten all about it until I recently found my response. I had included it as part of a month-long series on aging I’d written.
I chose John Milton’s sonnet, “When I Consider How My Light is Spent.” Remember poor John went blind by the time he was 44.
When I Consider How My Light is Spent When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide; “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?” I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait. ~John Milton (1650s)
And this is my not-a-sonnet.
When I Consider How My Life’s Been Spent
When I consider how my life’s been spent
Up to this point in trying hard to meet
The expectations man laid at my feet
And Martha work wore thin this fragile tent,
I long for years that I perceive long lost
While secret passion lay unclaimed, unused
And time that’s given all I fear abused
I didn’t take the time to count the cost.
Then focus clears and now I see anew
My days within His loving hands He holds
My Mary heart finds rest, my burden rolls
I am allowed to be before I do.
~Sandra Heska King (2010)
TO-DO LIST
Share your favorite poem.
Use it as a jumping off point for your own poem.
Share in the comments.
Mark you calendar: Random Acts of Poetry Day, October 4, 2023
NOTE: My husband grew up on a centennial farm (est. 1854). His family raised dairy cattle. Photos are of the big house. There was a little house and a big barn and a milk house. His parents sold this part of the farm 45 or so years back. I think was more sad than anyone else. The buildings deteriorated over the years, and recently everything was bulldozed. Nothing is left. All that life and history buried. Aged out. There’s a headstone in the local cemetery with the name of a little girl who died when she was 6—two years after D’s ancestors moved from New York. The cemetery hadn’t been created for years after that. The local funeral director said it’s likely she had been buried on the farm. RIP, sweet one.
Sandra, thank you for the kind mention. Oddly enough, I'd just been reading about John Milton.
Sandra, there are so many things this brought to my heart. I must explore John Milton in depth. His words, yours. So humble and deep. My mom, who is turning 87, is going blind. She is the natural writer of our family. It breaks my heart to know how her eyes were the tools of her passion(s). She has been humble and navigating her new world and has been my biggest cheerleader to pick up the torch...although I do not know what I would do without some form of creating. The images of the old farm to go along with this piece are perfection. The history. The little girl buried there :( Grateful for those who came before. I love your writing and plan to explore your website. Yesterday, when I prayed, I asked God to forgive me for wasting a part of my day. I was so tired and not as productive. The weeds are taking over a section of the garden. Never have I felt that the day given is so precious. ox