A Lament for Right Now

Noelle Wells

Jesus, I want you to come back like a parent charging in when the kids are about to really give it to each other.
            Hands are raised, falling like  guillotines towards sister,
            Her hands are clenched tight bloodless white on brother’s shirt.
            It senseless, needless, a closed loop of discord so easily broken-

I imagine it:
You charging through the clouds screaming, “Enough!”
            Perhaps your throw a thing or two to get everyone’s attention.
            Perhaps the ground shakes, and the sky tumbles, and the sun rolls a few inches forward
            Until eventually everyone stops, self-justified.
                        Attention is had.
            Bombs freeze midair, triggers stick, swords clatter to the ground
            Fire bites its lip, waves lean back, and all the animals and plants of the world
            Put their hands to their mouth, and gasp. Relief.
                        They knew this was coming. They had waited so long.
Then you pull it out of your satchel: a large earth sized garbage bag.
            You pluck the bombs out of the sky. Toss them. Crumple Nuclear Power
            Like paper. Throw it out. Break guns in half like tooth picks.
            Sweep all the killing things up
            In a pile of dust.
                        Enough of that.

We began from dust and you exhaled Your likeness into us like a kiss good morning.
            You called us children.
            We knew you as Father.
Then we used everything you gave us for this time-long enactment of Cain
            Bashing his brother’s life away in cyclically more creative and innovative ways. Our Babel
            Is built of bones and painted in blood. How have you let us go on this long?
                        When will you tell Us, “Enough is enough!”.
We wait for you to make good on these promises.

You say you can break the mighty like twigs, that their feet are no more than clay, and their weapons no greater than toys.

I know time for you is different.
            But then I wonder is this your patience
                        or have you lost track of it somehow in midst of drawing plans for Zion?
            Are you so confident in the power of perspective
                        that these afflictions remain momentary and light in your eyes?
            Can’t you hurry the gathering of saints?
                        Take our toys away like you ought,
            reprimand and set us straight
                        then dip even the most resistant into rivers of your blood?
            Is there a soul so made of iron that you can’t bend it to the currents of your will?
                        Must any of us be wasted?
                        Cannot even Vladimir Putin,
            the worst of us summed up,
                        have such a metallurgy done in him
                        that he could taste and see that the Lord is good?

Have mercy on us Father. We cannot see what you see.
            What you have called light is crushing us.
            What you have called momentary is a darkness stretched out so far and long
            that the memory of light is outrunning us.
Come today and catch the soul of each baby racing upward in the palm of your hand and cherish them.
            They knew not when they first opened eyes to this world what would be done to them.
                        Tell us that enough is enough.
            Wash the dust from our face, and wipe the tears from our eyes.
Will you forgive more than we can imagine? Oh how I dream you do.

That you would surprise us with a grace so unexpected that we would know truly that the affliction was momentary and the burden was light.

Come quickly, please come quickly. Like a child with a broken vase, we cannot fix what we’ve done.

Noelle Wells
Poet & Mother

Noelle lives in Middletown, Pa. She is a minister's wife and mother to three. This is her first publication.

Photography by Chronically Zoe