World Renewal International

Circle Unbroken

by Micah Wright

[Picture of Paul Milner's Baptism by Rev. Helm]

He was in his usual place, the chair by the door.

At a knock, he rose slowly, achingly from his place,

He escaped the chair with springs that would protest, protest in a way the Old Man would never have allowed his battered body to utter.

The bone jarring accident that was long in the past,

Perpetually robbed him of his health,

his ability to walk free of pain,

his means of providing for his family,

yet was not able to breach his abiding Trust.

His bear hug of greeting, never weak or hollow,

seemed to encircle you head to toe,

was only the introduction to the love demonstration to follow.

While the family gathered for stories, for laughs,

for chicken and noodles,

for pie and for presents,

the Old Man took it all in as he presided from his chair.

Steel blue eyes revealed the love and laughter for this his family,

For those who had gathered and those far away,

but most of all for The One. The Child.

This Child, this Savior. His Savior. His Jesus.

After bellies too full from noodles and pie;

after every pot and dish that had considered being dirty

were washed, dried and put away;

the Old Man would reach over to the table chair side,

and take hold of the worn, cracked leather covered tome

that was his constant companion.

Tenderly opening the careworn pages,

As if unwrapping a fragile gift he wished to display for all,

The Old Man would hold us enraptured as he proclaimed

the events of the Virgin Birth

- the journey, the shepherds, the angels and the kings.

The Old Man had spent hours laboring, devotedly preparing the account,

Thus ensuring that the tale unfurled was alive with vigor

And not a mere legend vapid and stale.

Rather, he revealed a true chronicle

of the events from which the Old Man drew strength.

He would unfold before us his love for the promised child.

This Child, this Savior. His Savior. His Jesus.

When the account was closed,

eyes all around would be swimming.

Hands would be held, and a great circle formed;

While words of thanks,

words of praise,

words of promise and deliverance

would be shared by all who were encircled around this seemingly broken man of strength.

Drawing a breathe,

a great pause would fill the air,

As the steel blue eyes,

not cold but flaming with love and devotion,

Would caress each soul gathered.

With passion and care,

the Old Man would issue a command,

one that was unthinkable to not obey.

“I don’t want this circle broken,”

He would speak of his love for all there.

He would speak of how he knew it could be done.

He would speak of his love for the Child.

This Child, this Savior. His Savior. His Jesus.

The Old Man knew his sand was running thin,

his body worn out, burdoned by a soul that would not be contained.

A rendering would be demanded, an answer to be given…

“Did you tell them of Me?”

The Old Man would not allow those in his care to take leave

Without knowing the only way to be joined to that circle,

To rest assured with the circle unbroken,

Was to join with the One the Old Man loved most of all,

this Child, this Savior. His Savior. His Jesus.

The Old Man is gone, swept away home

by the angels he so loved to share about.

His dust and his words are carried to the ends

on the gale winds of life.

Yet the Old Man and his words stand vigil for all.

In the heart, mind and soul of those who bear witness

to the Old Man’s love,

to his life,

to his circle unbroken.

To this Child, this Savior. His Savior. His Jesus.

And the circle still stands;

despite the members that have gone on.

Unbroken and strong;

It has been beaten, it has been battered, it has been bent.

But it has not been broken, no, not yet.

The Old Man departed far too soon,

but he did not abandon us, no he did not.

nor did he leave us with empty hands.

For those he loved he left a great treasure.

But don’t be confused.

The Old Man left not cash, not land, not sparkling jewels.

This was not the great treasure that the Old Man could provide.

No, the treasure he left us, is far, far more rare.

It is the rarest,

it is the finest,

it is the costliest gift that could ever be.

For there is but just One.

This rare and fine gift,

that cost God His One and Only Son,

Is the circle unbroken, won by Lamb’s precious blood.

This, and only this, is the one and only treasure that the Old Man left.

This treasure of the circle unbroken.

With this Child, this Savior. His Savior. His Jesus.

[This poem written by my oldest son, Micah, is about Paul Alvin Milner my grandfather. All that Micah said was so true. I am so glad Micah knew him.]