The Hand That Feeds Me
Small, simple, and unexpected love
It’s not so strange, that hand that feeds me. As though I’ve looked upon it before. The eyes that see me, and the ears that hear — those too are warm and familiar.
Today I was the neighbor, struck down and in need. It was I who bled and I who cried.
Be loved by your neighbor as he loves himself.
I am reminded of the late Henri Nouwen when he pens a profound realization in The Return of the Prodigal Son: To become like the Father we are not tasked with doing as He does. No, if we truly wish to love, and embrace, and welcome, and forgive, we must first learn to be forgiven, to be welcomed, to be embraced; we must learn to be loved.
Today I was loved. So, it seems that by tomorrow I will have learned how to love — at least a little bit better than I did before.
The hand that fed me, and the eyes that saw me; the ears that heard and the mouth that spoke: They were many and yet one. The Holy Samaritan, my Lord and my God. Only today, He came in the vesture of youth, robed in the tenderness of familiar faces.
Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed? He has heard the voice of my supplication, and behold: He is coming soon.