I wrote this in honor of a dear friend and great man, Philip List Jr. No poem could capture the power of his legacy. But as we honored his life, and his amazing family stood before us in unity and strength even amidst their sorrow, I was struck with the last words of this piece. So this is for him and for them.
“A Remnant Remains.”
This is actually a song that I hope to someday play for you all.
Until then, here’s “At the Foot of the Throne”
First and foremost: you.
And all that’s else will follow after.
Even if it feels
Like rushing headfirst to disaster.
– s. Clark
Yes, it’s true. I don’t deserve it,
Not a good thing that exists.
But, somehow, my God who loves me,
In His kindness still persists.
Still He presses forth, so faithful,
Rotten though my heart may be,
Loving me beyond my failures,
Giving such good gifts to me.
Have I earned my life and wellness?
Or deserve such time and care
From the people who surround me,
And the God who put them there?
Though He owes me nothing, truly,
I have learned His gifts come free,
For the goodness of the Savior
Has nothing to do with me.
– s. Clark
The Thaw
It has been winter so long.
Cold crept in and creaked her bones,
Made her icy to the touch.
She wanted to see the beauty in the snowflakes,
In the shimmer of the endless ice,
But she is buried six-feet deep,
Breathing in shards.
She tried to ward the winter off–
Keep moving, friction forces warmth.
Curled her toes and rubbed her hands together,
Huddled close to someone else’s heat.
But they were temporary flames,
Only candles, blown out in the blizzard of her soul.
Until, unforeseen beneath the grey gloom sky,
The Sun returned. And though so far removed,
Unreachable by tiny, frosted hands,
The strength of its fire lit the sky
And rolled across the earth like liquid gold.
And, softening its strength,
It caressed her frigid fingers. With a crack,
The frozen fissures of her heart are thawed
And melted into clean, spring water.
– s. Clark
What a marvelous mosaic of stories we make.
You must look at the weave of us
And wonder at the artistry of Your work,
The way we intertwine and move among,
Perhaps never knowing.
Perhaps never touching,
But all our varying shades,
The balance of light and shadow in our fibers,
Make us such a perfect painting.
And maybe that is why we feel so ugly,
Zoomed in so closely as we are,
Microscopic. Seeing the speck of grayish blue,
And not the rolling sea beneath a storm.
Seeing the sickly slice of red,
And not the booming meadow of sunset.
Perhaps we threads would not feel so lonely,
So starkly different, so bent and tangled,
So lost within the maze,
If, rather than solitary, twisting twine,
We saw the tapestry.
– s. Clark
Shigé Clark Writing 