Here I am, suburban anchorite:
Chronic illness my cloister,
My home my hermitage,
Caregiving my enclosure.
My bare voice sings praise alone in my cell
With the absent-present congregants in my ears.
The mockingbird leads the avian chorus;
I pass the peace to the dragonfly on perched on the other side of the glass.
I pass along the comfort I receive
From the Father of mercies.
A living stone, embedded in the temple of the Body,
Walled in, communion mediated by windows
In my wall, on my desk, in my hand,
Attached yet excluded—
Invisible illness hiding me invisibly away
From the rest of the body—yet still part of it,
Never parted from my Head, the Beloved.
I am a suburban anchorite,
But the burdens and bricks which anchor me here
Anchor me to Christ.
