Road to Rwanda----Peace's Placement

 The following poem was in my devotions this morning. I did not understand it at first, but it was paired with the Scripture about Thomas's doubt. The poem is a poignant reminder that we think we need religious trappings to communicate with God....or He needs them to communicate with us.  But He is all around us and speaks in every circumstance, detail of nature, prayer fulfilled.  Yesterday we received an email from Peace's supervisor for receiving her funding: "Peace is a 'pending participant', which means she will be assigned an MFP-RS slot soon as well as a service coordinator from DDS."  This means that soon, hopefully very soon, Peace can leave the nursing home after almost 9 months being there.  When we started the process of moving Peace to Massachusetts I talked directly to one of the head supervisors for DDS. I was told she would never qualify for the resources provided through DDS in MA, and that we could not even apply. We would need to apply for a lesser level of benefits,  but here is the result of these months of waiting and praying. A wonderful friend of Paul's, formerly from his church, will probably be able to take Peace to live in her home.  She has extensive experience caring for handicapped individuals and we are all excited about this.  Thank you for your prayers and please continue to pray that all of the details can be smoothly and quickly worked out.

“At the Ruined Monastery in Amalfi”
by Jay Parini

On a hill, approaching Easter,
well above the sea’s bland repetitions
of the same old story
and the town’s impenitent composure,
I survey old grounds.

The fire-winged gulls ungulf the tower.
Lesser grackles, nuns and tourists,
scatter on the grass.

The brandy-colored light of the afternoon
seeps through the stonework;
creeping flowers buzz and flutter
in the limestone cracks.

Wisteria-chocked loggias drip with sun.

A honeycomb of cells absorbs the absence
it has learned to savor;
court and cloister close on silence,
the auroral prayers long since burned off
like morning fog.

The business of eternity goes on behind our
backs.

In the chapel dark,
I’m trying to make out a worn inscription
on a wind-smudged altar,
but the Latin hieroglyphs have lost their
edge. 

Remember me, Signore, 
who has not yet learned to read your hand,
its alphabet of buzz and drip and flutter