VeeJay 
Another year is gone, swallowed up within the ravenous jaws of senescence. And while young people resolve to make 2023 a year of being more beautiful, becoming, or betrothed, there are others—those who have long grown cynical of what toned abs and 500 Facebook friends can do for their lasting joy—who will ruminate January 1, 2023 away, pondering long unanswered questions, such as, “Why is it taking so long?” “Where is God in all this?” And, “Why is my prodigal child still hypnotized by a craven world—a world that will one day send them off without so much as a thank you or a good-bye?”
Are you one of those moms? Dads? Siblings? Hoping that 2023 will be the year that God plucks the plugs from His ears and pulls your loved one out from the pit? My mom, Eileen, was one of those moms. She spent 23 long years—until the day she died—praying for her son, my brother. I saw my brother last week and he is as hard hearted as ever. The decades of debauchery have ravished his mind, his body, his spirit, and his soul. He is a shell of humanity—living in an isolated, loveless world with nothing to listen to but the lies of the enemy reverberating in his Meth-addled head.
My mom led my brother in a prayer to receive Christ at 5-years-old in May of 1975. I was there too, praying along with him. Ten years later, under the conviction of the Holy Spirit during a Sunday sermon, he asked to speak to my dad in private after lunch. Shortly after that, he was baptized, and at the age of 15, made a profession of faith and a declaration to resist the inducements of the devil in front of the congregation.
Surely God remembers those sincere heart cries of my brother, even if he doesn’t?
Does this strike a chord with you? Has the enemy worn you thin? Perhaps even to the point where you have given up all hope? If so, let me encourage you as I encourage myself. God is doing a new thing. God does not grow tired or weary as we do. God is no less able to save our loved ones as He was 20 years ago, 30…40…50. His mercies are new every morning. I plan to pray for my brother in 2023 like never before. But ultimately, my hope is not in my prayers, my fasting, or my fervor. It is in the blood of Jesus Christ, shed on the cross for my brother—and for yours.
LONGING
Sometimes I can almost forget
him, my beloved son, and yet,
though distanced by great miles in years,
he unexpectedly appears
in ways that catch me unaware
and take my breath away. Unfair,
it seems, my wounds should be revealed
just when I think my heart has healed.
But there, oh look, my baby boy,
cooing at his favorite toy,
his cherry cheeks and golden hair
catch in my throat. I bend and stare,
but it’s not him. How could it be?
My own son’s grown; oh foolish me.
I turn to work, that blessed gift
that grants one’s soul the time to sift
through all the questions, aches and fears
that lie beneath a thousand tears.
But there, oh look, that must be him,
that little boy, so fair and slim
in cut off shorts, and scratched up knees,
who chases down the wind. The breeze
caresses strands of golden hair
as once I used to do. Unfair,
it seems, my wounds should be revealed
just when I think my heart has healed.
I look away, I cannot bear
the image of the son I care
so much about yet cannot hold
because he’s left the family fold.
And then, just when my calm returns
and settles down the fire that burns
of longing for my son, I see
a tall young man who looks like me
with skin so light, with golden hair.
He turns, but it’s not him. Unfair,
it seems, my wounds should be revealed
just when I think my heart has healed.
Sometimes I think I might forget
him, my beloved son, and yet,
though distanced by great miles and years,
he’s always in my heart. The tears
upon my face may never dry.
Perhaps he won’t come home, and I
may never see my boy again.
If that should be the case, what then?
I placed my trust in God. My shield
in every painful trial, I yield
my all to Him. For I am sure
that in God’s arms I’ll rest secure.
Eileen Anderson
12/5/1999
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