Dear Fr. Rob,
Thank you for this opportunity for us to post a final message to our "EfH"! I was moved to tears when Tim wrote to me that I was his EfH, too, but the H was for Heaven . . .
I wrote the following poem for Tim when he was first diagnosed in January. He has since read it, but if you would kindly read it to him, Fr. Rob, that would be wonderful.
But before I post the poem, I just wanted everyone to know that Tim remained strong and hopeful throughout these last weeks. In his "The Trial, an Ode", part V, he writes about a dream he had:
Chucky, Opening Day, it's time to go!
The mourning doves have stayed,
cooing in fragrant shade,
the western cedar boughs that softly blow,
the junipers that roosters claw with spurs.
Here we have ears for everything that whirs.
So, this was my poem for Tim:
For Tim, on the Eve of Battle
This charge I commit unto thee, son Timothy,
according to the prophecies which went before on thee,
that thou by them mightest war a good warfare. (1 Timothy 1:18)
The rattles, caws and clicks of circling crows
outdo the western meadowlark of late;
flickertails in burrows hibernate
in colonies till spring; and I suppose
your fields are carpeted with winter’s snows,
your hunting boots and Winnie 28
cleaned and set aside. They’ll have to wait,
like Chucky who looks up at you, and knows.
Yet soon the great Red River, frozen now,
will recommence its northward course, and pink
wild prairie roses bloom beneath the fair
cerulean High Plains skies. Farmers will plow
their acres once again. Let not your ink
run dry, my friend. Fear not the trumpet's blare.
—Catherine Chandler, January 2018
Tim's ink certainly did not run dry. When Last Poems is eventually published, there will be over two hundred pages of some of his best work, full of grace, grit, and gratitude.
Cathy
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