What can I say? It is as if life stared at me
And kissed my lips, and left it as a signature.

Kenneth Koch from Bel Canto

I don’t know if my dad ever read poetry, but the life that kissed his lips and left its signature is slipping away from him, signing off. This afternoon I stood witness to that exodus of life, not a quick jet flight into new territory, but a slow exhale, the leaking of a tire until in the coming days it will be without air, without breath, without spirit. I stood there offering spoonfuls of jello and sherbet, the only things he wanted to eat – maybe the only things he can swallow easily at this stage. I stood there offering food and witness – that’s what I do on a regular basis as a pastor, offer food and witness. I offered food and witness to my father, a man who could often be charming and funny, who loved life and enjoyed his drinks, who rarely darkened the door of a church, who often scared the hell out of me when I was a child. I offered food and witness to my father - I, as a son, who is also a pastor and who loves poetry.

With Faith and With Feathers,

David