To the Psalter for my son

I sit

In the silence

the eerie hew of the tracking monitor illuminating the small space

a hosptial stay

to discover what may be

good news will come

but news for naught as well,

glimmers of the old him

want them to remain strong

emerge more

as medical Hail Mary’s (not of a Rosary or visitation)

thrown,

but is it simply to check a box?

For the same old refrain

of systems, beliefs, and research

not fully actualized,

is it because,

they cannot see

the beautiful image bearer?

The passaionate fighter?

The smart ass of humour?

The curious mind

who is not held back

or bound

by diagnostic labels

But rather…

shines through the bushel they try to smother him with diagnostics

to simply be him,

God–

how long, will his light shine bright?

Just let who he is…

shine that love into the world

Continue shattering what is deemed “label”

to be

what is him.