Tarnished Silver

The silver pitcher sits majestically on the sideboard. It would, I think, if I'd just get over and polish it. Instead, it sits like a neglected child, lonely and less-than. Once a thing of beauty, with crafted lines and shiny surface, it’s now hardly noticeable. The lines remain, however, as does the shine, but all is hidden under the tarnish of age and neglect. New life is a matter of restoration and re-discovery . . . not re-creation. Faith, along with effort, will uncover what's beneith. It will reclaim what’s been lost.

***

The circle of men, with wrinkled shirts and faces, assembled in the Chaplain’s office. Discussing the lost years of drug abuse, of needles and bottles, they asked about how to begin the journey of recovery. “I want to be a better person,” said one. “I want to be the person I once was,” added another. “I remember this carefree, happy boy playing with his friends in the backyard, without a care in the world and loving all around him. That’s who I was.  That’s who I am, I suppose. I just need to re-discover me.”

***

The windowed-envelopes on the counter had won yet again, as the burdened father made his way to his bedroom. There was more needed than he had to give. “How has it come to this,” he asked himself as he prepared for bed. “I used to have more than I needed. I once had the freedom to be happy.” Looking in the mirror, he couldn't recognize the reflection. Where were the eyes that used to shine? Where was the head of hair? Where was the 36 inch waist? “Are you still in there?” he asked the stranger. “If so, could you please come back?”