Big Faith

That Christmas when you were six

Was the last time you visited Santa.

We waited,

Humming stale carols to musak

In a line that seemed miles long

Until your turn finally came.

You were hoisted up into that velvet lap

So you could whisper wishes

To a bearded stranger you believed

Could make them all come true.

You asked for the world,

Or at least, the world of a child.

“All the toys.”

Not specific toys.

All of them.

I made a motherly mistake

And assumed you were greedy in your wish

And in your response on Christmas morning

When you asked with genuine surprise

“Is this all?”

You had thought it a reasonable request.

That New Year’s when you were twelve

Was the first time I began to see

The man of faith you already are.

We waited,

Singing new choruses with the band

In a service that seemed hours long.

At last our turn came.

We sat on folding chairs

While you spoke your need

To faithful friends you trusted

Would pray for your healing.

“In time for his birthday,” I qualified.

“Now,” you corrected.

To me, it would mean the world.

To you, it seemed a reasonable request.

And you were right.

Healing was yours that night.

Anyone who meets you

Soon learns what I have come to understand –

That any outrageous request

Is perfectly reasonable

When you have big faith.