One Sunday as I searched God’s word,
I felt His Spirit urge me pray;
and as I listened, clearly heard
a prompting that without delay
I take my journey soon to see
and reconcile with Aunt Marie,

my Grandma’s sister, old and frail,
the youngest of the siblings four;
the other three had pierced the veil.
While waiting for her turn to soar
beyond this place of trial and tears,
she’d been alone for many years.

I wondered, as I left my knees,
what wounds remained that I must heal?
The years had dimmed the memories.
What scars were left? I did not feel
the least amount of enmity
towards my aging Aunt Marie.

Long time ago, in younger years,
my aunt would visit Grandma’s place
and tease me, sometimes close to tears.
She’d sneer, then jeer and make a face,
then scoff, “Poor boy, you’re much too small.
A runt,” she said, “is twice as tall.”

And if she didn’t scorn my height,
my other faults she’d loud proclaim:
“Do you still wet the bed at night?”
she’d laugh. She even mocked my name.
She did her level best to try
to make me mad or make me cry.

Though she’d been married most her life,
she had no children of her own.
It’s hard to be a childless wife
and smile while nephews thrive and grow.
Why torture me? It’s now quite plain:
her way of dealing with the pain.

Adulthood helped me comprehend.
No grudge remained, the ill-will gone.
For me, there was no fence to mend.
I’d shrugged it off, and life went on.
There was no spite inside of me.
I’d long since pardoned Aunt Marie.

But starting with that Sabbath day,
I could not from the thought break free.
Each time I knelt to humbly pray,
the urgency returned to me.
I did not doubt that I had heard.
‘Twas vain to argue; I deferred.

And so to God one night in prayer,
I pledged to do as He had said.
I promised soon He’d find me there
and then I rose and went to bed
resolved that soon I’d go to see
and reconcile with Aunt Marie.

The Father took me at my word;
He acquiesced and left my door.
Full satisfied that I had heard,
He trusted me and said no more.
But I was sluggish to obey.
My busy life got in the way.

“Perhaps next week I’ll do the deed,”
my mind was quick to justify.
“My two good sisters meet her needs.
They live much closer than do I.”
The memory of my promise made,
as weeks passed by, began to fade,

as also did my aunt’s frail will
to live. One night, she passed away.
My pledge to God went unfulfilled.
The debt, I now could never pay.
At least while in this life I’d be
unreconciled with Aunt Marie.

And as I pondered my offense
to God, His Spirit spoke to me.
He told me I had failed to sense
my errand and had selfishly
denied my aunt her chance to say
that she in sorrow every day

had prayed that I might come so she
could ask forgiveness for past wrongs.
If only she could speak to me,
the burden she had born so long,
the guilt she felt, at last might cease,
and she could leave this world in peace.

In shame I wept and bore my soul,
confessed my sin, and asked reprieve:
direction from my Lord, my goal.
“If you can spare the time to leave,”
His Spirit said indictingly,
“go say good-bye to Aunt Marie.”

So at her grave, with plaintive voice,
“I’m sorry; please forgive,” I said.
“I hope that we can yet rejoice
and make things right once I am dead.
Until that time, I’ll try to be
a worthy nephew, Aunt Marie.”

Now, you may ask, “why share this tale,
why bring yourself to ridicule,
why give all notice when you fail,
why drop your guard, be thought a fool?”
The answer: it’s my penitence.
May others learn at my expense.

So don’t delay when shown God’s light.
Each time He enters in your heart,
in glare of day or dark of night,
and gives you errand, do your part.
Don’t let Him down; don’t be like me.
Please, go and see your aunt Marie.

Of all my poems, this is certainly the most autobiographical. My grandmother really did have a younger sister named Marie, she really did tease me when I was young, and I really did put off visiting her until it was too late. It is something I regret very much. Dickens said, "We do not shun our dying friends; the not having distinctly taken leave of one among them, whom we left in all kindness and affection, will often embitter the whole remainder of a life (The Old Curiosity Shop, Chapter XV)." I've found his words to be true. But the poem's message goes beyond my experience with my aunt and brings to mind other times when I have been prompted to act, but have not. Overcoming our fears and selfishness and obeying the promptings of the Spirit is a lesson that we all need to learn in life. Perhaps this, my confession, will remind others also of past failure and help them learn that lesson more quickly.