Raising Dwights
by Dwight J. Friesen
When fear comes,
it is rarely alone.
A little boy arrives
already scanning the room
for danger.
A teenager pulls out his résumé,
certain he can earn our belonging
if given enough work.
Another reaches for humor.
Another for theology.
Another quietly packs a suitcase,
ready to disappear
before anyone can leave him.
For years
I imagined a boardroom.
I sat at the head of the table,
chairing the meeting,
inviting each frightened Dwight
to make their report.
Tell me what you see.
Tell me what you’re afraid of.
Tell me how you kept us alive.
And they did.
One by one,
they offered the only wisdom
they had ever known.
Run.
Achieve.
Please them.
Hide.
Become indispensable.
Each strategy once fit the world
like a child’s winter coat—
saving warmth,
until it became too small
to let me breathe.
These days
the boardroom has evolved.
Some quiet grace
has stretched the table
into something older,
more spacious.
A communion table.
No head.
No hierarchy.
Only bread, already broken.
A cup already poured.
The frightened ones still come.
Especially when the ground begins to shake.
Still convinced
it is their turn
to save my life.
So I make room.
I thank each one
for the impossible work
he carried.
I bless his vigilance.
I kiss his tired, scarred hands.
Then I whisper,
You do not have to stand guard anymore.
Stay.
Eat.
Rest.
You have spent long enough
protecting me.
Thank you.
I’ve got us now.
Come, the table is ready.
Peace, dwight
“Raising Little Dwights”
