Glory Over Everything

Mango Salsa

In these days of quiet, chaos I have been searching to find God’s glory in every little thing.  As always, He has been faithful to show it to me.  As I was making a bowl of mango salsa this week, suddenly, there it was.   

 

Mango Salsa

 

The dog days of summer,

the garden is wild and heavy with fruit.

Tomato vines crawl over beans, threaten cucumbers and taunt the zucchini.

 

Tomatoes sun themselves,

ever changing, green, and pink and red,

abundance is waiting, ripe for the picking.

 

Mangoes tarry, cradled in a bowl,

eager to greet their longtime friends.

Their meeting place, the cutting board.

 

The quiet slicing of deep red, and cubes, yellow like the sun

The same knife slides through red onions, grown in shallow dirt

Swaying cilantro is picked and chopped as its scent fills the air.

 

With one brush of the knife,

the patchwork of colors tumble into a glass bowl,

it must be glass, they must be seen.

 

The lime is cut and gently squeezed,

salt and pepper sprinkled, gladly join the bowl.

The familiar wooden spoon tosses them gently together.

 

All started from seed, hidden in the dark,

In the darkness. In the quiet.

He was there.

 

In one moment, He brought them into his glorious light.

They came together, God’s Harvest,

in all its taste, in all its glory.

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#gloryovereverything

 

Glory Over Everything

Hometown

I’ve always lived in my hometown, as a young girl my plans were to leave for a more exciting pasture.  But alas, I fell in love, married young, had a few babies, who have now flown the nest.  They search for exciting pastures of their own.  Though they left us with instructions that we are to never move,  even from this old house.  Now we find ourselves the keepers of home, for them.

I am reminded of words that my Dad spoke often to those he loved, who were longing to leave.  “Go, see the world, just remember, you can always come home.”  

Hometown

I know its streets,

T\the curves, the bricks,

the crumbling ones by railroad tracks.

 

I know its buildings,

the ones falling in piece by piece,

the hopeful ones, being made new.

 

I know its fountain,

the one in central park,

that calls out for children to come and dangle their feet.

 

I know the places that hold treasure,

the coffee shop that pours liquid gold,

the place that smells of books and wood.

 

I know its people,

the familiar bank teller,

who seeing my sorrow, cupped my hands in hers

 

The grandfather who walks in the mornings,

once cradling a bundle,

now steadies the back of a of a pink bicycle.

 

The young man, I silently cheered on,

as he lumbered along Main Street,

now runs.

 

The mother in the electric wheelchair,

who waits at the bus stop,

in the sun, the rain, the snow.

 

It is a place where life is lived,

smiles are shared,

and shoulders rub.

 

Were dreams vanish, like paint fading in the sun,

yet hope can be found around the next corner.

 

I know the place of the white birch,

where the seasons change, each beautiful one.

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