Poetry

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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Seeds and Water

Seeds and Water

Here we are in week four of quarantine and life has taken on a strangeness. Gone is the normal schedule, gone is the daily flow. We find ourselves being tossed around on the waves of unknowing. Our sense of daily awareness is gone, the hours and days running together.

Through out these weeks I have been thinking about my Dad and what his reaction to all of this would have been. I miss his calming force. He had a sense about him that made you feel like everything was going to be alright, even when it wasn’t.

I began to write down all that I could remember about him, for you see, I’m terrified I will forget, forget his laugh, his smile, his words. Funny thing, when you start recalling memories, God is good and brings you an avalanche of them.

They come in the shower, while bending over a sink full of dishes, while folding laundry and when you lie in bed at night. Some memories bring life and comfort, others the sting of pain still lives.

I found that not only memories of my Dad came, but memories of many people who have come in and out of my life. I began to imagine them as seeds and water, the planting and watering of a garden, the growing of a girl.

Seeds and Water

Some of the seeds took deep root in my life, some blew away in the wind. Some of the watering was like soft spring rain, other torrential downpours that washed growing seeds away. All of them have grown me into the woman I am today, teaching me many life lessons, about others and myself.

I have been wrestling with Paul’s words about those who plant and water our lives. He says that they are important and equal, God sees their labor and their reward awaits them. Yet is is God who does the growing, the growing of a girl, a vineyard, a garden, she is the house where God dwells.

God, who causes the growth, is the only One who matters. The one who plants is no greater than the one who waters; both will be rewarded based on their work. We are gardeners and field workers laboring with God. You are the vineyard, the garden, the house where God dwells. 1 Corinthians 3 7b-9 The Voice

We are often looking forward, preparing and planning, rarely looking back. I must say, this time of looking back has been good for my soul.

Some of my planters and waterers still live and others have gone home for their reward, and I know their rewards are sweet. If I do not share how their stories entwined with mine, who will ? How will they be remembered? How will their seeds continue to grow in future generation?
It is a strange time we are living in friends and we have been given the rare gift of time. Let’s allow our memories to stir and then watch the avalanche come. Remembering the stories of those who have planted seeds and poured water over our lives.
Our life is but a breath and we are the only ones who can tell our story, and everyone loves a story. Say what you have been given to say.

With Love,

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Faith · Poetry

When Comfort Comes Full Poem

If sorrow never knocked on our door, we would miss the sweet comfort that The Comforter brings. 

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ. 1 Corinthians 1: 3-5

 

When Comfort Comes Full Poem