In Remembrance of the 9/11 Tragedy

I wrote the following poem for a church service on 9/11 this year. The theme for the service was finding God in the events of the day. When I was preparing to write this I thought the theme was something like, "How did the tragedy of that day change us or make us better people?" I did not really have an answer for that, but God knew what the theme really was. I made a few notes about the ways I felt called by God to act in response to the tragedy. I live very far away from New York and Washington and Pennsylvania, so I felt I hadn't much to offer God, but I offered it to him anyway. I had no idea what I would write. Amazingly, when I laid pen to paper the thoughts started to flow very easily. I felt God taking my very little and making something special out of it. When the poem was finished, I offered it to the worship committee and they decided to use it, and ultimately the poem was shared in two worship services that day, once at our church and once at a church in another city. When we offer our little bit to God, we never know what He will do with it.  

Jesus Calling

Twin towers and a pentagon,
Hi-jacked planes,
Explosions,
Clouds of smoke,
Powder and ash falling like rain.

Suffering, death, injury, trauma,
Pressing grief
Falling like rain.

God.
Still God.
Still calling, "Follow Me."

Acts of bravery,
Acts of love,
Acts of service,
Words of faith
Flooding darkness and disaster
With love and light
At the center,
In the spotlight,
On the site.

Even here, far away
We hear His call,
"Follow Me."
Pray for these lost, these injured, these mourning.
Love these enemies; pray for their salvation, their transformation, their good.

Thank Me for the good you see.
Thank Me for new heroes
And Godly examples.

Open your hands;
Give to these who are in need,
Help these neighbors.

Go, go into public places
Unafraid.
Do not hide in fear.

Does this one resemble your enemy?
Could this one be your enemy?
Meet his eyes with compassion,
Smile, nod,
Greet him with kind words.
Remember how I love him.
Remember how I love you.
Follow Me.
Love him, too.

God.
Still God.
Still calling,
"Follow Me."

Poems for My Little Boy

When my little boy, John, was a baby, I decided to write some nursery poems. He was wonderful inspiration then, as he still is today.


Pinky Dinky

Pinky Dinky, a little gray mouse,
Came as a Christmas present into John's house.
She has big round ears, all pink inside,
White wiry whiskers,
And a tiny pink nose.
She is stuffed with soft fluff
From her head to her toes
And she's ever so sweet
To hug in one's sleep.

My sister, Joyce Cole, drew this fine picture of Pinky a few years ago. When John first received Pinky, I named her Mr. Pinkney, but as soon as John could talk well he let me know that her name is really Pinky Dinky and she is a girl. Joyce and I stand corrected. Pinky now sometimes flies and loves to have long conversations with John, when an adult is willing to give her a voice.

Musings

Mr. and Mrs. Goldfish swim baby into dreamland
With night-lit bubbles and watery sound.
Then rainbow hued butterflies
Flutter round and round,
To meet his drowsy morning gaze,
While kittens just finding their mittens await on the wall
Right below Mr. McGregor's garden gate in paint.
Nice things for baby's musings---
All.


John, the Adventurer

John, the adventurer, takes to the lake.
He crawls through the cottage
Like lightning on knees.
He delves in the toy box
For pull cars and blocks
And sand pail and rake.
He splashes in pan-baths set out in the sun,
And babbles and squeals with excitement and fun.
He dons bright blue swimmers
To challenge the lake.
In his own yellow float,
He rides on the waves,
Kicking and giggling,
With Mama real close.
He eats all manner of interesting new things
That aunts and uncles to the table bring.
And when he grows tired,
He sways to and fro
On a carriage seat swing
With his Nana, who sings;
She sings all about John,
John on the water,
John on the lake,
John, the adventurer,
Out riding the waves.

Windows

Many a beautiful stained-glass church window has somehow spoken to my heart and lifted my mind from considering ordinary thoughts to being aware of God's presence. I never stopped to analyze why this is so, until I was discussing with a friend some lovely old church windows that, regretfully, had to be left behind when our congregation moved to a new site. I was not present then, but I empathized with the sense of loss this must have created. He pointed out that there was nothing sacred about those old Victorian floral windows. Happily, the new site was outfitted with lovely, newly created stained-glass windows that tell the stories of the Bible.

I remember driving along one night and thinking, praying, "Why do those windows touch us so?" And then this thought came to me...

Church Windows


What is it about church windows
That speaks to us of God?
There is nothing sacred in them,
Just glass and lead,
Dark and cold,
'Til God-made sunbeams
Flow through
Dazzling witnesses below
With purpose and meaning,
With radiant color,
And streams of light.

Why do human spirits sense the Presence
In a light-flooded, jewel-toned spectacle
Arranged in Gothic portrayals of saints
Or Victorian florals
Or modern undulating, geometric shapes?

Unspoken intuition or soft-spoken Spirit
Bathes us in hope-filled affinity...
In our kinship to the glass.
We, too, are cold and dark,
We, too, need God's Christ-Light
Flowing in and through
Before we come to Life,
We, too.


Sometimes one poem leads to another... this time about the windows of the very first church I attended as a small child.


Jesus Windows


Jesus windows:

The royal baby sleeping in the manger.

The good Shepherd
Carrying the errant lamb.

The Savior standing on water,
Pulling Peter
From the waves.

Jesus praying in the garden.
Jesus dying on the cross.
"Father, forgive them,"
Unfurled below.

The once-doubting Thomas
Touching Jesus' wounds,
Worshiping at His nail-pierced feet.

The living Lord
Knocking softly
At heart's door,
Waiting to come in.

The durable story rendered in fragile glass---
Silently singing.
Simple representation,
Pictorial telling,
In lush detail
For all to grasp
At will.

Translucent panes,
Brittle, liquid, temporal,
Splendid by sun
And firelight,
Flooding darkness with
Color, story-glory
And all this---
Merely a shimmer
Of the Christ-love reality


God reaching out through
Artful hands,
Scientific minds,
Generous hearts,
Faithful voices,
The church combined,

An invitation

I love you.
Come, come to Me.
Come hear the Word.
Come read the Story.
Come find the Way.
Come see.
Come live for Me.
My instrument
Illumined
Be.

Creation Speaks

God uses nature to speak to us in so many ways. Sometimes it is the beauty of color, line, and texture. Sometimes it is the awesome power of wind or rushing water. And sometimes the message comes through what isn't said, drought, for instance. The poems that follow all have to do with nature speaking to the soul. Summer Sunday was written in the midst of the drought of 1988 (makes me feel  a tad old to think how long ago that was now), and Rain was written during the storm that ended that drought and brought such welcome relief and much rejoicing and thanksgiving.

In Harmony

Your voice, it moans and moves and soars
In low and hallowed tones,
While I, your captive audience,
Find happiness in hearing,
Drowning in a harmony
Of song, and sound, and thought.

Crashing on the shore,
Gentle---falling leaves,
The trickle of the rain...
Your voice, my soul,
The music.


Summer Sunday

It was a summer Sunday,
Hot and dry as too many before had been.

The choir sang.
Announcements were made.
We turned to the Word.
With each reference came
The turning of pages---
Rustling...Ruffling...Tapping...
Tapping...Rustling...Ruffling...
The gentle shower
Of whispered impression
"I have food of which you do not know."
"Ask Me for living water."
And then we prayed.



Rain

A maze of tiny trenches carved by sunbeam heat
Fill and fall and flatten.
Roots rise to meet their sustenance.
Roses droop as tiny weights collect.
Rain.
So quiet falling my ears ache.
Suddenly the sound BREAKS and CRACKS,
Startling, gratifying,
And then resumes the quiet,
Drenching the land drop by drop,
Low, constant, cool, soothing mercy.

Mixing It Up With Some Oldies

I hope your New Year is going well. I am jump-starting mine today by looking back at some of my older poems---ones I really like. I think it is wonderful the way looking back on good moments can fill us with energy and sometimes inspire new projects.

He Helps Me

Kneeling now before You
Surrounded yet by color, with closed eyes,
I offer up to You---by spoken word, by silent thought
What small portion You have given to be mine.
Conscious now of You---and then the color 'round,
Some memory, some shame,
Then again to You with speed and gravity and hope---
You will surely meet me with Your wholeness
And with Your Word, forgiving,
Present my portion full.


Watch the Comet

Watch the Comet
Burning through the dark, it seems,
Passing by her friends, the stars,
As seen by man, Romantic.
Still she is an icey one,
Covering her core with a coat of light
She borrows from the sun.

Watch the woman
Moving only for the day light,
Too cool and too composed for nites,
Un seen by man, Romantic.
Still she is a burning fire
Covering her core with a cloak of modesty
Which was a gift to her.


Passages

Blue porc'lain and tea,
Author's bridge of blackened leaves;
Far away at home.
Magic silk screen images,
Never real, nor ever fade.

Merry Christmas

At the church's 2010 Christmas Eve service, I shared the following poem as a reflection on Jesus' birth. Writing and sharing it was a sweet experience that I will always treasure. I hope you may be blessed by it too.

Mary Pondering

Jesus, Jesus,
My baby, soft and warm,
Dear Joseph sees my eyes in Him,
I see my mama's brows,
My papa's nose and chin,
My brother's long and sturdy fingers
In His small and dimpled hands.
I wonder, Father God,
How will I see You in Him?

How will this baby born to me
Become a king?
How will He reign forever,
What can that mean?
The Angel said He is your Son,
The Holy One;
Surely He will be good in every way,
How then will He bring me sadness,
A sword to "pierce my soul"
As Simeon said?
How can a lowly maid like me
Rear God's Son, so great a king?
Oh, please, don't take Him away from me.
How shall I sleep; how shall I rest?
I love my Son,
Your Son,
My Lord,
This little one,
My baby, soft and warm.

How will a Jewish king
Mean joy and peace, good will to all?
That's what the shepherds say the angels sang.
They said a host of angels sang.
They visited my little one the very night He came.
They knew just where we'd be,
They found us easily.
In the stable
There was room for them
And no one to bar their coming in.
They spread wide the word,
My little Jesus is the Christ, a king.
Now many people come to see.
They come and go.
We welcome them;
He is their king,
My baby, soft and warm.

Some wise men came,
These wealthy men, richly robed,
From far away,
To our humble house today.
They said a star had led their way.
They offered gifts of splendor,
Their like I'd never seen,
Surely gifts chosen for a king.
They worshiped Him
On bended knees,
My little one,
My Jesus,
My Lord,
Your Son.

Father God, we worship only You,
And here you brought these foreigners of means
To worship at our little Jesus' feet.

Lowly shepherds, wealthy foreigners,
All men worshiping a Savior King,
All full of joy and peace, good will You send.

Jesus, Jesus,
My baby, soft and warm,
Joseph sees my eyes in Yours,
I see my Papa's nose and chin,
I see, I see Your Father, God,
I see You have His...identity.
They worship Him,
They worship You,
You are His only Son,
His little Holy One.

Father God,
We will trust,
We will sleep,
We will rest,
We will keep
In You.

Oh, thank You, Father God.

Years ago, my mother gave each of her three daughters an ornament of Mary and Jesus. We have enjoyed them. I like to put ornaments on the tree that keep the true meaning of Christmas ever before us.

All About Jesus...

Once, a good friend of mine asked if I felt God spoke to me. I said, "Yes," which was true. Then he asked, "How do you know it is God talking to you and not your own thoughts?" Sadly, I had not at the time considered this question and I had no clear answer. I am glad he asked, however, because I have been thinking about it often since, with mind and ears open to answers from within my own experiences and those of other people.


I think most of the time God speaks to us through the Bible and the quiet, internal whispers of the His Holy Spirit. Because we hear His voice from within, we can sometimes be confused if it is our own thinking or His message to us. Sometimes we need to compare those new thoughts to the whole message of the Bible and look for agreement with the fruits of the Spirit (love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.) Very often His thoughts are so surprising, so very good, so new, so persistent, and/or so opposite of our own will or natural tendency in a matter, that we really feel little doubt He is nudging us in a new direction. Sometimes He speaks to us through other people and /or circumstances. Sometimes,  more rarely, He speaks in surprising ways like visions or otherwise inexplicable experiences.

Ultimately, hearing the voice of God is something one has to experience to grasp fully. Thankfully, Jesus offers everyone that opportunity. He loves everyone.  He promises to be found by us, if we seek Him earnestly, and the best place to begin looking for Him is in the Holy Bible. If you haven't met Jesus yet, you can. Ask Him simply in prayer to show Himself to you as you read His word. The book of John in the New Testament is a good starting place. Pray and read a little every day (30 minutes is a good goal) and before long He will meet you there, I'm sure. I dare say He is waiting for you.

That is my very long introduction to the following poems about my best friend, Jesus.




Easter

Underneath the marshmallow chicks,
And colored eggs, and jelly beans,
Nestled down in the green grass
Is a small jewel box,
Bearing a silver chain and pendant,
A tiny cross within a heart,
The best gift of the day.

Thirty years later,
Underneath the schedules, and lists, and jobs,
And needs, and wants
Is a real cross
Within a beating heart,
The best of hope,
The Truth, the Life, the Way.



As A Child At Play

As a child at play
I used to say,
"I throw the ball up to God
And He throws it back down to me.
I throw the ball up to God
And He throws it back down to me."
I didn't know it then,
We were playing a game He made up
Called gravity.



Visitors for Jesus

They were Kings of the East
Who, in spite of wealth and power,
Perceived they were not
The Beginning and the End.

So they became wise men
Searching the scriptures for One
Who could be all they were not.
They found Him promised
And His time declared by Isaiah,
Themselves described in Psalms,
And in Numbers, their sign to watch for,
A brilliant new star.

So they became astrologers
Searching the skies
For a bright new herald,
The sign.
Diligent, they did not miss
His awesome and heavenly light.

Then they became travelers
Packing camels with provisions
To last the long journey,
Food and fine clothing for servants and kings,
Tents and utensils
And other necessary things,
And valuable gifts carefully chosen
For the new Servant King.

Leaving Tarshish and Sheba and Seba
They came
Resting by day,
Traveling by night,
Driven by faith,
Led by the star.


When the light halted over the place,
They came close,
Inside,
And fell to their knees,
Mere men
Worshiping.

Then solemnly, joyfully
They brought out their gifts
To honor the babe,
Bright gold for the King,
Sweet frankincense for the God,
And pungent, precious myrrh for the Savior.


They were kings
Who waited and watched
And journeyed long
To find Him
And make Him their King.

And now,
Because He loved us so,
We no longer have to go
Or travel far
To find Him.
But only search
And He is there
Everywhere
Within.

Some  little drawings I made one Christmas while staying at my parents house. My Mom always makes everything warm and cozy there.