Song To Keep On Walking This Side Of Heaven

Your statutes have been my songs

in the house of my sojourning.” Psalm 119:54

Yes, Lord, that your word would be my song, 

That I would sing your word as I quarter in this house, 

That your word would last longer in me than even I do,

That you, your name, would receive bright glory 

As your words are sung in notes over the reaches of the earth.

That those who grieve with tears today

Would find those very tears turn to healing ointment,

Filled with You.

That doubts would be exposed as the enemy’s 

Faulty weapons, dulled and off-mark.

And may your words be my songs

In the house of my sojourning.

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Freely Rejoicing In Your List – One Woman’s Journey

Home from Walmart
Laden and bagged.
Paper work I had
Asked Andrew to take to the
Church sat forgotten on the
Kitchen table.
Same instant, snap!
I realized I had
Forgotten to buy trash bags
He had asked for.
A wry little moment as forgettable
As the paper work and trash bags
Themselves. But, I thought:
‘Wait, this is deep!
His list was not my list,
And my list
Was not his.’ Couldn’t be.
Extrapolate.
Lists are the just the
Endnotes to the soul’s
Manifesto; they are as distant as
Capillaries from the heart, as
Chores thrice removed from
The great goal.
Revealing, though.
And we each possess our very own.
What a personal God we serve!
I don’t write your list or
Calibrate your
Passion.
Humbling, that. Instead,
Freely, I can
Rejoice in
Your list.
What peace will
Break out then!

Another Great Thing About AirBnB (And Beanie Babies)

Two blonde buttercups from
Topeka stopped in last night,
Ages Two and Four,
With all of life’s accompanying
Highs and Lows. Bless it!
~
This adult home rang with
Little beings, who wanted salad
And didn’t want salad,
Who followed their hearts and scampered
Diaper-free for a little minute,
Who intuitively embraced
The magic in a bag full of
Beanie Babies – my one ace to help
Them through their 5:15 dinner hour.
The bag held frogs, rabbits,
Fish, bears, puppies, pigs, and
Species indeterminate.

Two hours later, while we dined on our
Thai curry to saxophone covers,
And Topeka Mom and Dad had
Wilted into bed, done for the day,
A little popsicle-pajamaed
Inquisitor came exploring.
Golden hair awry, carrying her pink ‘wee,’
She simply materialized, a personality,
A being intact,
And sat on my lap and discussed life.
Oh!
Memories, voices, of my three dark-haired
Loves who
Rode their own highs and lows
Within these walls.
And Oh, their babies yet to come.

Time is a trickster. All is gone so quickly,
And all is just ahead.

When the buttercups headed out
To see Grandma at the beach,
And I went back to clean the rooms,
Beanie Babies,
Each to their kind, reposed
In rows
Against the pillows.

Such thought
Went into their placement
I want to leave them –

Beanie Babies ordering their world.

 

 

Watching The Cross

Not often, but stunningly when it happens,
I see a minute of Jesus on the cross.
My grief for Him is limited because
I am not gripped as He was with
The joy set before Him.

And as for God watching His Son
Bleed and tremble and anguish,
That does get me closer to
What it cost Him.

I had a dream last night that the
Bad Guys of Dreamland (you know them)
Had come and cut off Will’s fingers.
He was kneeling
On the kitchen floor, bleeding,
Trembling. 

And somehow as I absorbed his pain
Into my heart, this weird dream knit
Me together with my Heavenly Father
As He willed and watched the cross.

And it made me love Him.