Little Hands

Music, Poetry

A song in the air. I wrote the words down, for now.

—

Little hands to wipe the tears away,

When the world gets too heavy to bear alone

Cause you try to carry six months in a day.

And it wasn’t yours to hold anyway.

—

Little hands to clear the dust from your eyes,

When you’re  lookin’ in the mirror

Stead of gazing at the skies.

And you cry.

—

The strength of stone, and hope and spear,

In the tiniest of faces.

The peace that causes hell to fear

In the fragilist of places.

—

Oh, don’t you know?

That little hands can hold of hand of God.

Oh, don’t you know?

That what you carry can sometimes carry you.

A wave of worried lines across your brow

Or the yoke of the Gentle Master’s plow.

So wipe the weight from the corners of your eyes,

And the chambers of your heart.

And bring the light.

Set it on your shoulders.

In the weepings of the night.

—

Oh, don’t you know?

That little hands can hold the hand of God.

Little hands can hold the hand of God.

Summer Glow

Outdoors, Poetry

God made sunsets for the desert.

Yesterday and a picnic, I thanked Him for trees, for shade.

But we made our home on the open grass with a porch for sunsets.

And the shade comes in the evening anyway In a dazzling, sumptuous display.

Recipe for Garden Lemonade:

  1. Place a few frozen strawberries in a glass.
  2. Cover with water. (let sit for 15-20 minutes)
  3. Brew a Lavender Tea concentrate: Steep 1 tsp. lavender (food grade) in ¼ cup boiling water for 5 minutes.
  4. Squeeze ¼ Meyer Lemon into the glass. (enough to make the water cloudy with lemon juice) (if using a more tart variety of lemon, may need to sweeten the drink)
  5. Fill glass with water/more ice or strawberries.
  6. Add about ¼ tsp. lavender water, or to taste.

Sunset Fruit Punch:

Strawberry Kiwi Fruit Tea + Orange Juice, mix to desired taste.

On a Tuesday

Poetry

Like a prairie schooner,
A canvas-walled house
That ripples in the breeze
While weathered wood creaks,
And we sway on the deck,
Singing softly,
Our backs to a flatland sea.

It was here the children danced–
Brother and sister and cousins.
A waltz and a frolic
With one who is their aunt, almost and true.
Our ginger boy,
One tow-headed grin,
A dark-eyed adventurer,
And the girl with soft tawny hair and thoughtful eyes.
A blink ago, they were babies held in arms.
Now they have found their feet
For walking, climbing, dancing.
Twirling happy, dizzy circles with a barefoot bride-to-be.

In four days she’ll wear a white dress and dance again,
And the little ones’ uncle will bring her home
To this house he’s built and the house he’s building,
Under the prairie sky.

We work into the evening, making shelves,
Putting things in their place,
Tired and bleary-eyed.
The phone rings.
Somewhere across the miles and borders
And a warm sea, an old man has died.

Spent his days on the land,
On the farm, raising cows for milk.
Didn’t tell a soul when he fell off that horse.
But everything was not all right,
And they soon enough knew.
Two trips to the hospital.
Prayers for the surgery,
For his head.
Last thing I knew, he was doing better,
Back at home.

Hardly knew him.
Hardly remember meeting him those fifteen years ago.
A different language and a Gulf between.
And now he’s gone.

Four days and a white dress,
While my Abuelita mourns.


Vision, and other little things

Love Like Steel, Music

The day we dug down to build up. Winding down country roads, winter sun spilling in through open windows. A feast for the crew on the back seat. I switched the radio on. My preset stations were playing opera (not in the mood) and nothing memorable. My heart was playing celebration. I went looking for something to match. An unfamiliar station played an unfamiliar song. But it knew me, all right.

One last musing from the junk drawer: Christmas Presence

Ponderings

A note from last December for future years–

Christmas is about presence

“God with us”

Emmanuel

So may I give you a story for Christmas? Or your favorite breakfast or a song. Or something else that doesn’t fit so well under a tree? An old memory or a new one. If I can’t be there, may I package one up and send one? Buying comes cheap these days, so may I give from a place where money’s unsought?

They say the wise men brought gifts, and they did, but they gave things no one else could bring. Years of study and watching and anticipation. They devoted themselves to the signs of the sky, and when the time was right, they followed a star to find their new king. The gold was a mere adornment to giving their homage, their everything.

Mary gave her body, her life, and with Joseph, reputation. Shepherd boys brought wonder for the Lamb born in Bethlehem.

There was One, though, who came to buy.

The newborn servant warrior-king. Born to purchase what no one else could with perfect obedience and His very own blood.

I can’t give you that. But I can give you a story or a song. Scrawled out with the hands He fashioned me. Sallying forth on the breath He pours into me. Every fraction of an inhale counted out to me from His wisdom. Every morning bright and yawning eve. And when He asks me how I spend my Decembers I don’t want to say “Christmas shopping”—frantically searching for just the right thing for people I don’t know as well as I should. I want to say—being there. With You. And with Yours. With the lost and the broken and the rich and the weary. With the hopeful ones, the joyful ones, the faithful ones. And sometimes we spend money, but always we spent time. And I didn’t let shopping mall fluorescence dim my little light’s shine.

It’s made me tremor a few times this year thinking about how much the marketplace gets out of Christmas; how much our rejoicing in the Lord’s birth is tied to what money can buy. Is that a contradiction? Double-mindedness? A sneaky way of serving the wrong master? Has the world bought Christmas? Or am I buying into a lackluster spirit?–A critical, gripey, miserly way of seeing. Am I listening to an ascetic, Pharisaical voice saying, “Thou shalt not buy Christmas presents.” Or am I staying out of crowded parking lots enough to hear a still small song of peace and rest?

It’s not that I think grinchily about gifts. I love giving gifts. Getting them, too. But I’m not sure going out and buying stuff for each other is the most appropriate way to celebrate Christ’s coming. “Yay, the Messiah is born! Let’s go buy stuff for each other so we can be more happy!” I’m not saying I know how we should celebrate. I’m just proposing a little less wrapping paper.

Groceries, car parts, books, light bulbs, ballpoint pens, and thrift store menagerie. I spend enough time shopping the whole year round. Heaven knows I don’t spend enough time on the deep things. Too much time ordering on Amazon, not enough time ordering my home and relationships. Too much seeking that $2, $20, $200 solution to my problem; not enough time seeking Him. Too much time cluttering, not enough time creating. I think it’s about time I abandon the shopping cart for my sewing machine, garden, notebook, and guitar. I’m aching this Christmas; I just want to give you my heart. Let me pour it into a pie or a letter. I know it’s not store bought, but could it be better?

A little less package, a little more present.

So may I give you a bonfire or some old photos I found? Maybe package up an inside joke or pass the cider round? ‘Cause when your closet’s overfull and dessert is every day, I’d rather not give you more. I’d rather give you different. Not Hallmark. Not Target. Not an autographed card XOXO with no “Hey, how are you? How did the move go? How’s the new job?”

Maybe I’m a dreamer, but I’d rather give you me.

And given first to Him.

Musings from the Junk Drawer, part two

Poetry, Ponderings

Probably wrote this while studying world history and reading Oliver Goldsmith’s “The Deserted Village.” Except this one wasn’t an assignment. 🙂

Here’s more thoughts from a schoolgirl, the “pink sticky note poem” typed.

Civilization

Each empire has its tyranny,
Each empire has its slaves.
To no avail each empire climbs–
No empire will be saved.

Mighty Rome!
Her roads and conquest
Fell at barbarian hands
And into darkness long
Was plunged, ’til kings
Should rule again.

A civilization thinks it’s new,
Yet mirrors all the past.
The things it knows
Will come and go,
Like dew upon the grass.
Though each to permanency strives,
Only the cycle lasts.

From Babylon and Egypt,
To Persia, Greece, and Rome–
All across the continents,
Empires have grown.

All thinking themselves walled in stone,
The folly herein lies:
No civilization standing now
Will heed the ancient cries–
“You will fall, just like the rest,
So wake from your blind pride.”
She doesn’t hear until duress,
And then, alas, she dies.

We see the dreadful pattern;
We cannot find its cure.
We do not heed the trap at first,
Enchanted by its lure.

And, oh, of the life pastoral,
Of the joy of simpler times!
We would have stayed in fairer climes
Had empire not appeal.

And so we feed the monster,
And gild it with our work.
But small it starts, delights us,
We’re giddy in our mirth
Until it turns and strikes us,
Slinks off to seek rebirth.

Each civilization has its glories,
But all the more its faults.
We look to the past stories,
But we cannot make it halt.

You see, my friend, because we err,
There is no paradise
Until through death we become heirs
To our eternal life.

All that on two sticky notes! I think I’d better keep them for proof. 😉

Giving Thanks: For and With (plus another musing from the junk drawer)

Love Like Steel, Ponderings

Thanksgiving is what I ought to do every day, every moment if I stop to ponder what a wondrous story I live in, what abundance I’ve been given. And by abundance I don’t mean bank accounts and too many pairs of shoes and a loving family. I mean life and all of its heartache and joy, burden and song, crumbs and crossiants. A life that bubbles over with the wine of gladness but also tastes the bitter cup of suffering. A life that keeps on giving and never runs out. Ever.

Giving and given, a feast forever.

Thanksgiving, a day of feasting, is a day for full tables, and I don’t just mean what goes on it. A once-a-week, once-a-year, once-in-a-while, “let’s come together to say ‘Thank you, LORD.'”

Because saying thank you with others is a special thing. Thankful for you, and with you, because you’ve been where I’ve been. Stood beside the grave while I was crying. I held your baby on the sofa and heard her sleepy sighing. You lent me your crockpot, served me “hope you feel better” soup from your stockpot. We danced in the rain, got mud between our toes, and found a tickle of laughter in the midst of daily woes. We traded recipes and shirts, you held my hand and prayed. I listened while you told me your hurts. We built bonfires and changed car tires. You brought me eggs from your chickens. I helped clean your kitchen. And everybody knows the kitchen is the heart of the home. Nobody goes it alone. So we all come to gather and feast. For a day. At least.

“A community is made strong by mutual sharing, helping, and easing one another’s burdens. Praying for one another. Serving one another. Working together.“

(And singing and feasting, too!)

Buried in the junk drawer was a note to self from four years ago. A challenge to my “DIY” all by myself attitude. Me, not willing to ask for help. Because I didn’t want to admit I needed it, didn’t want to be a burden, didn’t think anyone would want to lend a hand or advice or whatever I needed and they had.

I was young; maybe I thought I didn’t have anything to offer, so I shouldn’t ask. Didn’t realize that asking for help is an offering. Offering an opportunity to grow closer, to show love.

“In refusing to ask for help you deny others the opportunity to serve you. Over time, they might feel less inclined to seek your help. You’re not burdening others by asking for assistance. You are helping to keep the community alive.“

Feeding your people is also a good way to keep the gang alive. 😉 So here’s to Thanksgiving!