New-born Soul

This Christmas season I have felt like I am welcoming a New Born into my home again. It is the cherished gift of woman, to bear her own children. I realize the blessing is has been for me that over the past decade and more, this has been the crowning joy of my life, welcoming new born babies, one by one, into my life, my family, my home. There is just nothing else like it.


While that season of my life has ended and Jess and I have ushered in a new season of raising growing children, I have cherished the feelings which have returned this Christmas while singing songs about the tiny little Newborn Baby Jesus. I have thought about his earthly parents and the opportunity and challenge that was theirs of teaching and rearing Him in the flesh. 


Welcoming the Baby Jesus into my heart is akin to welcoming His atonement and testimony into my life. It is a gift, a welcoming, an openness, a joy, peace and blessing. At this season, as we celebrate and honor Him at the time of His mortal birth, we can celebrate also our own re-birth because of Him.

New Born Soul

As I hold

my new-born

smallest, sweetest

baby

Deepest joy

amazement

awe

cords of love

Gift from God

miracle

tenderness

beholding

Think on Thee

New-Born King

came the same

to Mary

May I ever hold

my new-born

soul

made new

Because of Thee

A Year of Grief

(about 2004-- written about a year after the death of my brother-in-law, Kip. In his memory...)

Shocked
Something's wrong
I ask what? Why?
The answer quick
and soft.
A trial of faith
Many lessons to learn
Blessings to come
In answer to prayers
"Everything will be okay,"
the Comforter comes.

Helpless
Brothers in tears
No heartbeat,
no breath.
I lied to his mother
unknowingly.

Gratitude
If it comes to death
They were prepared.
His family will be fine.
A miracle and
a blessing.

Denial
It won't come to death
a quiet car ride
The helicopter took him.
Remember
The Spirit said
everything will be okay?

Numb
a lifeless body
on a table
Looking like him
But he is not there
Everyone is crying
I can't cry
Just keep me busy.

Angry
I feel nothing
He can't be gone.
What about her
and their children?

Sorrow;
things I would have said
things I never said
a relationship
I cared about,
was working on.

Faith
Alone in my room
I finally tell him
and God
my regrets, feelings.
I ask why?
I feel a part
of his heart,
his love
rest upon me.
There is work to do.
Somehow I understand.

Empathy
I take that part
of his heart
I try to be there,
listen, understand.
Pray to know
how to help,
when to be there.

Blessed
I worry about giving birth.
I hear his voice
in my mind. Srtange;
telling me
it will go well.
This spirit will come,
not to worry.

Inadequate
She is lonely
I cannot replace him
I cannot take the pain
I don't want to hurt,
don't know what
to do or say.

Hope
I can listen
Be there
She is strong
and has the Lord.
I cannot,
but He can
because He loves us
He suffered,
descended below.
He lives.
The promises are sure.

Reconciled
I miss him.
I will always
feel the ache
in this life.
I will cry silently
in my sleep sometimes
or sob uncontrollably
in public.
The way I see things
will never be the same.
I will not turn away
from pictures, memories,
situations
that will make
all these emotions
come flooding back.
This is pain
and part of life.
And it is mine.

Now
I lift my prayers
to heaven
to know of Christ
and His gospel,
the love unbelievable
and real.

Peace.

My Sacred Grove

(2009)

I do not have a sacred grove,
there's children all around,
so when I kneel they pull my shirt
to get me to look down.

So young they do not understand
my heart has many needs;
to know just how to care for them,
these tiny little seeds.

To face my trials, real and rough,
to feel my Savior's love,
so I will know we'll be alright,
that there is help above.

We all go 'round here barefoot,
the chaos seems to reign
as tiny mouths just must be fed
and problems solved 'til I am drained.

To Moses said the Lord: "remove your shoes...
you stand on sacred ground."
That's why I go 'round barefoot--
there's children all around.

My home's my only sacred grove
for I cannot retreat
and leave these small ones to themselves,
their curiosity and bare feet.

So from my heart I pray, I cry
will God please understand?
I need him more now than ever--
will He please take  my hand?

And sanctify this time to me;
this season I must give
to little ones and little else,
these days are mine to live.

This is my work, my one great work,
this family I love,
so for now this home, this time
becomes my sacred grove.

This home is not a quiet place
except at quiet  hour,
and that's if things work out just right,
if attitudes aren't sour.

No sweet birds sing, or if they do,
they're difficult to hear
for arguments and whining tones
are ringing in my ear,

and if I try to be alone,
even on the pot,
the doorknob turns, and little eyes
tell me that I'm not!

Just let me know, my loving Lord,
my efforts are enough.
For what I actually accomplish
feels like little stuff.

I'm never all I'd like to be,
I barely can survive.
And most days I'd be glad
to get off work at five.

So let me know that if by chance
I ever get to be
alone with Thee on bended knee
you'll still be near to me.

Though I have failed in every way
to show to Thee my love,
because of what I do each day,
I've found this sacred grove.

I need a sacred grove.
Make my life . . .
a sacred grove.

Precious Mother, Blessed Name

(about 2004)

When upon returning home
I open the door; a presence felt
perhaps the smells of home it is
telling someone waits inside
welcoming a weary heart
bruised and torn by outside world.

I dare not imagine returning home
and opening door to empty rooms,
to faceless walls, a musty smell;
knowing I am all alone,
the wound torn deeper, worse because
here no refuge from cruel world.

If mother with her job to work,
planes to catch, degrees to earn,
left our home to find herself
to stop from being home all day
feeling useless; did she know
her sacrifice made house a home?

Quiet moments, calm repose,
maid-like duties, household chores.
Dinner's on, babe's asleep
a haven for the souls she keeps.
Arriving home, her family feels
a sense of comfort, stability.

A part of mothers own domain:
home can be a comforting word.
She lost herself; a gift to give,
belonging, to her family.
It's her presence awaits us there,
precious mother, blessed name.

Happy Home

(about 1990)

It is but a little prayer
a spark of hope for you to share.

It is but a precious glow,
many words of  long ago.

It is but a place to live,
love to share and things to give.

It is but a sacred thing,
happy smiles and joy to bring.

It is but a thing to love
so we can dwell up above.

It is but many clues
helping me my whole life through.

It is but a candle burning
awaiting my long returning.

It is but joy and strife;
nothing other than my life.

I will give it all it's worth,
the truest truth on all the earth,

a comforting to know it's right
when I pray to Heavenly Father tonight.

I will live with Him once more,
a happy home opened the door.

Secrets

(about 1990)

A wee little babe crying softly in the morn
on this day very close to the day that you were born

Your eyes filled with tears of happiness and love,
your sweet spirit barely sent from our heavens above.

Do you know? Can you feel-- you were just there?
You could tell me all about the place without a care.

You know heavens secrets, of its miracles and prayers.
You are so much like our Brother, how He loves and how He shares.

The sweetness in  your eyes may grow cold a dark and dim
if you don't care to take the time to watch and follow Him.

So now you grow into a child,
your dreams so very far and wild.

I hold you in my arms again,
a song to sing I now begin:

the words so true and strong to me,
but you're still too young to really see.

Still, deep inside those baby eyes,
a sparkle's there, yet in disguise.

I think you are remembering your past;
where you used to live 'til you ended here at last.

Life's not so bad, you soon will see.
I care for you, so hold on to me.

Now you're not a child, but a growing kid.
Behind those eyes, deep inside your head, the secrets still are hid.

And because that secret is deep inside you still,
you remember a message from above: love and joy are God's will.

So a good example you'll still set
and as you grow I won't forget

the example that you gave to me
with smiles shining long and free.

I hope the secrets of heaven above will be there wherever you go,
and they will stay in that place, your heart, forever in time as you grow.

Steps

(about 1994)

Your little child
growing up so fast
held her tiny hand one day
'round your finger
and took one step
at a time;
trying to make it--
a long distance to her
such a short distance
to you,
back to you,
her hand in yours.
Sometimes trying
to make it all
in one single bound.

The journey still goes on,
for life is much the same.
I must take it one step
at at time,
trusting that
if I keep my eye
single to You
if I should fall,
Thy loving hand
will catch and lift me.

With Thy hand to guide me,
each step I will take,
for in one single bound,
who would ever learn
to walk?

My eyes are on Thee;
I feel Thy smile
and Thy warm embrace
already.
Happy taking each step
in turn.
Learning
to walk.
Growing;
my hand in Yours.

Fire!

(about 1992)

The gray heater hummed under the table
where I sat.
The tall barstools, where I ate breakfast,
the glossy window, where I looked at the mountains.
The yellow dishwasher held its own secrets,
cycles of the past.
Washing dirt and grit off dishes;
never washing away memories,
rather, making them.

Starting on the top bunk
tucked in by gentle hands.
Alarm on a loving face,
smoke filling the hallway, the room.
A rush to get out, everyone.
We stood by the door.
Dad looked everywhere
but our big brown house
was not being consumed by flames,
only smoke.

The fire department had to come--
to be safe.
The worries of the unknown
forced us next door
to look out their window
as to not miss
the excitement of
the red fire truck.

Curious friends dared to approach it,
our big circle filling with familiar faces.
This was real.
Gossipy women busied over tomorrow's headlines,
undiscovered as of yet.
Help was automatically offered by kind women
and their concerned husbands.
But our big brown house
was not being consumed by flames,
or was it?

My sister cried.
I'm the oldest
so I didn't.
But I worried.
We even got the dogs out,
and the smoke wouldn't stop.

The firemen were searching.
Still next door
I looked out the window
dreaming about moving sooner
because the house burned down,
and we didn't have to sell it.

I could feel the tears burning.
How could I say goodbye
to our big brown house that way?
It would always have a place in my heart.

There was mom
crying?
I saw her bend over
laughing!
When I heard why
I laughed too.

The word, like a tidalwave
upset the neighbors,
only those gossipy women
brought the tide down
with their hint of disappointment
because there would be
no tomorrow's headlines.

Kind women turned and walked away
with their unconcerned husbands.
Some smiled
because a plastic spoon
burned in the
yellow dishwasher.

To Throw A Strike

(about 1992)

Listen to the common sounds of the field:
the staccato clanging of the backstop,
blurred conversations of parents,
cheers of the opposing team.
"Way to go . . . way to go . . ."

Imagine they're saying that to you.
But because you know they're really not . . .
Make certain your hands are dusty.
Listen to your father shouting-
(the sound, not the words-
the words won't help now).

Cancel out the fact that you
walked the last batter.
make sure the ball doesn't shine;
if it does, twist it into the dirt.
Look at the mound and focus on the dust.
Take the toe of your cleated shoe
and wipe lines into the dust.

Don't keep track of balls or strikes . . .
what do they matter?
Think of the tough chic up to bat
trying to out-stare your glare
and let the sun in your eyes
make you angry
so the adrenaline will surge your arm.

Don't lose the adrenaline.
Make sure you push your hair back into the cap
which must be turned slightly to the right
so that your right eye and its edge
make a direct line to the catcher's mitt.

Take your time.
Position your fingers on the threads of the ball
so you feel the leather spin off the tips of your fingers--
like a miracle.
Take the excitement of roller-coasters,
the freedom of seagulls,
and the force of the mountains overtowering.
Breathe in the sweating hot grass.
And throw . . .

Twist Cow

(about 1992)

Reminiscent are the times I remember
with some sort of excitement the mud-cloudy
chocolate-vanilla, fly-swattery cows
of Grandpa's field. The rainy day
I stared up at their sappy pink noses
and held my breath as their mammoth tongues
dropped heavily through their jaws busily
chewing their cud, and I looked up again
at the white-gray clouds painted on the sky.

Feeling the mud-puddles beneath my feet,
I realized the cows matched the day.
Their brown spots as sloshy and misformed
as the splattered mud covering the vast landscape
of the field. The white surrounding the brown spots
much like the clouds surrounding
the auburn blanket of smog from dusty chimneys.
I wished it weren't raining.

There had been bright summers of hot-grass aroma
and bare feet, when the cows stood apart from
a green field and azure skies. The only thing
that included them in hot summer days
were their tails: swiping away the buzzing flies,
like Grandma's brown fly-swatter with a white handle.
Swish, swish . . . but the rain still fell, and the only
swish, swish . . . was the sound of Grandpa's galoshes
as he walked down the path by the knotted fence
to the rickety barn . . . and the cows turned
with their guffaws and found their way also to the barn
so as to involve their brown and white
lives in some excitement
other than a small girl staring with caramel eyes
of rappelling thought, remembering again that summer
she stared at the cows for almost and hour
as her chocolate and vanilla twist cone dripped . . .
like the rain.

Dear Mother,

(about 1993)

I just want you to know:
I am grateful; not grateful enough, though
for your hard work.

I hate all the times I disagree with you
or let something you say or do
affect me so much.

But it's so true
that mom is the heart of the home.
I want to be like you,

because you married the right guy,
taught your kids what to do
and what not to do.

You let us, your children
depend upon you, and when we needed more,
depend upon Another.

You let me develop my own character;
we see some things differently,
but we see God the same

and I chose you
to be my mom, because
no other mom would let me be me.

Thank you
for believing in my dreams
If it weren't for you, none would come true

And for letting me go
when other loves-
friends and hobbies, take me away.

Yet also for holding me close
when it's so hard
to grow up and let go

knowing
that sooner than the short time
you've raised me,

my "knight in shining armor"
will come.
And it will be the time

to grow in his care
and leave yours.
But mom,

My love for you
won't change
It will grow

even more.
And you and I,
we'll share (more than most do)

our whole lives
and after that
with everyone we love.

Today
I saw two pictures
by each other.

Both me;
one a baby,
one a woman.

She'll always be
your baby.
I love you, mom.

Some Things Haven't Changed

(about 1992)

Even though you had a beard
and had a mustache above your smile
and your hair was brown with no gray
and you held me, Daddy;

Even though your hair was long, Mommy,
your face so smooth,
your child so small . . .
Some things haven't changed . . .

I notice your eyes
and my eyes.
The red and green of our Christmas clothes,
And the love we gathered to one.

I was small enough to curl in your arms
and point my curious finger
at the angel behind the camera.
I hold the thin paper closer.

My hair falls upon our faces;
I see how my baby hair has darkened
and grown into curly strands.
Yet some things haven't changed.

I see how close we were
and how you held me up.
I smile to see in all reality
some things haven't changed.

Then I wonder who the angel is
who took the picture that bright December
in order for me to see now
this memory . . .

A manifestation of the feelings:
love, care and laughter
that encompass us,
and I thank that angel;

I thank that angel
for taking the picture
and thank God above
that some things haven't changed.

Sisters

(about 2000)

Just think of all the things you and I
have shared along the years.
Songs and lullabies, picture-books
lightening our fears.
Father and mother, sister and brother,
Dreams, reaching for eternity.
Teachers and friends, neighbors and playgrounds
Castles made out of the sand.
Telephone calls and heater vents,
snowballs and playtime games.
Even a few loves in life.
These are the things we've shared.

Today I feel this longing
like a homesick heartache breeze
drying summer grass to green
and caressing barren trees.
How I long for your smiles
to match my own.
For your children to play with mine,
their tears for us to dry.
For your trials to pass like a sigh
so those precious gifts
we too can share
and remember them through time.

Salty Peanuts 12/12/92

(about 1992)

He passed on a few years back,

but left me vivid long-ago memories

of rainy-day Washington.

All those times

when he was still alive.

I remember clear as yesterday his chair-

comfortable to all who chose it, even though

it was old, and green, and textured

with Grandpa's own shape in its depths.

By his chair, a varnished wooden stand

ceaselessly held a can of salty peanuts on its top

and was across the 4-cornered room from the T.V.

which told of current events,

issues that mean nothing now-

just a bunch or more words

to be added to all the "I remembers"

of get-togethers and holidays in Everett.

Those "I remembers" shared between me and the cousins

hold what I remember most about

Grandpa's chair

and his peanuts... The 'peanut games.'

Maybe it is me, or Jessen, if it is his turn

to complete the dangerous quest.

The coast is clear (Grandpa's back toward us )

as our curious eyes peek around the corner

from the kitchen,

almost reaching for the salty treat.

As if on cue, both feet race each other

to the destination

met already by our eyes.

Greasy kid-fingers reach into the round can

and dig and cling to peanuts

while the hinges of Grandpa's rotating chair

bring him to face our direction again.

He pretends to be angry and doesn't smile, and we think

maybe he is angry, except for the sparkle in his eyes.

Kid-fingers place sweaty peanuts in his big hand

and my mouth opens as he drops them onto my tongue

with the sparkle still in his eyes just as it was earlier

when he let me steer the green tractor

and I ran over a cow pie.

The Leader

(about 2008)

The Drummer beats

a steady beat

beat, beat, beat...

A straight beat,

a narrow beat.

Mom and kids march

to the beat.

Knees high,

elbows in-

good effort, but

the beat is very small.

The beat is very still.

Children make noise;

baby cries, dishes crash.

The beat fades,

disappears.

Something is missing.

Oh! The beat.

Mom gets very still.

The beat is there,

ever there.

she takes the children

hands in hands.

Mom and kids march.

But the beat

fades again;

disappears.

Something is missing.

A leader!

The leader has

a special power

given by the Drummer

Himself

to hear the beat.

To hear it

clearly, loudly.

"We need a leader!"

one child says.

"Yes." says mom.

"Where is he?"

another asks.

"Marching to a

different drummer?"

yet another asks.

"No. No," says mom.

"He got tired

and had to rest,"

yet another says.

"No, not so,"

says mom.

How can she

explain?

She knows where

the leader is.

He kneels

to serve food

and drink

on a silver platter.

His warm arms

reach around

a warm blanket

against the cold.

He smiles;

the world turns

to sunshine.

To the kids

he offers gifts

of fresh air,

adventures,

laughter and fun.

The world is such

a beautiful place!

Still...

something is missing.

Oh! The beat.

Never changing.

The beginning.

The end.

Mom and kids

march to the beat.

but they can't hear

and year by year

they get off beat.

They cannot hear

the loud and clear

Beat

that's in

their leader's ear.

"We need a leader!"

cry the children

in their eyes.

With their hands,

with their hearts.

"Yes." says mom.

"Yes."

Mom takes his hand

and His hand too.

"Your leader is here."