A Meal for the BellyIn the kitchen,
my grandmother stood, ministering to her brood as only she could. The firstfruits of her day would most often include a manifestation of our Savior’s way. In grand dedication and savory workings, she rendered a meal for provision and strength. With hands of love, tracking flour along the countertops, she mixed and shaped the day’s first biscuits. In the kitchen, my grandmother stood, rising ere the light of bright dawn could make its purpose known. Intent was she on the task at hand; to provide for them all, her perfect plan. The sausage wafting aromas of hope and home, she wakened them to greet the morn. With hands of love, tracking flour along their hearts, she served them and fed them, her famished flock. In the kitchen, my mother repeated traditions passed down, traditions needed. A meal for the belly, a gathering of strength, around a table fit for a king. Though time and circumstance has altered the way; We no longer gather at the start of the day. My vision and purpose will ever remain. What good I was taught echoes the same. When in the kitchen, I’m permitted to stand, preparing and concocting a feast for my clan, mindful am I of the hands that taught me the gift of provision, the promise of moments. Those hands of love have left their mark, not just in floured fingerprints on my mind and heart-- They have reflected THE ONE, THE ONE whose perfect love is displayed. THE ONE whose nail-scarred hands track peace and hope and love and life across the corridors of time and space and into the kitchen, most blessed place. A meal for the belly, a gathering of strength, around a table decked for a king. |
Gray Park DaysWhy do you write of the dead days in the park?
Why do you linger over barren branches and gray days that are no longer fall but are also not yet blanketed by cleansing covers of crystal snow? Why does your soul wander in this place of inertia and fog when somewhere back there in the whispers dulled by the mists are sunnier times—companions of laughter and sunshine and sweet green and vibrant bloom? Write of the spring times in the park-- or of the thick summer days when children linger past their bed times. Write of frisbees and horseshoes and Independence Days. Write of hope and promise and the smart and fancy days we live. Oh, I want to! Oh, I want my words to be gorged and dripping with refreshment . . . But they would lie today. Today is a gray park day—like so many others. Today I grope and grasp to remember what it is to laugh. I know it is there, within my soul-- that park whose trees never shed their leaves. I have been there before, and I know how to cling tight to the vision of what will be and not what is, But today is still a gray park day—like so many others. I am not alone. A still, small voice whispers to me that the gray park days are the ones where decay feeds the soil and enriches tomorrows. A still, small voice whispers to me that the gray park days are not forever. And I swallow the truth and sigh, knowing some day soon I will write a different park. He—He who is my hope would not leave me like this. He is my light and my song-- the author of spring. He would not leave me like this-- without purpose. He—He knows what it is to lie and wait for a spring morning. These gray park days echo His story and remind me of the Goodness of my God. They cause me to hunger for the giver of the Spring. Thus, I can be grateful grateful, even, for gray park days. Grateful . . .that I do not walk the pathways alone. |
My All in All Will Ever Be
When the demands of this life
come pouring down on me, and I am faced with all that I can never do and be, there comes a whisper gently strong, “Look up, look up, look up, My Child.” I see Him then upon that tree, the One who shed His blood for me. It is that life fountain washing down that claims my focus, wins my crown. His Way is certain and all-complete; He bought me then and does not leave, not in my doubt, not in my need. My All-in-All will ever be found beneath The Victory Tree. |