Archives: Poems

Danny’s Golden Voice

A voice that graced the airwaves has
found its golden tone. He’s in the
chorus of the King and sings around
the throne.

No difficulty, pain, or stress can strain
the chords while there, but freedom
notes its brand new song, which none
can quite compare.

Where once he read the pages of the
victory at the tomb, he’s now inside
the halls of faith in Hebrews cheering

The voice is silent nevermore; the song
will n’er grow old. How grand that
Danny’s voice and heart are heard
on streets of gold.

The Sheperd in the Valley

As a minister I have shepherded people through the dreaded valley of death, and have wandered through its chasms myself. A few years ago those paths converged when was summoned to minister to an unchurched, terminally
ill man who asked me to do his upcoming funeral.

My heart was torn in two at this request. On the one hand, I wanted to faithfully discharge my spiritual service and provide him with hope and eternal confidence. On the other hand, I was not an outsider in this particular man’s life – I was his daughter, so I had to separate service from sorrow as began to walk the valley’s rugged edge.

To do this, I decided to deal with the spiritual aspect first because he had a brain tumor which was pressing on his short-term memory, and would eventually cause substantial confusion. I did not want him to think of me as the angel of death, so it seemed reasonable to deal with his faith-related ques- tions while he still had moments of clarity.

It was during this time frame that I found myself pounding on my hallway wall, telling God I needed to hear my father say, “Lord Jesus, come into my heart.” I remember being very direct and specific. In fact, I probably told God, rather than asked Him. Anyway, as I said those words, the Master
Soul Winner Himself stopped me and said: “No – you do not need to hear his words. You need to hear MY words. He doesn’t even know what I am doing in him.”

Those words have helped me ever since. In that narrow hallway, God
opened up a wide margin of His grace and reminded me that He, and only
He, the Shepherd, could open up the portals of eternal life for my father. I
had to let go and place him in God’s hands. That freed me to give and
receive support, and to embrace my father as a daughter.

The Seed of Growth

As we gather at this spot where we met almost 17 years ago to plant this tree for mom
and dad, let us be mindful of the changes to this tree since that time.

Remember, a seed goes in the ground, but in this case, we did nothing to foster its growth: we did not come by to water or prune it, nor did we assess its growth through these intermediary years.

All we knew is that it was planted as a tribute to mom and dad. It grew because of others.

This is similar to the seed of death, as it occurs in one’s life. We think we are stagnant by the loss — and we are for a time. That death seed plops itself into the soil of our life and interrupts everything present. It doesn’t ask prior to its planting. We have no choice but to receive it.

Then something interesting happens over the years. God initiates life through death, much as the ultimate Life-Giver, which came through the death of Christ Himself.

We don’t think we have anything to offer, but God sees to it that people, music, events occur to water our life and God sends the true Son into our life to bring the only true hope.

Just like we have done nothing to make this tree grow, so we’ve been unaware, more than likely, of the growth that has come to us because of the seed of death. It’s not been easy, of course, but let this be a reminder that God’s circle is always complete. He shows it in nature and reveals it through His Son.

Well…A Tribute to the Wit and Wisdom of President Ronald Reagan

The quips and statements made by him – this president of style, like
he’d not exploit Fritz Mondale’s youth. He said that with a smile.

He laughed, recalling his acquaintance with a man in stone.
He said he knew Tom Jefferson, but he must have been alone.

And when that bullet pierced his flesh, in agony he quipped:
“I should have ducked”, as he reflected on the shirt it ripped.

Definitions of recession and depression were given by this charmer.
He added that recovery would come when we got rid of the peanut farmer.

He prefaced all these comments with a word not hard to tell.
This word summoned all ears to hear. His remarks started with “well”.

A well is that which does contain pooled water in the deep.
Not shallow, it is a resource of life’s water to keep.

Mr. Reagan drew from life itself, God’s truth he’d plainly tell.
We knew good things were coming when we heard him start with “well”.

Give a Hand to Lamb Chop

Who would think, by hand and glove, a concept here as ought.
A little lamb of gentle touch – that glove lives in our thought.

Precious way to speak to kids. It teaches lessons fun.
An entertaining form at which escape routes are not run.

Alone without the hand in glove, lays limp – no child to reach.
No movement there or voice to share. Life’s message has no speech.

Likewise, words without person’s tender love surely fall flat.
Include your life in words today. What will kids think of that?

Eighteen Hours I Couldn’t Undo

Death has a way of waking you out of a slumber. It jolts you out of a
nestled feeling, of that cozy place where your head is formed to the pillow
beneath. You go to sleep with a safe, comfortable warmth, thinking all is
well, but when you awake you realize the nightmare just began, At least
that has been my experience.

In May I found out that while I had concluded a routine day of work, my
friend and co-worker’s life had been brutally ended some 18 hours earlier in
a domestic murder. Those 18 hours haunt me. They make me feel help-
less, as if in a black hole where I cannot take back the emptiness. Her death
came and went without my knowledge, and I could not undo the events,
nor turn back the clock and prevent it.

One thing in particular brings a conflict to my soul. Knowing that as the
daybreak was upon her my friend’s world became night, and as I was sleep-
ing comfortably in my bed, her bed was the cold floor of her garage.

It was God who stayed up nights with me as I struggled with that reality.
Over and over my mind retraced those 18 hours, and specifically the fact
that no neighbors responded to her cries for help; she died alone knowing no
one would come to her aid. I mourned her last moments, and my mind
raced along in a movement going nowhere.

Then slowly my mind drifted to the God who never sleeps. I became more
acutely aware of His presence and help. He, I knew, had heard her cries and
attended to her soul. He, too, knew personal betrayal and indifference
when His own life was ending.

I cannot undo this loss, but I can and do cherish the fact that God is the
answer to calls uttered in the night. Nor do I know why some people are
saved and others aren’t, but I have read too many accounts of people who
were upheld by God in near-death experiences not to believe that He isn’t
with us in our last moments. And that knowledge helps me cope.

God who never sleeps, please draw us into Your loving arms and hold us

The Bars of Freedom

The bars of freedom sing a song
Unhindered by the steel.
Here moveable by heart and voice,
They work the potter’s wheel.

Proclaiming liberty to souls,
Locked in by nature’s sin.
They’re waiting for the bars to break
And freedom to begin.

A chorus jubilant in sound –
O’er shadows all the gloom.
There are no bars of iron
When Christ is in the room.

Walking With Maida

Our lovely Maida made a path of prayer through the years.
Walking, talking as she shared of Jesus through the tears.

She laid a path and left her life prints on the soil of earth.
Eternity cannot record the value she is worth.

So, when you find yourself in prayer as you daily go,
remember Maida left her mark to reach souls here below.

Her walk of prayer dropped seeds of faith along the road each day,
where blooms of life will spring forth because Maida came this way,

Politically Subject

In this world of politically correct
There comes a phrase: politically suspect.
Our words, a weapon used against our life,
Even if our intent was not for strife.
Squeezed into a vacuum of neatly worded verbage.
Which spews out its remains-it then resembles garbage.
To be afraid of which words we can say,
Is not the way the framers said that day.
The right to speak, no matter what the cost,
Infringed upon, in this world at great loss.
Our country built on freedom through our speech,
Renew this purpose, for which we nobly reach.

The Under Shepherd

The Under Shepherd serves the sheep — the heart of God’s own soul.
The Under Shepherd sees one part. The Great Shepherd sees the whole.

The Under Shepherd’s stationed near the beating heart of God
and travels the sheep’s own terrain upon this earthen sod.

To aid the aimless, wandering herd and help them see God’s face,
the Under Shepherd scoops them up in God’s amazing grace.

The Under Shepherd takes his orders from the Master’s call
and finds a place reserved for him, when at God’s feet he falls.

The Under Shepherd tends the lambs, surveying them in love,
and yields them to the Great Shepherd, who’s watching from above.