That lone Thursday, meal is served; inhaled in such short space.
No time for long soliloquies – vultures of a food race.
Thanksgiving Day, in origin, came after much great harm.
The year before, a winter blast, now safe and free and warm.
Purpose set for this feast day was gratefulness of heart.
When sitting down and dining here, find now this place to start.
Ponder long the year behind; its hardness or its ease.
Either way, you are alive, living as you please.
After the meal has come and gone, with table’s mess, recall:
Thanksgiving is not what we eat; it’s that we have life at all.
A mother’s own sister is special, for sure.
Take Ollie – it’s true here of her.
These years long apart,
She’s still in our heart.
In thinking of her, our spirits stir.
Connected we are by sisters of two.
How close they were and we are too.
When I think of my Lynn,
I can’t wait to begin
The discourse of love I now do.
These two years have been hard I do know.
But I’ve seen you still blossom and grow.
Though it’s not been real loud,
You’d have made your ma proud.
Through the hard times the softness came through.
A year now passing through the night, expectancy foretold.
Of future pages written while the past book we did fold.
Each year we’re given a brand new start, to live what last we learned.
It is our time to choose which leaf we each will surely turn.
Embrace new chapter, it’s a gift; a second chance, in verse.
Let God, The Author, fill it in; He gave it to you first.
Words of comfort, where do I look?
Everything safe to me, death quickly took.
Words of comfort, where can I go?
I’m feeling the pull of downward below.
Words of comfort, what do I mean?
Anything said to keep my soul serene.
Words of comfort, here comes the tide;
Rushing of waves on this tidal ride.
Words of comfort, hearing I’ll cling
to words of love in heart’s welcoming wing.
No matter what, don’t lie to kids
about impending death.
The lie will grow and ultimately,
span over lifetime’s breadth.
Will learn a life of no resolve,
acceptance comes as foe.
Because in sorrow truth was hid,
lies had a place to go.
It penetrated virgin hearts –
the kids kept hurt inside.
Though hard it seems, tell truth instead.
True comfort it provides.
Grand expectations line the harvest,
Opened wide, we eye the grain.
Nestled in the petals covering
nature’s glories buds refrain.
Row by row they stand in union,
as their song begins to rise.
A transforming of soils platform
which now grows unto the skies.
All the bulbs project their voices,
and the dew wipes dirt away.
Comes the knowledge of fulfillment
in the hope of a brand new day.
How could one not be angry with the process as it goes?
How could one not question things when they were going slow?
How could one not wonder, when excluded from all facts;
There’s no one here to say to you: “Your character sure lacks.”
Will we not, instead, be glad – you’re safe from harm’s way?
And not embellished greater debt, than what you could now pay.
Shall we not, though road quickly turned, continue on your side?
We all just want the best for you. We know how you have tried.
Do not give up on future course – walk on through heart of grace.
No matter where the road may turn, you’ll see God’s loving face.
I’m free in Jesus Christ, I’m free, I’m free.
For whom the Son sets free is free indeed.
I’m free from this sinful world where Satan had ahold of me.
I’m free in Jesus Christ. I have the victory.
Once I was bound by sin, it was my king.
Christ’s blood has set me free, now I can sing.
I’ll sing the song of joy and peace,
I’ll sing the song of sweet release.
I’m free in Jesus Christ. I have the victory.
If you do not know Jesus Christ my Lord,
As your own Savior, you cannot afford,
To delay receiving Him today.
He’ll wash all your sins away.
And you’ll be free in Christ. You’ll have the victory.
If Jesus Christ had made His cross, its workmanship would be
a finished product – stained and smooth. A carpenter was He.
If Jesus would have sanded down the wood and grain so fine,
He would have been more comfortable as He departed time.
But love demanded He endure the work of mortal hands,
whose slivers became darts thrust in this gravely wounded man.
The cross He carried, carried Him upon the mountain slope,
where His own life exchanged our death and brought Golgotha’s hope.
Though Jesus did not make His cross, yet in His hands was done
a finished work – salvation’s blend, a scarring victory won.
Because our Lord, Himself, could build a structure out of wood,
His skillful hands yielded this right, to give the best He could.
When Jesus asks us every day that our own cross we should bear,
be ready to yield God your strengths. Make it an altar there.
If we had known the sadness that lay behind your bubbly smile,
we would have stretched our hands of help across the weary miles.
If we had known that trouble waited in the wings to kill,
we would have tried to intervene, and that we’d do now still.
If we had known in such short time you would from us be gone,
we would have said, “OH FRIEND, BEWARE, SOMETHING HERE SEEMS SO WRONG.”
But we, not knowing, cannot change our part; we had no clue,
that one cruel act would leave us cold, without the joy of you.
