To have a father for a friend is like a dual heartfelt dance,
ushering you into your world, affecting all your circumstance.
From him comes notes of movement, learned watching his
heart beat. In you he finds the crescendo, culminating in the
life he seeks. By your birth he gave you promise. With his
name you became his own. In his arms he held your hopes
high, glad refrain of pride he’s known. The song of the father
gives the melody and provides the notes their place, while the
harmony belongs to that gentle friend who gives you needed
time and space. The song of your father will linger till the end,
for your heart will hum the tune of a father who is a friend.
For Dennis and Fredrick
Written to the tune of “My Home’s in Montana”
Written for Dennis Babcock – Producer of Triple Espresso
My heart’s with espresso.
I go and then – “presto”,
my jaws hurt from smiling
at this caffeine play.
While out in the box seats
my laugh does not retreat.
With Triple Expresso
we laugh all the way.
Easter eggs, the hunt we’re on, to find what is concealed.
Searching under, over what has been duly sealed.
Expectancy peaks high that morn, awake in time – kid power.
All hiding places in the home become enjoyment’s hour.
Hidden in another place, a shell broken in two.
The outward form in life of Christ brought all the riches through.
On Easter morn, in searcher’s mood, jubilant our room.
Not earth’s own gifts can match its wealth; God’s gift hid in a tomb.
Face to face came I upon this scene through someone new.
A certain man who lived his life, abiding by his rules.
On journey’s path he fell therein, and hard to him it seemed.
Came down with virus, deadly type. You know what this here means.
I saw him crawl in pain to move, when weakness there remained.
The death warrant, its darkened truth, was inscribed with his name.
By chance I saw the news one night, several weeks had passed.
They said he died – and I cried and cried – the pain he felt, I guessed.
While he was here, I tried to show support, to give him aid.
Though our beliefs weren’t eye-to-eye, my heart for him won’t fade.
When someone’s peering at the shore, and dying in your midst,
Extend your heart and hand to them, so grace will not be missed.
Though your sister spoke no words to you in her final earthly days,
you spoke volumes from your heart in a million different ways.
A message can be conveyed beyond mortal, human sounds,
for love will always find a way where its words are thereby found.
Behind your eyes of pain were pictures of a precious past,
but in Christ that sweet sisterhood eternally will last.
Any negatives are gone, for they’re exposed to flames of light.
There darkness is immersed into God’s own glorious sight.
Your ears heard her sullen cries, yet could not dry the tears,
yet your hands placed her in God’s great care, replacing painful years.
Though words were absent from her lips, with silence from her speech,
you had an avenue of faith, with love not out of reach.
Your lips caressed her face when you softly kissed her brow.
Then God took her in His arms. She’s speaking to Him now.
In a service, saying goodbye to the mother she adores, she found her gaze turned upward, through the skylight to heaven’s door.
One lone cloud passed o’er her sight line when “In The Garden” was the song.
It seemed an apt description where her mother now belongs.
The cloud and shadow of that death disappeared with the sun, summoning
joy inside her soul of the victory Christ had won.
Her mother passed beyond this world to God’s garden paradise,
and Debbie was able to see this cloud pass beyond her tearful eyes.
Written for Debbie, Maida’s daughter
In thinking of your father and the craft he loved so well,
Reminds me of another death – the Old Story to tell.
Our Lord Himself, fastened to death by tools of His own trade,
The wood and nails – instruments by which His death’s song was played.
The wood, stained with the Savior’s blood – a platform for our souls,
Became the anchor of the building which would make us whole.
In love He toiled through sweat and pain to give His life that we,
So cold and destitute in sin, would resurrected be.
Your father, too, worked hard through life to build a family.
He died while working, and we know he did so valiantly.
So now in grief recall the common occupation road.
These men of hammer, saw, and blade upon the streets of gold.
Of all the times I’ve heard you frame his name with one sweet word,
I thought of how you cherished him each time this word was heard.
“Daddy!”, you’d call him with respect, in poignant, tender care,
and how he’d answer in response, so thankful you were there.
“Daddy” is found within the script of God’s inspired text.
It does reveal how we are loved and what is happening next.
This “Abba Father” phrase I cite shows God’s paternal flair.
When Wally slipped into God’s arms, he met his Daddy there.
Each dot reveals aspects of the precious one now gone.
Specific points, a map of memory’s face here sadly drawn.
Descriptive words – a hobby shared; distinctly they show
A picture forming carefully of father you have known.
Line by line, connect the dots. You’ll be amazed to find these
lines complete a precious face of him; one-of-a-kind.
When you connect the dots you’ll find a picture memory traced,
and suddenly your heart will enter its own recall race.
You’ll cross the line and see a greater glimpse of loved one’s depth.
But oh how lonely you will feel, when you see he’s not with.
Take steps to look inside yourself – this pane of window sill.
Tucked inside, that part of you will keep you warm until . . .
Someday you’ll see eternal view – a panoramic sight.
Encircled in an emerald glow, you’ll see he is all right.
For Pastor Dale Christiansen
Living Springs Wesleyan
The prophet eyes the truth of God.
The server is God’s hands.
God’s mind is displayed through the teacher’s mode.
An exhorter’s soul understands.
The giver arms those who are in need.
The administrator fingers the deeds.
Mercy sounds God’s heart beat loud.
This is the way God leads.
