I waited. I deserved her ire.

Her presence offered shade.

Tact filled her words, as soft as firm.

She called a spade a spade.

I felt the searing blade in hone.

The needed healing start.

They have our backs who make us face

Our wretchedness of heart.

Soli Deo Gloria.

There is no shadow without sun.

No night but turns to day.

Christ conquered darkness; “It is done.”

May I reflect His Way.

Soli Deo Gloria.

The sand upon the shore lay still

The waves unmeasured came.

I left my footprints in the wake

Not one of them the same.

–

My mind was brooding as the sky

In dissonance of greys

That rose as cumulus in storm

With interluded sprays.

–

I saw it. Corner of my eye.

The waves had washed it in.

A shell in arching conch display

I grabbed it with a grin.

‘

Full eager now because I’d heard

It holds the oceans’ roar

If you just put it to your ear

It’s symphony in score.

–

I listened firm and hard and long

To see if true it be

And what I heard will always stay

Between the sea and me.

`

Soli Deo Gloria

Most people visit churches

With eyes to fill a pew

But my first glimpse of Center

Was basement all in view.

Its use was quickly morphing

Into a school, you see

So major rearranging

Was brewing on the three.

A high school was in progress

As new as it could be

My dad was, principally speaking,

Fresh to its faculty.

So, I was there as labor

To bring it up to speed

A quite compacted classroom

Designed to fill a need.

It boasted extra classrooms

Behind their doors, I’d hide

To circumvent my duties

And draw on chalkboards wide.

With library sequestered

I STILL can smell those books

A place where one could settle

And read of boxcar nooks.

And then, there was this kitchen

So many cupboards there

And one distinctive counter

To pile lunchboxes square.

Of course, the upstairs found me

Its sanctuary flow

I marveled at its vastness

Of pews in row on row

I came here Wednesday evenings,

For services. midweek

To sing, to praise, to ponder

On topics, multi-speak.

Sometimes, those open windows

Would bring a breeze in drift

That wafted pig in vapors

Most glorious and swift.

I’d sit beside my mother

Till I was free to go

Then outside, like the others

We laughed and played in flow.

The June bugs needed squishing

There were those trees to climb.

We’d march around that church house

Like Jericho sublime.

And then, each month, the ladies

Would gather thick to sew

And quilt and chat and mingle

In that same basement low.

Of course, I came with mama

But not so much to stitch

You see, that sanctuary

Could multi-purpose, switch.

Just grand it was for weddings

As faux as fake could be

While one walked down the aisle

The others sang in key.

One hymn we hailed as favorite

Its very lastest verse

“The bride eyes not her garment…”

For better or for worse.

We happily ever aftered

The nursery found us too

That padded changing table

Was truly built for two.

Sweet memories I harbor

Within those resonant walls

They’ve seen much change, expansion

With servants’ willing calls.

The school is long vacated

The love in full remains

From saints whose faith illumines

This lighthouse on the plains.

It stands behind the cedars tall

Along a country mile

Within a sprawled community

Of quintessential style.

———-

Its modest brick is not for show

No stain of glass or spire.

Instead, it shines a steady light

That often draws inquire.

——–

The rich simplicity of peace

Lies carved within its walls

With faith the permeates the hearts

Of those His Spirit calls.

——–

Throughout its rooms, His hope is taught

By those equipped to tell

Of timeless truths His Word reveals

Away from sounding knell.

——–

Inerrancy is valued high

As base for faith and life

And harmonized by hymnal tunes

With neither lute nor fife.

——–

Its families are closely knit

Yet wide their scope in serve.

Some near, some far. upon this globe

With understated verve.

——–

Their Anabaptist roots run deep.

Like trees, they’ve weathered storm

To flourish, laden well with fruit

With welcome shade, in warm

——–

To travelers, wearied by the way

With faltered steps in roam

To show the beauty of The Cross

That gently points us Home.

——–

These saints will always have my heart

Held fast within the bond

Of Gospel truth we’re called to share

To everywhere beyond.

——–

They’ve shown me that an active faith

Rejoices as it sings

And raises gratitude to God

For everything He brings.

Soli Deo Gloria.

The Christian’s never really home.

His life is pilgrimage in roam.

No matter his address in sod,

His soul is ever seeking God.

A quest that far transcends the soil.

Yet here he walks, for life is toil.

A preparation, if you will

Of stretch and build and up and hill.

His dwelling here my never change

Or life may move him wide in range.

He always knows, within his soul

It’s just a temporary goal.

The street or road where he pulls in

To close the door against the din

Or leave as quite ajar for friends

To hospitality’s warm ends.

It’s just a shadow on the road

To all eternity’s abode.

The merest taste of that great feast

That sure awaits when life has ceased.

Earth’s home’s a privilege, a place

To love, to nurture in life’s race

All those that God brings to our door

To help them gain their footing sure

Too soon to send them on their way

To build new homes that seek His stay.

It’s always hard to let them go

For we are wired for below.

How quickly we forget that we

Live precipiced eternity.

We’re on the edge of home so grand

We cannot hope to understand.

Our lives mere murmurs on the shore

Of storied now and evermore.

The glory of our mansion there

We cannot comprehend, as heir

And yet that promise lights our way

As we build homes, in jars of clay

And live our faith beneath this dome

Until, in love, He calls us home.

Soli Deo Gloria.

The moon, in crescent, cuts the dark

Its fingers slicing in an arc.

The orb is edged yet stands alone

In cream as milky as its tone.

The sun’s austere and radiant blaze

Is soft reflected in its rays

With studied warmth upon this sphere

Of luminaries far and near.

It scatters diamonds on the sea

In shattered waves of clarity

And rests, in golden, on the plains

That rise as many ripening grains.

It glistens, scintillate on snow

From mountains tops to valleys low.

Both love and loss reflect their bloom

On lunar’s interwoven loom.

My neighbor’s dogs are stirred, anon,

To howl its landing on their lawn.

Around it, countless pinpoint stars

So far beyond this ball of ours.

This shimmered silver on the moor

Parades her tidal haute couture

To hoist the sails within our dreams

And leave us bursting at the seems.

Soli Deo Gloria.

The quiet woke me with the dawn

While night still whispered through the lawn

Of dew and dark upon the grass

My feet grew wet with every pass.

The chickens fluttered from their perch

To, once again, renew their search

Of hunt and peck, with rising zeal

For grubs, in rich, to round the meal.

The sun arose in stretching play

With gilded wings on full display.

Its rays a silent, eastern strong

Of fire in bold and spreading long.

Within the trees. the songbirds stirred

Their notes unleashed without a word.

Each tune a beautiful refrain

Of unity o’er vast terrain.

A cat slunk furtive. Sensed me. Froze.

The dog next door remarked in lows.

Each dawn’s a jewel in sparkled kiss

Upon our sphere. We’re apt to miss.

Unless we’re tuned, we merely rise

And miss this glimpse of paradise.

Soli Deo Gloria.

Nicholas has three goals for this summer, as per his yesterday’s announcement:

1) Get buff

2) Make bank (Thank you, JJ’s Snowcones, for hiring those in the fifteen year old strata)

3) Bestie time

Bright and early this morning, I took him to some local literal turf to tackle door number one. Football Spring training commences in a couple of weeks and he wants to stay ahead of the game. Literally.

His goal this morning was a sprinting routine because, when you really think about it, football is a lot of running back and forth. I said I’d join him. Change up my workout routine, you know. I’ve got some running history, right? Piece of cake.

Ummmm, no. More like gargantuan slabs of humble pie. A la whipped and creamed. First off, he walked me through these squats and running in place things. So far, so good. I’m all about the stretch because it delays the more intense reality.

Then, he starts in with the, “ Okay, Mom. You run from this line ( He had everything marked off per ten yards because this kid is organized) to the next one, reach down and touch the ground. Then, you come back to the original line and go down to the next one. Got it?”

Got it. I was valiantly huffing and puffing like the hopeful wolf in the Three Little Pigs, as I conquered round uno and barreled into dos. I was doing this! Until I wasn’t. First, the hyperventilating started. Then, muscles that had always been my motility friends and companions turned on me. In one accord, they rose on their proverbial hind legs and declared mutiny by promptly morphing into the gelatinous.

I could do little but halt in my tracks and watch my son keep pushing himself while I desperately talked myself out of an overwhelming urge to give birth to those nefarious triplets Up, Chuck and Die. I talked the contractions back into nonexistent status until my gasping, wheezing, snorting slowed to the point where I could actually speak and my heart resumed its normal sinus rhythm, although it clearly wasn’t mincing words about the trauma it had just lived through.

Nicholas wanted to know if I was okay. I assured him I was not going to be defeated by the ONE round of cardio sprinting. He told me that a typical football practice includes four such increments. FOUR. I have a new admiration for his tenacity, his vision and for pigskin coaches everywhere.

He did tell me that this morning’s biggest challenge was not having a coach yelling on the sidelines as motivation to keep going. I was too busy hearing my inner child screaming insults at me to notice the lack of exterior motivational speakers.

This is just the beginning, my friends.

Yes, I am going back and not just because I’m his ride.

Spring is in the heir and I’m determined to claim my inheritance.

Please send cake, pie and coffee.

Order is unimportant.

Happy Wednesday, friends!

Soli Deo Gloria.

Now there arose in the Land of the Back Yard, a flock of five chickens, who had been appointed by their master, Steve, to search for food in the grass and to be fed from his hand that which he had purchased from Producer’s Co-op, in the north of the city of Bryan. They had also been chosen to lay eggs in such manner as to provide protein sustenance for his family. Now the names which he had given to the chickens are these-Jules, Annie, Ginger, Doris and Lucy.

As is the custom for laying hens, there emerged a pecking order in which Jules was randomly and with all speed, awarded “Bottom of the Pile.” When the realization that her feathered peers were both fast and furious as they descended upon her with all their clucking fury, she betook herself to get out of reach. Alas, her attempts failed for her frenemies were, indeed, fleet of poultry foot, and thus did they peck her without mercy and with most discomfiting accuracy. Also, did they these things without aforethought, for this was a cacophonous quartet with neither a plan A, much less a plan B.

When Steve did observe this injustice, then did he take it upon himself to ensure the survival of the picked upon. He did enter the arena of the frenzied gladiators and shooed them away from their intended victim, who sat cowering where she had previously roamed freely without fear of demise.

Now did Steve speak unto the chickens, admonishing them to seek peace and pursue it as an alternative to their current blood lust. But Doris and Lucy, being the combined equivalent of less than one mind and yet, mysteriously in agreement, stopped their ears and ran at him with one accord. He reached down and picked up Lucy, leaving Doris much at loose ends that her partner in crime had been so easily subdued. Now Ginger arose in archly display of her feathers, presuming herself to be a peacock and was promptly demoted due to her lack of showmanship. (Well, that and the fact that Steve had gathered her in his arms and prevailed upon her to attend to her own affairs instead of prompting others to set theirs in order). Annie. therefore, betook herself to a corner to avoid being questioned and sat thus in silence, as if in contemplation.

Then, did Steve look and, behold, did he find a specially designed denim apron that he had purchased at an earlier time to address these ongoing battles within his flock. For, indeed, this was not his first egg laying rodeo. And he did secure this protection upon Jules’ back so that her attackers would no longer be able to draw blood from their intended victim.

As peace again was restored in all the lawn, one of Steve’s offspring did observe that Jules should be dubbed an honorary title-The Homeschool Chicken. Now Steve’s wife, Maria, questioned why the chicken should be so dubbed and it was observed that because, in the stereotypical wisdom of the home education age, the mothers undertaking this arduous task were known to be robed in denim jumpers as a sign of their educational career choice, thus confirming their validity.

Then must Steve and Maria squelch a most unholy desire to laugh at the observant powers of their progeny. Also, Maria betook herself to her closet and confirmed that she did not own such a garment. She did comfort herself that both her secondary and college students’ current grade point averages had not, thus far, been negatively impacted by her lack of conformity to subcultural societal norms. So did her sigh of relief bring comfort to her soul and expiration dates to her anxiety levels, for her children had thrived in spite of her fashion faux pas.

And now doth Jules roam happily amongst her peers, no longer in fear, and likely soon to rise against Annie, Ginger, Doris and Lucy in retaliation of their plotting against her. And then will Steve, again, be prevailed upon to resolve the conflict with a discreetly placed peace of denim armor against the wiles of the poultry world.

For such, dear reader, is the nature of chickens.

Fashionably late to every cerebral party.

I’m really, really glad we don’t have a rooster.

Soli Deo Gloria.