...may be as simple as encouraging A neighbor who stops by While I am having my devotions on The patio. It may be sincerely telling her, "You're a good daughter," When she see her parents Failing and not Heeding her advice. "You've done the best You can. They are so blessed to Have you." It's seeing her shed a tear, Hearing her say, "Thanks for That," and giving her a Much needed hug. And as she goes back home Feeling affirmed, I go back to my devotions wondering Whether another neighbor might Walk by. |
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We're afraid of them.
911. The Boston Marathon. Chattanooga. We're suspicious of their garb. Are they hiding explosives? We avoid them, and want them To go back home. But in church today we met A young man. He was also one of them. Born in Iraq, a devotee, he Memorized the prophet's Words, Prayed five times a day. His god was strong, a king Who ruled with fear, A distant being who never Once spoke of love. To be assured of heaven, He demanded Blood Of the devout ones, The blinded ones. This follower had questions, but There were no answers, for it Was a shame to admit doubt. A friend, a true friend, Gave him a Bible, and he read, Amazed at the King who washed Feet, The King of love, The King Who also required Blood, But His Own. "Yes, yes!" the seeker Cried. "I found Him. He found me." And now we're family. Some are to be feared, it's True, Just like some of our kind Too. But most are like our friend, Our brother, Fellow human beings Searching, Longing, Needing Jesus to meet Their God-need just like We. (Remembering those days.)
Jack's hospital bed isn't Very wide, But still, Each evening when I Tuck him in, I squeeze my body beside His until he falls Asleep. As we snuggle, the Memories of our life together Flood my heart, And for the moment I put Aside the reality that My dear one has Dementia, That my dear one is Dying.
I waited for my friend to be
Finished with her physical Therapy when a Woman walked toward me. She had unkempt hair and A dour expression. She was a stocky woman wearing A super size black shirt Emblazoned with giant letters That spelled out "Jesus lives inside me," accompanied By a fish symbol. I stared at the lady and her bold Message, Not sure how to respond. Then I smiled, Trying to get a response From her in return. But she ignored me and Walked out the door. I want to be conspicuous for Jesus, But her approach isn't exactly What I had in mind. (Ironically, my shirt had a Message too: "blessed".) Our Bible study teacher told
Us that we shouldn't try so Hard to blend in. Instead, we should recognize That "our identity is in our Peculiarity." * I like that. I want to be conspicuous. I want people to wonder Why I'm different, Not because I'm Distasteful, but because They'd like a sample of What I have too. *Beth Moore I've noticed how much you
Miss a person when you See what he's left Behind. Simple things, like the Black-eyed Susans he Planted, Blooming now, The Bible he marked up With his notes, The Cadillac of a mixer he Used to make bread. I've discovered how much you Miss a person when you See what he took with Him. Simple things, like his jokes That made me laugh, His snores that told me he Was near, His hugs that healed Everything. Some things he left Behind. Some things he took With him. But each one jabs at my heart And whispers, "He's gone." This is an update on Kim, the server some of you prayed for a few months ago.
She was beaten down,
Discouraged, Not wanting to face another Day; So she stopped by just To talk. I listened. I tried to encourage her, But in the process, I succumbed to Tears too. We cried together. And then we began to Work our way back up, Out of the gloom to Hope. Finally, we laughed, Hard. We had lifted each other Up, And as I walked her to the Door, I realized again, That's what friends are For. |
Dorothy Kalb Hsu Seitzinger
Writing poetry has helped me process and express my sorrows and joys, my concerns and blessings. "Life is hard, but God is good!" Archives
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