Parent regrets

I read of younger mothers
struggling to spend time with God
as they speak life into their children's lives.

I think of this older mother
struggling to remember those sweet days
when she sought for life to fill her emptiness.

I long to be a mother again
no longer struggling to be that parent
who would love her children more than herself.

Yet:

That life was filled
with longing - and laughter.
with searching - and finding joy.
with trying - sometimes succeeding.
with faithfulness - always, always, keeping on.

To be a parent
is
by definition
to be imperfect.

I am...

I am Compassion.

I know...
...why children weep, alone, at night;
...where God keeps his  tears.
...what colour love is,
...how the lost feel.

I know...
...who longs for friendship,
...why the lonely languish.
...where the saved are found;
...what happens to sadness.

I have been...
...a loving caress
...the taste of sunshine,
...a whisper in a baby's ear.
...a forgotten smile.

I have been...
...to a pit of despair,
...to lonely graves,
...among the sick.
...I have been to Heartache's End.

I have been lost
I have been found
I have been SADNESS
I have been Joy.

I am Compassion.

Friendship

Thoughts after Byron and Lisa's visit...some cliches...

A precious thing

Deep friendship

far below bottomless oceans

above highest heavens

beyond the farthest reaches of the earth.

Heart relationship,

beyond any barriers,

uncluttered loving,

rooted and established full-grown trust.

(almost)

'no conditions' love

warts and all

completely accepting

a tiny glimpse of heaven here on earth. 

Keeping safe

I have given my heart to my friend.

She has nurtured and kept it safe

for nearly thirty years.

She is trustworthy. She reflects Jesus.

I have opened my heart to my friend.

She has poured love into it and helped fill it up

for nearly thirty years.

She is loving. She shows me Jesus.

I have trusted my heart to my friend.

She has protected and nourished it

for nearly thirty years.

She graciously helps me follow Jesus.

A pieced-together patchwork life

A life: a rich tapestry.
more than
a fabric or cloth.
a woven
intermingling
of warp and weft.

A life: pieces
of perfection: beauty
tightly woven.
constantly even
in purpose and effect.
threads intertwine
in harmony.

A life: patches
of sorrow, ugliness
tacked over holes
of loss, and bereavement,
and sadnessess too many to count.
threads strain
to hold it all together.

A life: threads
loosening in uncertainty.
the cloth disintegrating.
job loss, sickness,
change too
difficult to bear.
holes appear.

A life: hues
with far-off distance
merged into
an impression
of beauty
or pity
or admiration.

A life: black
threads of sorrow; the
gold of joy;
happiness rainbows
and earthen moss-green
everyday life.

My life: more than
a tapestry.
stitched onto
the firm canvas
whose name
is Jesus.

On the 25th birthday of my children

No one ever told me
how hard it would be
to have children.

No not the discomfort of pregnancy
nor the pain of childbirth.

The sleepless nights
or chasing after toddlers
seems a dream.

Worries over friends, or school,
or teenage angsts
are but a brief gasp in memory.

No, now is the hard part.
A quarter century of life.
Too far away

no longer part of
my everyday laughter life
but grown and gone.

No one ever told me
how hard it would be
to have children.

Blizzard

The wind howls. Trees,
storm-lashed,
whip towards the unyielding ground.
Snow
drives past my window
seeking victims
to embrace.

I am warm. Safe.

I gaze anxiously outside.
I think of those at sea,
far from sheltering harbours.

I am comfortable. Secure.

I listen for returning footsteps.
I think of those far away,
whose children cry themselves to sleep from hunger.

My fire is a cosy luxury.

I long to gather my loved ones.
I think of the lonely, the refugee, the one
who has no home.

My heart howls. Thoughts,
storm-lashed,
whip towards an unyielding world.
Cold injustice
drives me onward,
seeking courage
to embrace change.

Written on March 11th 2013, as a snow-laden storm lashes Guernsey, shops and services close, and people struggle to get home.

Hearts

Hearts do not always break
(and even then, rarely cleanly.
rather, into ugly scattered shards,
impossible, it seems,
to gather together).

No, hearts are torn, ripped
to shreds, fibres straining
to stay together,
screaming in pain.

Such hearts cannot be mended.
cannot be pieced back together
like precious porcelain. even time
cannot wreak miracles.

Rather, shredded hearts have to rest.
eventually fibres grow back
into sorrow-created spaces.
the scars remain.