You know the saying: “There aren’t enough hours in a day.” For me, it seems true. Whether I’m swamped or have a relatively clear schedule, tasks sit languidly. Then there’s, “God gave them more than 24 hours in a day.” This isn’t a saying. It is simply what my husband and I tell each other regarding a few people we intimately know. These are people whose eyes appear to focus on the manifold good God seems to ask of them. Their hands and feet don’t falter. They accomplish more in one day than I do in perhaps a month. Evidently time is of no concern when motivated hearts are in sync with God’s own.
“She would have helped had she but found the time,” the saddest stone cries.
Mom and Dad used to live two doors down from us. Some mornings Dad would walk over, sit down for a cup of coffee and a few laughs.
Eventually, coffee became an excuse for a talk. For questions.
One day his question was, “Will you keep this in a safe place for me?” He opened a tiny matchbox-sized box, pulled out a piece of paper that was folded, and folded, and folded, and he read it to me. It was a poem. The first he’d ever written. He was a young boy, and it was to his dad who had unexpectedly passed. I watched him fold and fold and fold and carefully put it back in the box while I pondered why suddenly, after close to 7 decades, did he need me to keep it safe for him?
One day his question was from his doctor: “Do you have a plan in place for if she becomes violent?”
One day his question was, “Do you think I need to worry about her beginning to wander?”
One day his question was, “What will I do the day we wake up and she doesn’t know me?”
“But when he had thought this over, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, ‘Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife; for the Child who has been conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit.’” ~ Matthew 1:20
“ … an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream. “Get up,” he said, “take the child and his mother and escape to Egypt. Stay there until I tell you, for Herod is going to search for the child to kill him.”So he got up, took the child and his mother during the night and left for Egypt, where he stayed until the death of Herod. And so was fulfilled what the Lord had said through the prophet: “Out of Egypt I called my son.” ~ Matthew 2:13-15
POSSIBLE PONDERINGS OF A CARPENTER NAMED JOSEPH
God gifted me a mind to work with wood, which business customers respect, it seems. I’ve taught my son my craft since his boyhood, but never spoke about my angel dreams.
The default mind of carpentry is ruled. It’s symmetry. It’s slated, and exact. A carpenter is practiced, skilled, and schooled. I see in my own son much more than that.
I cannot count the multitude of times these angels’ words return to haunt my mind. My years have not played out in paradigms — my anchor-bolted views left far behind.
I cannot say I’ve understood the role as asked of me by Mary, or by God. I’ve questioned in my heart and in my soul, if Mary’s story was a mere façade.
Though some advised me, “Have her put away,” I knew the horrid fate she would have faced. I could not stand the thought that they may slay the one whose love and life I have embraced.
But, truth-be-told, it’s turned me inside-out, accepting what the angels showed to me. I sometimes wish I’d chosen my own route, but then I look around me and I see:
The pureness of a son we can’t explain. His understanding of the ancient scrolls. An innate wisdom he could never feign. We’re wholly humbled to accept our roles.
A forest of hardwood and pine whispers calm to my soul as we stroll its quiet path of leaves and fine needles with the occasional call of small birds, conversation of crows, or tune composed of breeze strumming the trees to the rhythm of woodpecker’s tap, even as our own whispers overlap woodland’s song — one I wish to carry lifelong.
“Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.
O, Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; it is in dying that we are born again to eternal life.” ~ Anonymous(attributed to St. Francis of Assisi)
Sonnet for Lord, Make Me an Instrument of Your Peace
Of many writings I wish were my own, this certainly resides among the best. And while this poet’s name remains unknown, their heart’s benevolence is manifest.
And oh to be an instrument of peace And oh to harmonize with God’s great grace No dissonance released from my mouthpiece No notes omitted, wrestled, or misplaced
God likens clanging cymbals and loud gongs to those who harbor hate within their soul. I want to spill His love where there are wrongs – the love that brings us peace and makes us whole.
Don’t want to be a cymbal or a gong – Just long to harmonize with Him in song.
As for me, this is the desire of my heart: “And I’ll be the poet who sings your glory – and live what I sing every day.” ~ Psalm 61:8
“The morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy.” ~ Job 38:4
Job, Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Lamentations, and the Song of Solomon are poetry books in the Bible. If you believe, as I do, that the Bible is the inspired word of God, God is a poet! I LOVE that!
They come from distant lands, escaping war, famine, natural disaster, unlivable conditions, persecution, economic instability, etc.
They arrive carrying whatever they can. Perhaps a photo or two. A key to a house that may no longer exist. Only the clothes on their backs.
One very dear Syrian friend had to leave suddenly. Flee. Her family, in the middle of a meal, left pots and plates of food years ago.
Ukrainian friends we now consider family arrived with one school-type backpack for their family of four. Yes, you read that correctly. Some aren’t even that lucky.
Dowla chose one item to bring: A wooden pole, balanced on her shoulders, with which to carry her six children when they tired of the 10-day walk from Sudan to a refugee camp in South Sudan.
Aboubacar fled Mali on a donkey cart with his wife and two children. The one item he chose to bring? His goat. “The goat brings me hope, joy, and a sense that things can change for the better.”
After dealing with several months of air raids, Magboola and her three children finally left Sudan the night soldiers came and opened fire. The most important item she chose to carry: a small cooking pot. It could be easily carried, and used to feed her children.
102-year-old Omar is blind. His item of choice was his lati (his walking stick). “If I hadn’t had my lati, I would have crawled to Bangladesh.” The situation in the village he loved, yet had to flee, was dire. The journey, unimaginably hard. A quote I relish from him is this: “If you laugh, others will laugh with you. And if you stop laughing, you will die.”
Elizabeth fled war in Angola. 52 years later, she still struggles with the feeling of not having a real home. The one item she still has with her is her Bible. “In this world, bad things happen, but in the Bible you can find words which help you.”
The stories are endless unimaginable heartbreaking staggering awe-inspiring.
The people are strong courageous thankful giving hopeful, in spite of it all.
It is my honor and great blessing to look into the eyes of those I am privileged to personally know. To hear their stories. See their smiling eyes. Feel their arms around me. Their kisses on my cheeks. To taste their food. Receive their time and their love.
pictured words 