Whatever He Says

I once read a collection of poems in a looseleaf binder, written by a Jewish man named Michael Myers. I often wonder who has them now, and wish I could reread them for the wisdom they contained, but I do have two of them at least and here is one that I came across recently. So much truth! My copy is handwritten, hard to read, and the line breaks are hard to decipher. Forgive me if I got some of them wrong, and in spite of that may the thoughts in the poem bless! We form our habits along life's way And all our habits grow a little stronger every day We do things unconsciously, mere creatures of routine The force of habit turns us into a human machine But there are mental habits, subtle workings of the mind For good or evil our thoughts have power, they may be cruel or kind And if things go against us people blame or criticize From force of habit we flare up, and angry words arise Rebellious and resentful of the real and fancied thrust If we only could meet it wi...

We saw Helen Scott each Sunday at church in the early 1980s. She was elderly, then, or so she seemed to me when I was only in my thirties, preoccupied with a busy life as a working mom. I really don't know how old she was--maybe only the age I am now, almost 69! She had short white hair and was also short of stature, and stockily built. My father-in-law, the pastor of the church at the time, often published poems when I wrote them, in the weekly bulletin, and because of this, Helen knew that we shared both a love of God and poetry. She died during those years of cancer, I believe, but before she died, she gave me a treasure, a small, red leather-bound copy of a devotional book entitled, Come Ye Apart, by J. R. R. Millar. It was first given as a gift in January 1938, by "Elbert" to his dad, on his birthday. Helen gave it to me on June 28, 1981. Now, 81 years after it was first gifted, I still treasure it as a footprint of several people's faith.  One day, Helen...

Lord, your love is evident everywhere I look, When you were making this fair earth, What tender care you took! You could have made the birds talk, As plain as plain could be, But joyous cheerful melodies, Ring from tree to tree. The sky so blue above us, Your love did hang in place, Without earth's special atmosphere, We'd stare right into space. In every sight, in every sound-- Your love is there--outpoured. Oh, how I want to thank you, My great Creator, Lord. Belinda, 1980

My friend Dave asked about the poem I mentioned in yesterday's post about  Henri Nouwen . I am not sure if it was this poem that I wrote out on the scroll, but this one was inspired by his book, With Open Hands . I want to emphasize that the poem was written as an aspiration or prayer, and not reality lived! :)  With open hands I stand before the world, I lay my weapons down for Jesus' sake, Naked, unclothed, defenceless--it's my choice Because I know that he my hand will take. With open arms, Lord, let me love the world, And never fear rejection, scorn or pain, Or, if I fear, don't let me falter Lord, Remind me that our weakness is your gain. With open heart, accepting, loving, kind, With openness of spirit let me love, Lord, take this hardened human heart and make, A heart as warm and gentle as a dove. With open eyes please let me see myself And others as we are to you, dear Lord, So precious in your sight because the price, You paid for us, we ...

By Belinda This is a "poem prayer" that is still a heart aspiration. Although I don't live it out as constantly as I wish I did, I want to. I believe in generosity of spirit. If I am guilty, let it be Of loving much Of trusting much Believing more than "eye" can see. Let generosity my trademark be And if perchance the world should take from me The Lord will make the balance up--you'll see! Belinda August 18, 1985

I have been sorting through more "stuff" in the loft room this week. I spent months marooned up there for long evenings last winter, tidying it up. How could there still be so much excess paper?  But there is. So I am in Phase 2 of The Cull; I was too gentle the first time. But amid the trash, I find treasure. I found a bulletin from the funeral of a work colleague who died in 1997. On the back was a little poem that I love, written by Stan H. Smith. Stan was the executive director of an agency called New Leaf--Living and Learning Together. He died a few years ago. I wanted to share the poem here, but I didn't know the context in which I would share it. Tonight as I was driving, listening to the radio, I got the answer. The CBC radio program Revision Quest was playing. (You can listen to the show as a podcast by going to  CBC Radio  .) The show was about the Truth and Reconciliation Commission  ...

Tonight I am out of steam and my eyes feel as though they are ready to fall out of my head! Balancing the budget has that effect on me. :) So...instead of writing, I would like to share a poem that inspires me to greater goodness whenever I read it. I have it copied out in one of my journals and it is by Hartwig Lohmann. I believe I found it on a Sunday School bulletin but it was over 25 years ago. I so relate to the sentiments. Enjoy and be inspired too. Dear God, forgive me! Forgive my ungenerous heart. It really isn't so hard, to be nice to someone. A friendly word; a warm glance; an understanding smile; a word of thanks or "please." Life isn't so much a matter of life and death, but rather of more generosity of spirit. Life isn't so much a matter of winning and losing-- but rather of being merciful. Life isn't so much a matter of giving things up, but rather of giving more. You give me everything O God, but don't let me forget ...

By Belinda Friends, it is a late night and an early morning awaits! So, I'm digging out an old journal and sharing a poem I wrote in 1982. It isn't a very good poem, but God can use even a very bad poem! Maybe. :) Christ never did the obvious, The natural thing to do. He did things so amazing-- And startling, and new! If you would tread his footsteps, Then wear his shoes of peace, Seek out his Word and love it, Begin and never cease, To hear what he is saying, To those who love his law, Seek his way, not the world's way, For different they both are. Down here we have no city, We seek one that's to come. We're citizens of Glory, And one day we'll reach Home. 'Til then we'll walk with Jesus, And love him more each day, And let our lights keep shining, As we live the "Jesus Way."

I sit inside and listen to the boisterous wind out in the dark night, blowing with all its might, buffeting trees and the houses. Our house is snug, airtight and cosy; it feels more so as I listen to the peaceful ticking of the clock in between the gusts. The wind sounds as though it is racing across the fields to the stand of trees on the top of the hill, and back again. The crunch of leaves and the scent of their decay, mixing with that of woodsmoke; the vivid, gaudy colours; it is all so beautiful and sad at the same time. This weekend October ends and November begins. In my loft room this evening I found a lovely little poem from thr Ontario Reader's "Second Book." entitled: November The leaves are fading and falling, The winds are rough and wild, The birds have ceased their calling; But let me tell you my child, Though day by day, as it closes, Doth darker and colder grow, The roots of the bright red roses Will keep alive in the snow. And when the winter is over The...

My friend Poppy requested; after reading the post, The School, the Street and the Saviour , this addendum, a poem I wrote in 1982, about my spiritual journey. Thank you for asking Poppy, and thank you Lord, for the journey. Not for me the blinding light Of a Damascus road, But then, I was no Saul, no persecutor of Christians hater of Christ I walked in two worlds, finding both exciting, beckoning, as I stood on the threshold of my life For me, the Spirit’s gentle wooing, How wise, how wonderful, God’s many ways, of reaching us, His wayward ones More and more, I became His, until I saw the world, through strangely different eyes. Things that once beckoned, now had lost their charm, As He so gently guided me away from harm

Tonight our writers group met, and our topic was, "Green." One of our number, Claire Alexander, wrote a delightlful poem, and with her permission, here it is: To write a poem about “Green,” I checked out The Synonym Finder by J. I. Rodale, and the Canadian Oxford Dictionary’s long list of “green,” and found both negative and positive meanings for the colour. Robert Young’s Analytical Concordance to the Holy Bible also added insights, giving the Greek terms hugros (moist green) and chloros (pale green). Several Hebrew forms are given: yaraq, yaroq, yereq, karpas, lach, ratob, raanan, and eb (budding). Only Psalm 23 uses deshe, the tender grass. What Is Green? In childhood, lenses rose and green brought magic to my view; and soon the emerald home of Oz helped Dorothy’s tale seem true. Observing life, my language grew, through nature’s blue-green shades; my writing learned exciting hues of azure, sea-green, jades. But, “You’re so green” established doubt that a greenhorn was my ...

We sit across from one another at the breakfast table, we two; a precioius time for us each day; an oasis in our busy lives. In a house that is so often full of people, this is when we are usually all alone and can share our burdens and hopes and prayers. I stir my oatmeal. Steam rises from it. While I wait for it to cool I sip my morning nectar--black coffee. Paul looks sleepy. "I was awake at 4.30," he says; "the birds wake me up every morning at that time with their singing." "You know, they settle down and go back to sleep after that," he says. "Really?" I wonder out loud, "I wonder why they sing so early then." Paul says, "Maybe God wanted someone to sing about his glory when every one else is asleep!" And this makes me think of some lines about birds that I wrote: Birds sing in the bath too They do! I heard them today after the rainfall From hidden places feathered throats exult In God who made them and who made me too! ...

We sat together talking about "us" and the times in the past when our marriage felt like it was over. It's been almost 39 years so there have been a few times of heartache that felt hopeless. Neither one of us has been a model spouse. Is there such a thing? My journal contains scattered puddles of pain that poured out and splashed onto the pages when I felt that I had nowhere else to go with it.Many times I have been tempted to tear those pages out. I haven't though, because an edited life seems to me to be to be a flat and pallid life. For better or worse, it is my life One thing I worried about though, was Paul reading those pages if I died first. I did care about that and how hurt he might feel. But this week I read some of them to him. It was such an intimacy, to look back at how I railed against him; how we hurt each other, and to realize that we are here now, still together and loving one another deeply and tenderly and with all of our hearts. I thought it might...

Ang Cat's post, A Variant Garden, reminded me of this poem that I wrote many years ago. Precious flower in God's garden He has placed you in my care Bid me water you with kindness And to nurture you with prayer Tell you of the gentle Gardener With his hands all scarred with love How we'll live one day forever In his garden up above And though weeds may try to choke you And your head be bowed by storm In his tender care he'll guard you Ever keeping you from harm Belinda

Leviticus 27:21 (New International Version) 21 When the field is released in the Jubilee, it will become holy , like a field devoted to the LORD;... I long to be to you my King, A field devoted to the Lord, For you my soul and spirit sing, For you my heart beats and I cling To you alone. I long to have my heart ploughed deep, A field devoted to the Lord, The hardened clods of clay that sleep Awoken, broken in his keep, For him alone. Belinda

Bright eyes look up at me A smile so young and free Your picture strikes a chord inside of me Some things I've heard about you Tell me that you knew A Special Friend of mine--or two Robyn, your love goes on and on In friends and family And friends of friends Robyn, your life goes on and on A precious circle that will never end We'll never know the moment When we'll have to go I hope that when I do, I too can say That I have touched the world And that I've left behind Some One for other friends to find Jesus, your love goes on and on In friends and family And friends of friends Jesus, your life goes on and on A precious circle that Will never end I didn't know Robyn personally--she was the cousin of a friend--but I saw her photo, after she died tragically young, of anaphylactic shock while out with her youth group over 17 years ago. The young smile and bright eyes in her photo inspired this song--a reflection on life being so fragile and on leaving something of worth...

Drawn to God by cords of love I feel his loving arms encircle me As in the still, still, evening hush I stand And gaze upon the beauty of the land A quiet celebration in my heart Rejoicing in the earth, and sky above Bathed in the splendour of his love!