Poetry DUMP!

I won my first poetry contest when I was in 4th grade. It was a school wide contest that we were forced to enter. It was part of our English grade for the semester.

My fine motor skills had not yet developed when I was in 4th grade. My writing may have resembled that of a Neolithic caveman. I could draw crude pictures, and attempt script letters, but as an upside down, backwards dyslexic, my poem, which was to be displayed in front of the principal’s office, would not be written out by me.

I had a male classmate who wrote it out in beautiful flowing cursive.

I was so proud because it looked so beautiful in Bob’s handwriting. I was, however, so embarrassed at the content of the poem. I wanted someone else’s name on it. I would have preferred failure, to having that poem displayed for everyone to see.

Now you may be curious. What kind of fourth grade poem could cause the author such horror?

It was my subject. My subject was romance. Really? Displaying a poem by a fourth grader who even mentioned romance? Is that even ethical. Well, I may be overreacting. The poem was not really about romance. It just mentioned a romantic situation.

I assure you, my definition of romance was innocent, but there were fifth and sixth grade students who made quite a commotion about my choice of words.

My mom kept my poem (of course she did, it was an award winner).

It is really hokey. Keep in mind it was written by a 4th grader. I don’t know where Bob’s printed version is, but it went something like this:

I love to look up at the stars.

If you look close, you may see Mars.

They are always pretty and bright.

They are full of the brightest light.

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

I love to look up in the dark.

It’s most romantic in the park.

Do you see that? I have no idea what the middle part of the poem was about, nor did my schoolmates. The only thing they saw was me, in a dark romantic park. I heard all about it too. The honor of winning a poetry contest was completely eclipsed by unbelievable embarrassment.

Thanks to my mom who saved this fifty year old memory for me. Now it makes me laugh.

This silly youthful experience did not stop my love of poems or of poetry.

To this day, it is how I see the things around me.

Light and dark, rhymes and rhythms, they are one of the ways I define my world.

The Fellowship of the Broken

I have joined the Fellowship of the Broken

Where the torment in my soul may be spoken.

No hiding- no masks- no religious tokens- 

in the Fellowship of the Broken.

No pretending all is okay when it’s not:

no assuming that I won because I fought.

Pretty-pretty jargon is not what was bought- 

for the Fellowship of the Broken.

Thrust into the fellowship of the broken-

In death and dying, silent words were spoken.

The dreams and goals, the past and future- 

broken 

BROKEN. 

Broken,

broken…

and yet hope,

and yet Hope;

HOPE: spoken…

We have hope-

we, who have 

been broken. 

We have fellowship with others,

with our sisters and brothers, whose pain may not be like our own,

yet gives respite; for in this,

in this brokenness, We are not alone. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~jth 3/16/2017

1st Peter 4:19…let those who suffer according to God’s will, entrust their souls to a faithful creator…. 

Psalm 34:18 The Lord is near to the broken hearted and saves the crushed in spirit. 

Psalm 56:8- …you have put my tears in a bottle; are they not in a book?

It is What it is.

What a fatalistic statement!

It seems innocuous; accepting current circumstances, and being okay with whatever comes at us.

However, what if instead, we thought, “It isn’t what it could be.”

What if we exercise the faith that GOD can do all things. What if we purpose to change what ‘it is’ by exercising faith? 

Belief that there is BETTER than ‘it is what it is’ allows us to see that it may be possible to intervene, to change the status quo. What if MY faith can change circumstances, change people, and change outcomes.

It isn’t what it could be!

“All things are possible for the one who believes.”

I believe. 

“‘ “If you can”?’ said Jesus. ‘Everything is possible for one who believes.’”

‭‭Mark‬ ‭9‬:‭23‬ ‭NIVUK‬‬

https://bible.com/bible/113/mrk.9.23.NIVUK

I wish I knew

There is a telescopic nature of viewing Life. 

I must know which lens I am using to view both my past and my future. 

If I have the telescope pointed in the wrong direction, I will have a distorted sense of what I see. 

There are so many things I wish I had known. 

Why did no one prepare me for the unpleasant things to come? Does no one see them, or does pain, give birth to silence and strife?

Do I believe that if I fail to acknowledge unpleasant things, unpleasant things will not happen? 

I am deceived if I decide to hold on to this belief. 

Looking back at life: 

I wish I had known.

I want to prepare others, so we know. Silence breeds isolation, however, there is Hope in knowing. 

Unpleasant, unbearable, irreconcilable things will happen. 

Hope is knowing that like joy, grief is an emotion. 

Expect emotions. Rampant raw emotions exist. 

Time may seem unbearable when faced with trauma. 

Time may seem fleeting when graced with joy. 

But when using a telescope to view life, from first breath to last, it is a beautiful panorama. 

Struggles and grief walk hand in hand with courage and love. 

They do not negate each other, neither do they negotiate. 

It is a mystery. 

Did no one know? 

When viewing life, use telescopes correctly. Put away the microscope and see the panorama of wrenching pain, profound joy, and mundane moments walking in succession. 

Now I know. 

We need to know. 

jth- 7/16/21

Me

Pieces of glass

some shattered

some fractured

some broken.

My life’s words:

in breaths

in gasps

in prayer’s unspoken.

The shattered pieces are razor sharp, and will never again be part of the whole.

The fractured, broken ones, with glue may mend, with strength to accomplish that goal.

But fresh tears and red, red blood leave stains on my life, and a salty flood…

Tears for shattered things, for fractured broken hearts, cut more deeply than the glass; razor sharp.

LIGHT shines through the colored glass in hues so deep…

Be the unspoken promise I long to keep.

While never again the same unbroken me…

arrange the pieces of my life artfully.

May the tears and the blood I have cried; to LOVE, and to my life be applied:

Translucent…

until I, face to face see

LOVE looking through me

What Happened on 01/28/2025

We are burying my mom today. It is 01/28/2025. Why is it so hard to comprehend? Each of us live and each of us die. It is a gracious fact of life. 

It feels however, like a horrible punch in the gut. My little mom placed in that big blue box and dropped into a hole in the ground.

It doesn’t feel like a gracious gift. 

It is a gift, however. Her mind and her body were broken. 

As she slipped out of this life and into the next, the King of all Kings was waiting, was watching. He knew everything about her. 

He knew more about her than she knew about herself. 

Did He have to remind her? Did He have to introduce Himself? 

No. 

She knew. 

She knew as she was known. 

My beautiful little mother became who she was created to be. 

This day is a day to celebrate Helen’s life which just started on the other side of Glory. 

Death looks different on the other side. It is the release from the hostilities of our Broken World.

This gift is given by God because He did not want us to live forever in this Hostile Broken Place. 

It is difficult for those of us left here. How do we accept, or comprehend it? How do we go on without the light she provided?

We will go on in a darker place, asking, and desperately seeking; Light.

(Genesis 3:22)

Unprepared

I was unprepared for the emotions that slapped me yesterday. 

My family was celebrating Easter Sunday. It should have been a day of awe at the incredible gift of the resurrection of Jesus… but, instead, my unresolved grief had me in a rotten mood. 

It has been three months since my mother’s death. I assumed that the rolling grief that cycles through my bitty-brain had temporarily run its course. 

I had so much to do, after all. 

Preparing for a holiday is a bit daunting for an unorganized introvert. I was not graced with the natural ability to host that my mother had. She made everything look so easy. Most likely, it was easy for her. 

Slapped, shocked and unprepared, that was me; on my first holiday dinner without her. 

My mom had not hosted a family celebration for almost seven years, but she was always there. 

I made sure we had family recipes and a few of her favorite dishes to make her happy. It was important to me that she was there. She was still with us, as we celebrated. 

There was one thing I never made. The daunting thing I never even attempted to make: ‘Mimi’s Rolls.’

The recipe, written in her beautiful cursive writing, is in the family binder that she gave us all for Christmas one year. I have an older copy of the recipe written on an index card. It looks so easy. 

It is not. 

I grew up eating these rolls at every holiday. In fact, a holiday wasn’t complete without what she called ‘Good Rolls.’

~~~~~~~~~

Rolling grief.  

Unprepared. 

~~~~~~~~~

I was also unprepared for the strangest and most beautiful surprise at our Easter gathering. A family member secretly and perfectly made my mom’s rolls. 

When she walked in with ‘Mimi’s Good Rolls’ I was shocked. I can’t think of one thing that could have made me happier. 

This sounds silly, but it was like having a piece of my mom with me on that stressful, emotional day. 

It was a beautiful gift. 

I was unprepared. I was unprepared for exactly what I needed. 

Thank you, my Dear Tiffany for bringing my mom’s hug to me on my very difficult day. 

When in Rome

It cannot be stolen- that which was freely given—

Why then is there madness— why then so driven?

Roman ruins— or ruined Rome?

Earthly havens— Heavenly homes?

See the monuments to great men?

Crumble. Crumble. Crumble again!

The shrines to gods— who eventually die.

Beautiful, though the Earth: eternal though, the sky.

Stone gods guarding temples of men—

hearts that will never beat again.

Concrete. Marble. Stone… foregone past?

Does rock, does dirt, do fossils last?

When in Rome.

jth- 06/2009

Rest for My Soul

Written April 1, 2024

Your yoke is easy, your load is light. This implies that as with oxen, there is still work to be done. Finding rest for my soul is more than vacation time, or Sabbath rest .
Rest for my soul?

How does my soul rest, while still yoked to a plow, while still attending to the work load I am daily given?


Ponder, wonder, and research this!


My definition of rest for my soul is time spent at the lake on a beautiful day, watching my Fisher, while I wander the beautiful path with a camera, pen, and paper in my hand.

THIS is rest for my soul. This is time that I BREATHE. I refocus, shake off the busy, sometimes wearisome work load and focus only on creation, love and solitude.


But. Looking at this passage of scripture, while my soul needs this treasured time; it seems that more than that, I need something for all of the other three hundred days a year.
Ponder, wonder.

Research this! What exactly is rest for my soul?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Written February 1, 2025

It has been about 300 days since I wrote that. Ten or eleven days ago my mom died. Three or four weeks before that we knew she was dying. In December, we knew that the remainder of her life was going to be fairly short.

In this span of time; these approximate 300 days since I wrote a challenge to myself; did I research the topic of REST for MY SOUL?

I did not.

In this span of time, did I come to understand more fully how rest is mandated?
It is an important part of health for my soul.

I did not.

I am a list person.
This research of soul-rest never made it onto my list.

Now, I find my heart and mind consumed. All I want in my grief, is rest. I want rest for my soul.

In fewer than eleven days, my soul has become so remarkably consumed with weariness that I am unable to combat it.
I never learned about rest.

Now the most important area of research; the #1. on my LIST is learning what rest for my soul is, and how I get it. 

It is my #1.

It is the 52nd Day of December 2024

It is 2025, however, I am stuck in 2024 as my 90 year old mom is in a skilled nursing unit in excruciating pain.

There are those few hours when her pain meds kick in and give her sweet pain relief.
2024 hasn’t ended for me. The call to meet the ambulance at the hospital on one of the last few days of the year, is still one big blur. It is the longest day of my life thus far. Every moment since that moment: the longest day in the history of me. A long day has turned into a long month. It is still December, isn’t it? My Christmas tree is still up, unwrapped gifts are still on corner shelves.

  1. When will you end? Will there be a minute, when I breathe again.
  2. I am not looking forward to you.
    If you bring pain relief and resolve all the unresolved issues of this terribly long year: I will acknowledge you.
    I am so weary of 2024.

2025? Is it possible that you will enable me to fathom you; to enter into the march and cadence of your journey home?

Tomorrow. Perhaps.

2025. You announced yourself so rudely. The 5:30 a.m. phone call which came NOT on December 52, 2024, but on January 21st, 2025.

It was that call which startled me into reality. The reality I had seen coming. The reality that my heart would not accept, and my mind could not grasp. December 29th of 2024 was just a glimpse into the reality I knew was quickly approaching; the fate of my beloved mother.

What happened to New Year’s Day? Did I miss someone’s birthday? I worked on MLK Day which IS definitely in January; January, the first month of 2025.

How did 2025 slide into my life mostly undetected?

I was holding my breath for a really long time.

I was there. I was at work. I spent time congratulating myself for writing the date correctly. I never had to scratch out 2024. I KNEW it was 2025.

How? Why?

What was going on, here?

It was me. I was unable to accept the inevitable. I wanted to be sitting at my mother’s bedside, every minute of every last day, watching her breath; talking to her; singing the Doxology to her, or having my granddaughter sing the ABCs to her.

I know my mom heard. I saw her strain to hear Ellie’s sweet voice.

On the day she died, 1/21/25, the grief that I was holding back was unharnessed. The hope, the dread, the separation was a reality.

I am ready for you now 2025.

It is possible for me to fathom you.

I will enter into the march and cadence of my mom’s journey home.

She is there. I am here.

I look forward to seeing her again and hearing her beautiful side of the story. She can tell me what really happened on the day she left me.

The Kingdom of God opened and the LORD Himself welcomed her home.

Culture Who…

Culture Who?

Stop letting Culture dictate the meaning of Beauty. 

Who is Culture anyway? 

Culture says, 

“Thin is commendable”

“Youthful, admirable”

“Old is irrelevant”

“Arrogance is confidence” 

“Humility, idiocy.”

Culture splashes ads across platforms and glamorizes impossible and unhealthy ideals. 

Skeletal models parade platforms pretending normality, 

casting hateful glances at society. 

Thin, young, relevant, arrogant, prideful people lead Culture into sorrow, shame, and despair. 

Culture, who?

Why are you intent on destroying honor? 

Stop defining us. 

Beauty exists outside the cruel dictates of Your limited knowledge. Stop. 

We must stop listening:

stop believing:

stop perpetuating, You.

Defy Cultural concepts, spewed out on sensuous seeking hearts.

Seek instead.

Seek True Beauty.

Find it:

treasure it:

share it.

Stop Culture’s false doctrine of Beauty.

We must redefine and realign.

Culture Who?

My Twin

There is an evil twin

that lives within

the eyes I see in the mirror.

Her strength, it grew

and before I knew

I had come to fear her.

She lives inside

and has not died

although I thought she had.

I hear her voice.

I have no choice.

It nearly drives me mad.

Lust and pride

subtly hide

beneath her sly façade

and all the while

she seems to smile

lovingly at God.

From deep within I hear a cry:

the me-I-want-to-be screams, “crucify!”

Dying to yourself,

the ultimate war,

denying the things

the world strives for.

DIE! Die evil twin

I want no more!

No more of you and your evil lies!

No more of the things that I despise.

I humble myself in the sight of Him

who gave me His strength

and forgave my sin.

I fear no more that dreadful twin,

but each day I must die

to the lie within.

jth- 1/23/92