Faith – Page 4 – Woodsmoke and Cardamom

My Mother’s Bible

by Lucy M. Young

Alone, she sits in her cluttered home,
   Alone with her memories and dreams;
Waiting in vain for someone to call,
   But nobody cares, it seems.

Lonely and sad by the window she sits,
   Remembering days gone by
When her home was a busy, happy place,
   Filled with laughter and love and "small fry,"

Her children and grandchildren live nearby,
   All busy with their own affairs;
Not realizing how much it would mean to her
   To know that somebody cares.

Forgotten before her a cup of tea
   Grows cold as the shadows fall,
As cold as she feels in her empty house -
   Forgotten, rejected by all.

But wait, there is comfort close at hand
   And she clasps it close to her heart -
Her Bible, her constant companion and friend,
   A friend who will never depart.

As she reads the marked pages, her favorite lines,
   Peace enters her soul again;
And she knows in her heart she is never alone -
   Jesus walks with her to the end.

Now that Bible is mine. Although tattered and torn,
   Its message is very clear;
And it seems I can hear her quietly say,
   "Be happy, the Lord is near."



photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Rain in the Night

by Lucy M. Young

Soft and soothing,
Sleep-inducing -
   Quiet music in the night;
Window-spattering,
Softly pattering -
   Gentle showers in the night.

Ripping, tearing,
Lightning flaring,
   Causing sudden, chilling fright;
Heavy downpour,
Deafening roar,
   Thundershowers in the night.

Softer, glaring,
Soothing, scaring,
   No matter how the rain may fall;
Tame or wild,
Rough or mild,
   Earth gratefully absorbs it all.

Sun and rain,
Joy and pain,
   Into each life some rain must fall;
The Lord of love,
High above,
   Guides us gently through it all.


photo by Valentin Muller on Unsplash

I Wonder

by Lucy M. Young

When Christ was born in Bethlehem,
Born in a bare and lowly stall,
The angels caroled joyously,
Wise men and shepherds heard their call.
I wonder, do they still?

The sky was filled with radiance,
The bright star showed the way to Him;
Glory shown around the stable,
Cattle knelt in awe of Him.
I wonder, do they still?

The night awoke to heavenly singing,
People came from near and far
With love and hope to worship Him,
Guided by the wondrous star.
I wonder, do they still?

We reverently await His coming,
Surrounded by a troubled earth;
Naught can shake our faith in Jesus,
Or the wonder of His birth.
Oh, yes, we love Him still.

No more wondering, no more doubting,
God's great love surrounds us all;
And the star will ever guide us
To that lowly Bethlehem stall.
We know He loves us still.

photo by Batang Latagaw on Unsplash

A Prayer for the Homeless

by Lucy M. Young

When I awoke this morning, Lord,
And looked out at your beautiful world,
I thought of the other nations on earth
Whose banners of war are unfurled;
While here the morning songs of the birds
Brought music into my room;
And a softly whispering spring-time breeze
Held the scent of lilacs in bloom.

While I enjoyed the quiet peace
Of my little country home,
I thought of the homeless far and near
Who have been condemned to roam
In search of a place to call their own,
No matter how humble it be -
Just a tiny spot to make their home
From war and tyranny free.

Help them find it, Lord - a place of their own -
Secure and safe from fear.
Let them know the joy of freedom and peace,
The assurance that you are near.
Let them settle down with their families and friends,
Let their children romp in the sun;
May they never again know the terrors of war
Or hear the sound of a gun.

photo by Fares Hamouche on Unsplash

Our Daily Bread

by Lucy M. Young

The art of making bread is ages old -
Thousands of years ago 'twas made
By women of ancient Egypt, Syria, Greece, and Babylon.

Unleavened bread was made by Israelite women
During their flight from Pharaoh's cruel bondage.
Housewives were baking bread
When Mount Vesuvius poured tons of ash and molten rock
On unsuspecting Pompeii.

It is the staff of life,
The staple food of a million generations.
Sarah, Rebecca, Hannah, Rachel, Martha
Baked their fragrant loaves by open fires
To feed their families;

And Jesus broke the bread of life with His disciples
Before Gethsemane.

There's a deep religious connotation
In the humble art of making bread -
A soul-deep feeling, difficult to understand
Or explain.

Today, as I mix and knead and bake my bread;
And when like incense its aroma fills the house,
I think of all those women of the past
Whose work-worn hands performed this simple task.
In spirit I am close to them;
And just as they, so long ago, did lift their hearts in gratitude to God,
I, too, sincerely thank Him for our daily bread.

We Are All His Own

by Lucy M. Young

We all have the same loving Father in Heaven
Be we black, white, red, yellow or brown;
If we love Him and serve Him faithfully
We'll meet when our sun goes down
On the life we know in this "vale of tears"
And we leave for our Heavenly rest,
We'll see for ourselves we are all the same
In His eyes, and we all are blessed.
We are all the same color beneath the skin,
Red blood flows through every vein;
We all reach out for friendship and love,
Our hearts beat to the same refrain.

So why do we quarrel, mistrust and hate,
We the sons and daughters of God?
We are brothers and sisters, He loves us all,
Let's spread understanding abroad.
Let's look at each other with friendship and trust
Ignoring the color of skin;
With wide-open minds and loving hearts
Let us see all the goodness within;
And go to our Maker, hand in hand,
Black, white, red, yellow and brown;
With our hearts serene and our souls at peace,
He will know we are truly His own.