father – Woodsmoke and Cardamom

He’ll Be Waiting

by Lucy M. Young

Dear sister, mother of the son I never had,
I share with you the sadness and the emptiness
His passing leaves.
I cannot know the depth of sorrow that you feel
Because I did not bear him,
But I loved him
As I'm sure I would have loved him
Had he been my own.

We cannot wish him back to suffer as he did,
But neither can we keep from missing him.
We know he's with the Lord.
He's happier than he ever was on earth;
And when we go to meet our Saviour,
He'll be waiting also with that special smile
To greet us.
With joy we'll embrace him
And never have to part from him again.

Call on the Lord

by Lucy M. Young

When you feel all alone with no one to care,
Reach out to the Lord - He will always be there.
He's as far away as the most distant star,
Yet as close as a whisper, wherever you are.

Put your trust in Him, put your life in His hands -
He's the only one who understands.
If you call to Him with a sincere heart,
He will come to you and He'll never depart.

You can always depend on His loving care
To hold you and shield you from pain and despair;
So if you will call, let your need be known,
You will never again feel all alone.



photo by Lukasz Szmigiell on Unsplash

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.

My Father’s Hands by Lucy M. Young

Gnarled and twisted with arthritis, Scarred and roughened by hard labor on the farm, Gentle hands God meant for healing broken bodies, Steady, careful hands for surgery.

Circumstances forced my father to renounce his calling And the talent in those hands was sacrificed; But they never lost their magic. They could calm a fevered, restless child with their soothing touch.

They could heal a horse’s harness gall Or a little child’s stubbed toe. They could carve and whittle clever toys, Build sturdy furniture for our home, Or a dainty doll’s bed for a little girl.

My memories of my father are wrapped up in his hands, Inarticulate and shy, he let his hands speak for him – Those gentle, patient, work-worn hands, Showing all the love he was unable to express in any other way.