kindness – Woodsmoke and Cardamom

The Night Nurse

by Lucy M. Young

She comes into my room so quietly, I hardly know she's there.
Her cheery smile, her air of confidence allay my fears
And slow my racing pulse.
She comes on silent feet
With soothing words and gentle hands
To ease my pain with medication,
Or maybe help me to relax
With just a little friendly conversation.

All night she's near and I can rest
Knowing a simple touch upon the call bell
Will bring her quickly to my side.
May God be always with her
And bless her richly for her sympathy,
Her quiet strength and patient understanding
Throughout the long dark hours of what could be 
A sleepless pain-filled night without her.

A Prayer for Many

Lucy M. Young

Dear Lord, there are so many people
In my thoughts tonight:
The little girl who's losing weight
For no apparent reason;
The little boy who can't retain his food;
The lovely lady,
Lying on her bed of pain,
Ravaged by cancer;
The dear young man whose body, filled with tumors,
Struggles to continue functioning;
The brother fighting for each breath
Despite the spreading cancer in his lungs;
The lonely little mother,
Hard of hearing, nearly blind,
Waiting patiently for someone, anyone
To show a little love and tenderness.

Dear Lord, be with these people.
Place Your healing hand upon them.
Hold them in Your everlasting arms.
Comfort them and love them.
Let them know 
That they are not alone,
And that Your love and strength
Will hold them fast
Forever.

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.