love – Page 2 – Woodsmoke and Cardamom

Memories of Christmas

by Lucy M. Young

There was snow, always snow -
Crisp and creaky underfoot,
Gleaming silver in the moonlight,
Sparkling like crystals in the sun.

I recall the utter stillness of the night,
The vast star-studded sky,
And every year the Christmas star
Aglow above the eastern mountain
Just as it shone o'er Bethlehem so long ago.

I see my mother busy in the kitchen,
Christmas baking perfuming the air;
My father reading in the mellow lamplight
Beside a crackling fire;
My sisters whispering Christmas secrets,
So eagerly anticipating Christmas day.

Most of all I feel the steadfast love
That bound us all together;
The warm security of loving parents,
The peace and harmony and deep contentment
That filled our hearts with everlasting joy.



photo by Annie Spratt 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.