For All the Saints

Same weekday, same church, same sea of faces
Same group of ladies, their favorite pew
Something is wrong, someone is missing
Another loss from their beloved crew

How do I bear another saint’s death?
Gone before my need of them fades
No thought given, a future without them,
Expected presence throughout the decades

The film of my memory begins
Scratched and faded, black and white
Those I once loved, yet no longer here
Images welcomed, my thoughts invite

Little girl tugging at a woman’s apron,
Taste of pudding, attention giving.
More than meals made in that church kitchen,
Naomi to Ruth, mentors for living

Placing tiny seeds in the cup’s moist cotton
Signs of new birth, the teacher extols
Unaware of the second crop growing,
Sowing of her faith in my young soul

The scent of wood as the campfire crackles
Counselors and teens, praise songs inspire
Tear stained faces reflecting the flames
My passion for God fueled by Spirit’s fire

Older woman seated by the younger
Holding my new baby, touching my soul
A simple cradle cross held in the palm
Her words of compassion make the gift whole

Did I perceive these models of Christ?
Promises at my baptism fulfilled.
Recognize the legacy as it passed,
The saint’s faith, future’s hope instilled

Memories of my parent’s regrets
Of those that passed, names I barely knew
It is now my turn to feel their sorrow
Finally understanding how love grew

Like stories repeated through ages past
Saints preserving God’s written Word
Whether we read it from Bible or screen
Gift at peril of fire and sword

Songs of our faith penned from their souls
Wesley’s hymns to everyday’s song
Heart words to a rock beat by Michael W.
Fashioned a place our praises belong

Baptism perpetuated at creek bed or font
His Spirit, gender friendly, color blind
Whether hands clasped or waved overhead
Manicured, calloused, crude or refined

The saints did not lose their lives in an instant
They spent lifetimes investing in us
Passing not merely from life unto death
They passed on their faith and with it their trust

Please accept these, our humble gifts of thanks
Your lives remembered, your absence mourned
For not only in your living, but dying
Is the hope of our Church re-born

She rises each day and greets the dawn, here, not there.
With a steaming cup of coffee in her hand she opens her Bible.
Even with the care she shows, it is worn from the years of use.
She listens and receives comfort and encouragement.
Breathing in hope, she opens her diary and writes her prayers, here, not there.
Every day, all my life long, my name joins the names of those she enters on the blank page.
Ritual, blessing, my name is lifted and placed in the golden bowls filled with the prayers of the saints.
The smoke from these prayers is fragrant in the courts of our Creator, there, not here.
I am present, for all time, lifted up and yet still here, not there.
Today she is there, not here. I ache and rejoice, caught in the pain and the joy.
Today she stands in the presence of our Creator, wreathed in the smoke of a lifetime of prayer.
I breathe in hope and say my prayers, here, not there.
Rising up, they join her. As I too, will join her one day, there, not here.

(Over the summer I changed my name. I previously participated as Ymp. I get closer and closer to settling in.)

You walk with me
Morning and night
Day after day
Season upon season

I can count on your smile
With the rising of the sun
I rely on your ever changing moods
Your enduring presence is my anchor

You walk with me
Stranger and untouchable One
Yet you are lover, mother, brother
Bestowing me with grace and comfort

If not for you, I would not be
The depth of my day would be flat and empty
No mysteries past, no sense of belonging present
With my grateful heart I welcome and walk with you

Lingering at the edges

and deep in the center of my being,

you are speaking of family stories,

told again and again,

reminding us from where we come

and who belongs to who,

helping us see

the bigger picture of our family.

But there are

two particular gifts that shaped me

in ways I am now

beginning to understand:

The purchase of a used piano

for our family,

for me,

because I always

played your piano when

we came to visit.

The offer to pay for

voice lessons when I started college,

because you were more

aware than I

of my need to sing,

of my need to find my voice.

Now, when I sit at the

piano you gave us,

now when I sing in the choir

or at home,

I receive the gift behind the gifts:

the invitation to become myself.

The door is open.
The light shines through,
beckoning.

Part of my heart
has already crossed
this threshold,

But my foot does not pass
and my eyes cannot see
beyond.

Death is always
such an abrupt
disconnection,

A severing of the
tangled tendrils
of our lives.

I hear the voice
of a precious child
calling my name.

I long to reach
across the stars
to hold this one again.

The Fruit of the Spirit

Wherever there is love,
I see you there.
Wherever there is joy,
I see you there.
Wherever there is peace,
I see you there.
Wherever there is patience,
forbearance,
I see you there.
Wherever there is kindness,
I see you there.
Wherever there is generosity,
I see you there.
Wherever there is faithfulness,
I see you there.
Wherever there is gentleness,
I see you there.
Wherever there is self-control,
I see you there.
In the openness of my heart
with compassion at the start;
making all things right;
where darkness flees from Light, indeed,
Wherever Jesus reigns
even in the depths of pain.
I see you there.

I feel you here, embracing me, and
know your pride, deep inside—
The smile on your bald head, glowing;
your eyes through thick lenses, all-knowing!
So how can I miss you,
Uncle Cal? But I do.