Last week, I wrote about the brave women of whaling families who let their men go for months and years at a time while courageously holding down the fort. Today, I offer another shout out, admiration of and appreciation for their modern counterparts: the spouses of active duty service members.

Their husbands or wives are shipped off for tours to far away places, usually to face hard circumstances and often to handle unpleasant or even horrible duties.

And when those husbands or wives come home, they have to readjust to life together again, sometimes with the special challenges of injury, mental illness, or emotional distress thrown in to complicate matters.

They may have to move many times across the country or even around the world.

If there are children involved, they must do what they can to be both mother and father to those children during deployments and help the children readjust to every change, every sudden up or down, every normal childhood milestone that may be more complicated in the face of military life.

And while it’s true that some will quickly say, “This is what we signed up for and I am just doing what I need to do,” as far as I am concerned, they are not sincerely thanked nearly often enough.

Because it takes an incredible amount of courage to face the unknown and the what ifs, to remain faithful to one’s spouse when they are so far away, and to keep caring and supporting when the hazards of the job lead to additional relationship stress.

That is some kind of courage. And some kind of tenacious love.

In honor of these military spouses, I offer a very short poem, written in the voice of a committed wife writing to her deployed husband.

Many things may worry you but let this not be one.

My heart will be staying true until this trip is done.

And evermore. And evermore.

Some pain lodges in the mind and some invades the heart.

Release in Grace your pain can find while we remain apart.

And evermore. And evermore.

You will stand, risk, and obey until the time has passed.

Then you will come back one day, come home to me at last.

And evermore. And evermore.

People admire Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. for a variety of good reasons. He pursued a vital cause and was a virtuous man in many respects.

However, at this time when we remember his birth and honor his life each year, I find it most fitting to focus on the hope he had. His hope stood on the true freedom that we must find for our souls if we are to really grasp and live out his dream with our actions, through eyes now lined with love.

It was in God’s love and light. It was in forgiveness and honesty and openness.

This hope can only live in a heart that’s been touched by Heaven. And it is a hope that lives on long after the one who preached it has flown back home.

For the hope that we would live in peace with each other is bigger than only one person. (We are simply thankful and in awe when we see that hope lived out in a single life so faithfully and fearlessly.)

In Dr. King’s honor, I have written this short poem called Free at Last:

Behold the dream–

Spoken of iconically, pressed for consistently.

Bigger than a single man,

Spilling over the start-end boundaries of

Measurable time.

Deeper than a colored theme,

For our skin is only our surface. Changing light

Must pierce deeper

To transform the heart. He knew

The greatest victories are not won

With bullets and blades

But with

Hope

That while we live and breathe

We can choose

To live his dream.

When God’s goodness corrects

Our vision.

In my adult years, “Once in Royal David’s City” has become one of my favorite Christmas songs. Ironic, perhaps, since it focuses on how Jesus was a child just like we are/were, and how He can empathize with us so well because He experienced things so common for many of us. Yet, I never remember learning that song in my own childhood.

I have wondered sometimes what types of childhood sadness Jesus personally understood. Did He break an arm or leg? Was He bullied by other children in His village or even by His siblings (perhaps in connection with His parentage)? Did Joseph or Mary yell at Him in exasperation when they were having a bad day? Did He know food insecurity in lean years? Was He troubled by scary dreams?

Jesus would grow up to become a staunch advocate of children, affirming their value and wellbeing, and declaring that anyone who would dare to harm the littlest of people would face horrible future judgement. He drew children close to bless them, and He loved them beautifully.

I have been thinking a lot recently about the power of empathy that springs from shared and similar experiences, or from a deeper motivation to bless another out of an empathetic understanding. “I haven’t been in your shoes,” one might say in such latter cases, “but if I were in your shoes, I would sure be blessed if someone else would do or say this…”

Then, this past week, I heard a story about a deployed soldier who longs to reach out and bless some orphans in his local community, even as he will be missing Christmas with his loved ones back here at home.

(Again the irony, that I should hear about that soldier during the same week when many celebrate the life of St. Nicholas: a boy who was orphaned from a young age. A boy who would grow up to pour out his wealth, love, energy, and time for so many in his region, but especially for the children. Nicholas knew what it was like to be small, helpless, and sad. He wanted to minister to children and protect them at times when they felt the same way.)

All these combined ponderings led me to write a poem in honor of that soldier and the spirit of the Advent season. I will share it here, and I pray it will bless you.

For the Children

Monktar and Mariam sit near the eastward gate,

Drawing bright stars in the dirt with some sticks.

Brother and sister, they walked from two towns away

After their mother had starved to feed them.

Now the home workers scrape up every bit they can,

Making it stretch so that every kid’s fed…

There is so little to cook in the pot tonight.

Stars dim as these two go, hungry, to bed.

~

At least they will sleep in a safer place now,

And dream of eating.

Perhaps tomorrow.

~

The orphanage sits near a camp full of soldiers.

One of them wakes a bit early, next day.

Uniform straightened, he picks up a box of food,

Carries it quietly through that east gate.

Rising sun graces broad shoulders which bear his gift:

Dense with nutrition and hope for less fear.

Same sun lights a worker’s face as she receives it

And thanks him again for blessing them here.

~

So far from home, with so little of his own,

He smiles and wishes her

A merry Christmas.

~

Christmas has never been just about happiness,

Lavish festivities, spending too much.

Christmas has always been carried on angels’ wings:

Spirit of selflessness embraced by love.

So it goes and it grows: this gift for all the year,

This light of sacrifice piercing the night.

Outside of duty, we hunger and thirst for peace.

Bellies full, now we sit, craving the light.

~

On this day and every day, may the heart of a baby

Beat in us and set a starving world

Free.

Looking back on themes covered in the first eight months of this year and looking ahead to 2019’s remaining weeks, I want to usher in this final, dual focus of receiving blessings to be a blessing with a new poem. I hope it will encourage you today.

Before and Behind (a poem of gratitude)

I couldn’t be blessed until

I knew I was loved. Really

Loved

For who I was and am

(And will be).

Then, the patches on my soul

Were sown, tight

And the reserve of that love

Filled me to overflowing.

I couldn’t be blessed until

I knew I was known. Really

Known

For who I was and am

(And will be).

Then, the scars laced ‘cross my soul

Were soothed, smooth

Because the love had not evaporated

With the knowing.

I couldn’t be blessed until

I knew I was seen. Really

Seen

For who I was and am

(And will be).

Then, dormant seeds inside my soul

Were awakened, green

To sprout as they were

Always meant to.

I couldn’t be blessed until

I knew I was heard. Really

Heard

For who I was and am

(And will be).

Then, a melody surrounding my soul

Was absorbed, sweet

With acceptance of that clear

And ancient truth.

No, I couldn’t be blessed until all these things

Finally occurred to the soul of me.

Then, with eyes open wider, in the echoing song,

I saw I had been being blessed all along.

In this final post about shining, I want to share a brief thought and a short, related poem.

The thought:

True shining is born when we are what we are created to be and we do what we are created to do. When those two factors dwell together in a person’s life, genuineness and warm peace are sure to result.

The poem:

Solaris

On the fourth day

He made

Lights to shine and guide.

The greater,

A star so near it would be our sun,

Began to burn,

To do its work.

“An assignment or an existence?”

We may now ask

While sitting, warmed in its ancient rays.

Can the two, by design, be separated?

Why

Would we try?

The past couple of nights, a moon like this one has hung, low and brilliant, in the clear evening sky as I have driven home from various tasks. Reflecting on God’s faithfulness in every moment and our struggle to understand what it means to shine in challenging times, I now write and share this short poem.

Mirrors

I thanked the sun for warming my day,

Asked it to never go away.

But it did. Replaced by a circle of stone

Gracing me: cold and alone.

At the night stretching on endlessly

And the rock hanging over me,

I shook a fist. And I railed hard against how

The sun was light years away now.

Then a whisper rode to me upon the wind,

A timeless message sent:

“The sun is shining in a different form

And this light also warms

The heart which trusts a reflection bright

In the darkest of nights.”

So I lifted my face, set down my fears,

And reflected radiance in tears.

“I sought the Lord, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears. Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.” Psalm 34:4-5

The Light Sees and Knows (a poem)

The light was warm — just warm enough

To melt the frost, to dry the rain.

Dark clouds cleared as sunlight slid down

These phantom lines of hidden pain.

There is a rainbow high above

Though I cannot see with these eyes.

But I will let the light seep in

And wait with hope for bluer skies.

Three Lights: A Parable

There was once a grandfather who worked diligently to make a gorgeous paper lantern to hang in front of his house for a festival, to welcome his family home. Years of experience had taught him how to set the dimensions just right, so the small flame inside would not be near enough to light the vibrant sides on fire. He handled the delicate paper with equal care, fastening it without a wrinkle or tear. And when the happy day came and his lantern was illuminated, his relatives stood near it and remembered happy celebrations of the past.

There was once a glassblowing artisan who decided to attempt a particularly exquisite (and incredibly challenging) design. If successfully completed, it would yield a wonderous top for a wedding gift to his bride: the chimney of an oil lamp for their new chamber. He applied all the skills he possessed, but just as the work in progress was reaching a most critical formation point, he saw a vital part beginning to slip. In a split-second, going on instinct, he knew he could save it if he used his hand…but that using his hand would likely mean a severe burn–or worse. Yet, he didn’t give it a second thought. His hand shot forward to save the piece, a sacrifice which eventually yielded the perfect result. Two months later, when the chamber was softly illuminated and he led his sweet lady into that space for the first time, she spied the lamp and joy radiated from her smile. The artisan’s heart turned over, and he felt the fresh scar at the base of his hand, knowing he would do it again for her.

There was once a potter who made humble lamps of clay and some fine pottery besides. One day, as he was walking to his shop, he came across some boys who were playing in a trash pile. They had picked up a large bowl with a lovely blue and gold pattern on it and were throwing it on the ground repeatedly, smashing the chunks into smaller and smaller pieces. He chided them for the destruction and disruption they were causing and drove them away. When he looked down at the fragments now littering the ground, he recognized the piece; he had made it on commission for a woman in the neighborhood years before. It crushed his heart to know that someone would crush one of his most intricate pieces, for no other reason than just the sake of a temporary thrill. But then, he had a marvelous idea. He gathered up what bits and slivers he could find, and he carried them carefully back to his shop. Then, after forming a new lamp from fresh clay, he pressed the broken pieces into the sides of the lamp to form a mosaic pattern. And later, when that lamp was ready to be used, he decided not to sell it. Instead, he took it home and set it on the dining table. When it was illuminated, the family gathered around to enjoy sweet fellowship. And they all exclaimed over how the dazzling reflection of the light off the gold flecks in the broken pieces made it the most beautiful lamp they had ever seen.

In truth, the grandfather and the artisan-husband and the potter are all the same person. And the work they have made and remade will always bear their mark of beauty when illuminated.

I have a confession to make. Sometimes, even though I know the last steps of the way back to my own place at the end of a drive, I leave my GPS app running until the very end…because I love to hear someone’s voice (even if it is automated) say, “Welcome home.”

In fact, when I think about all the different words and phrases I would label as nice or even wonderful to hear, those two words together have to be near the top of my list.

But as with other aspects of the human experience, hearing those words in this life, body, and house are only a reflection of a deeper longing. The longing to hear my final and more glorious “Welcome home” in Heaven.

To that end, I’d like to share words to a song I wrote many months ago. (I also wrote a melody, but today I will not sing it for you. Will simply let you hear the beautiful promise in the words and anticipate with me.)

Promise of Heaven

You slip again, I see your struggle and how you long to be free
You look away, too ashamed to lift your eyes to Me
Now hear a voice calling and enter My rest
Close your eyes, come away
To envision the place and the promise of days
An eternity yet to come

Gather close, all My sons and My daughters
Here on the banks of these crystal waters
Claim with joy your prize
Your new name, your new song
Let Me explain what you’ve long ached to know
Let Me catch all of your tears as they flow
With the light of My glory and the full revelation of My love

Your hurt runs deep, all of the pain caused by others you didn’t deserve
Your soul can see all these injustices roaming the face of the earth
Now hear a voice calling and enter My rest
Close your eyes, come away
To envision the place and the promise of days
An eternity yet to come

Gather close, all My sons and My daughters
Here on the banks of these crystal waters
Claim with joy your prize
Your new name, your new song
Let Me explain what you’ve long ached to know
Let Me catch all of your tears as they flow
With the light of My glory and the full revelation of My love
Let Me explain what you’ve long ached to know
Let Me catch all of your tears as they flow
With the light of My glory and the full revelation of My love

A poem: From the Dictionary of My Life

silence (n.)

the absence of company

the absence of sound

a place where truth is often found

the choice often feared

the choice often missed

a way to give my friend a kiss

the darkness draping dawn

the darkness hiding pain

an open door to make peace again

the ending of something bitter

the ending of something sweet

a chance to hear Abba’s heartbeat