Celebrating the difference dads make in their kids’ lives

I raise my glass and make a toast
to all you dads whose children boast
about your wisdom and your wit
that shaped their lives for good.

Although not-perfect, you dads made
a difference in your kids who played
on vacant lots and backyard swings
or sitting on the floor.

You listened to their hurting hearts
when what they clung to broke apart.
You rubbed their backs as if to say,
“I hope you know I care!”

You doubted you had been enough
when they rebelled when life was tough.
But God gave you the means to give
your kids into His hands.

You gave them space to spread their wings.
And when they felt how failure stings,
you reassured them you were there
to help them fly again.

You asked forgiveness when you failed
and proved that love is what prevailed
when all was said and all was done
and all was not enough.

You helped your children picture God
as one whose shoulders are quite broad
who loves just like a father does.
Forgiving. Trusting. True.

A lasting symbol of a faithful life

My mother’s hands are gnarled and quite wrinkled.
The kiss of time has left its beauty marks.
Those slender fingers clutch for more than mem’ries.
They reach in love to comfort hurting hearts.
My mother’s hands upraised in praise to Jesus
call me to worship and to seek His face.

My mother’s hands still fold to ask God’s blessing.
They grasp His hand and hold on for dear life.
Much like a toddler takes her daddy’s fingers,
my mother clings to God with knuckles white.
My mother’s hands recall her deep devotion
inviting me to serve the Lord she loves.

My mother’s hands are strangers to an iPad.
But they make music when she’s asked to play.
An old upright or baby grand piano
provide the keys on which her fingers pray.
My mother’s hands can entertain her neighbors
while worshiping the One who owns her heart.

My mother’s hands will one day cease their motion.
Deprived of life, they’ll lay unclenched and still.
They will remind me of her faithful service
responding to a call that she fulfilled.
My mother’s hands will on that day direct me
to fix my gaze on our eternal home.

*the above poem can be sung to the tune “Finlandia”

Why I hate Tax Day

Hey, did you see my Uncle Sam?
He’s holding out his empty hand
demanding that for which I’ve worked
to pay for what he needs.

Like those who beg with cardboard signs,
my Uncle claims he’s in a bind.
And what is bad, I can’t say no.
He’s good at guilting me.

I hate this taxing time of year
when Sam makes his intentions clear.
He wants a handout from us all
and doesn’t bat an eye.

You’d think by now he’d find a way
to change his tune and start to pay
for what it takes for him to live
from his own cash reserves.

A Mothers Day tribute to my mom

She claims no throne.
She wears no crown.
Her place is not a palace.
Her dinnerware is not pure gold.
Her cup is not a chalice.

But she’s a queen
and nothing less.
Her Majesty’s my mother.
She’s ruled my heart
since I was born.
I love her like no other.

Her Highness
is stooped low by years.
Her memory is fading.
But she can brighten up a room.
She’s known for entertaining.

She pines for her departed prince.
Her kingdom is diminished.
A fog of grief now clouds her reign.
On dark days she feels finished.

I ache to see her struggle so
maneuvering her walker.
I hurt inside recalling times
I disobeyed and mocked her.

My selfish teenage attitude
ignored the grace she modeled.
I carelessly dismissed her charm
demanding to be coddled.

The pain I caused my little mom
through brutish misbehavior
she overlooked forgiving me
much like her precious Savior.

I know this queen who gave me life
will one day pass away
and so I laud her for her love
on this her special day!