A pastor-father’s advice to the bride and groom

Allison Joy, Timothy John,
what is for keeps is grounded on
a love that is not feeling-based
but chosen every day.
 
It is a love that turns blind eyes
to words or actions that aren’t wise
and gives the benefit of doubt
by focusing on grace.
 
It is a love that won’t keep score
and like you learned in Ecuador*
to get along requires work
and giving-in pays off.
 
Just like a glass of well-aged wine
whose taste betrays a length of time,
the love you two together toast
won’t happen overnight.
 
It can’t be hurried. Years must pass
to make the kind of love that lasts.
The crush of romance will mature
as passion yields to choice.
 
Much like you choose a cabernet
(in spite of what your feelings say),
just act on what you know is true
for feelings often lie.
 
The richness of a fine merlot
is guaranteed to freely flow
as you uncork God’s promises
and heed what He has said.
 
So as you, Tim, assume your role,
make Christ-like love your daily goal
by giving up what you deserve
and laying down your life.
 
Take up your cross and die each day
without insisting on your way.
For that’s how Jesus loved His bride
and then said “Follow me!”
 
And, Allison, that’s why you can
become submissive to your man
convinced he’s putting your needs first
as servant-leaders do.
 
And use the gifts God’s given you,
for Tim depends on what you do
to keep your home and finances
well-run and organized.
 
If both of you are giving in
to serve each other you will win
the game of love (agape style).
And it’s more than a game.
 
Tim and Al, for love to last
remember this… what’s past is past.
Don’t pick at scabs from yesterday.
Forgive and then let go.
 
Keep short accounts. Let anger out.
Don’t bury it, withdraw and pout.
Work through what’s come between you two
before you drift to sleep.
 
And when you wake to face the day
consult His Word, take time to pray.
And give Him all your hopes and fears
as you face what’s to come.
 
A marriage. That’s what on its way.
A marriage follows wedding day.
A lifetime to live out your vows
relying on the Lord.
 
So as you promise to be true
having confidently said, “I do,”
be sure that we who love you guys
will hold you to your words.

* Tim and Allison met in Ecuador at Covenant Bible College seven years ago. That common experience factored significantly in their eventual courtship.

** I had the priivilege of officiating my middle daughter’s wedding on July 24, 2011 and gave these words of advice to Allison Joy Asimakoupoulos and Timothy John Anderson.

Why Fathers’ Day is a mixed bag

It’s that day of the year
when I’m glad I’m a dad
but I grieve that my own’s not around.
And I wish I could tell him
how deeply he’s missed
since we laid him six feet ‘neath the ground.

I’d love him to know
that my girls have achieved
and have made godly choices in life.
How I wish he could meet
the young man who proposed
and will soon make my daughter his wife.

There is much I would ask him
about real estate,
how to broker a deal on a car,
when to liquidate assets
or buy struggling stocks,
how to read a long putt for a par.

Seems I took Dad for granted
and wrongly believed
he would always be there to ask how.
I deluded myself
thinking there would be time
even when cancer furrowed his brow.

And while I am grateful
for all that he did
(not the least was to teach me to pray),
I’ve a lump in my throat
and a knot in my gut
as I thank God for Dad this Sunday.

* My dad lost his 14 year battle to prostate cancer on Novermber 4, 2008. I miss him more than words can say!http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VlYBXJv78ZI

Recalling fingers that modeled faith

With fingers intertwined in prayer…
That’s how our moms gripped hope.
By faith they grasped the Father’s hand
and held on so to cope.

Our mothers’ hands became the means
by which God answered prayer.
They rarely rested in pursuit
of finding ways to care.

Those gentle hands enveloped us
when we were very small.
They diapered us and cooked our food
and held us when we’d fall.

Those hands that touched our fevered brows
and rubbed our aching feet
were calloused by their servants’ hearts
and needs they tried to meet.

And when we struck out on our own
in search of grownup dreams,
those folded hands called out to God
to bless our hopeful schemes.

Those fingers dialed calling us.
They held a pen and wrote.
They typed a letter or e-mail
or texted a brief note.

Those hands (now wrinkled) symbolize
the values they passed on
to sons and daughters dearly loved
who all too soon were gone.

And so as we recall the one
God chose to give us birth,
we lift our hands in gratitude
to Him who holds the earth!

That Arizona law borders on racial profiling;
A Mothers’ Day wish from a poet-son

It’s Nacho Day If…
That Arizona law borders on racial profiling

I hope your name is not Jose
if you are headed Phoenix-way.
They may think you’re from Mexico
and start to read your rights.

It’s nacho day in posh Scottsdale
if you are jailed till posting bail
for saying “buenos dias”
to a stranger on the street.

Don’t order tacos in Tucson
especially if your name is Juan.
They’ll capture you red-handed
for that salsa really stains.

That new law borders on insane.
No wonder critics are inflamed.
If racial profiling’s deemed right
then something’s deeply wrong.

Illegals can’t sneak north unchecked!
But how you seek out and detect
if someone you suspect’s a fraud
should not shame those who aren’t.

I thought that Lady Liberty
said refugees were safe and free.
Or does that statue now exceed
its limitations?

Remembering a Mom Prone to Forget
A Mothers’ Day wish from a poet-son

Mom’s rosy cheeks are growing pale
Her memory’s begun to fail
This little dinghy needs a sail.
Her outboard’s wearing out.

My mother misses Dad so much,
his sound advice, his tender touch.
She’s lost without her guiding light.
She’s timid and unsure.

Still there’s a sparkle in her eye
and yet I really can’t deny
the fact that Mom is losing sight
of what to do and when.

But then again, don’t get me wrong.
Each night at six she leads in song
as eight or ten or sometimes twelve
belt out those timeless hymns.

She tells a joke like Jay Leno.
Her timing’s perfect, don’t you know?
But how she can recall punch lines
is quite a mystery.

She journals daily like a kid
recounting what she ate and did.
Yet sadly, once she shuts her book
the ink evaporates.

But she’s a star (just like her name).
She twinkles night and day the same.
Her constant smile beams God’s love
to everyone she meets.

God, bless you Mom and give you health,
for as we age that is true wealth.
May you be rich remembering
how very much you’re loved.

* At eighty-three, my mom is a remarkable woman. She is still very much in love with life, her Lord, and her two sons (and their families). She is not in love with a mind that can’t recall what it once could.