Our Heavenly Father,
We come before you as a nation – one nation under God despite what some desire. Yes, this nation is still Yours. And we acknowledge all You’ve done for this nation in your love and might. You influenced the Framers in its design. You’ve called people from many nations to come together with all of their gifts and perspectives and molded us together as one. E pluribus unum. You’ve given us freedom in which art, invention, business, and a multitude of other blessings have thrived; in which hometown parades are enjoyed; in which each one in a family is valued; in which we are free to say what we think regardless of how silly or wise. We know You have protected us individually and as a nation, and we are so very grateful to You.
But we must pray for forgiveness. We’ve become despicable with what we’ve allowed: course speech, perversion, selfishness, cowardice, laziness, gluttony. If there was way to break one of your commandments, we found it and did so or turned a blind eye to keep the peace. Oh Dear Lord, cleanse us. We are sick of sin. We are appalled at wickedness. Drive it out from among us! Purify this nation, we pray.
And now we ask You to heal us. Heal us of this flu. Heal the folks who have it and keep it from the folks who don’t. Heal us, too, of the fear that embraces us just now. Take it away, far away. Descend on us with Your peace and the knowledge of Your presence. If someone spreads fear intentionally, this is what we ask: we ask that every word will produce not fear, but faith; not cowardice, but courage. And we ask that those whose intentions are to destabilize us with fear – we ask that every word they speak will bring fear to them, that every effort to tear down will reduce them to dust. For we are not just sick from a germ. We are sick of lies and we are sick of deception and we are sick of corruption. So as we ask for healing from sickness, we ask for a clean sweep of evil in whatever form it takes. And we give you all the honor and glory.
In Jesus’ Saving Name we pray,
Amen.
Dearest Father,
Who was there the very moment we came into
being and knew what we would look like and how
we would think – could think;
Who watches us with care and insight, pleasure and sadness; great mercy and love;
Who anticipates our stumbles and successes;
Who measures our years and the minutes of our days;
Who sees our sins and hears our excuses;
Whose holiness we offend and Whose grace we dismiss;
To You, Father,
Of light and redemption and hope and delight and creation;
Of the tenderness of a mother and the encouraging discipline of a father;
Of knowledge beyond our comprehension;
Of unfathomable wisdom;
Of indescribable love;
Of mercy that travels deeper than the ocean and higher than the heavens;
Of presence;
We give thanks. No matter where we find ourselves nor when, You are there. You are there in good and bad circumstances. You are there when we are with friends, and You are there when we are among strangers, and You are there when we are alone. And when we pray, whether we sense it or not, You are there. You hear. Of all things great and small, the best of all is Your presence. For there is nothing good in our lives nor in this world that does not originate from Your hand. All abundance, all comfort in want, all beauty seen and felt and understood is from Our Heavenly Father.
And on this Thanksgiving Day we bring our small words of thanks to the Source of every blessing, and in great thankfulness for Your Presence.
In Jesus’ mighty and gracious Name,
Amen.
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Image: Pexels.com
I think of all I hold dear;
God and loved ones, nature, more;
Note the path is darker here
Than it’s ever been before.
Ponder in this gloomy place
If I’ll live to see the light;
Or if some effort to erase
Will finally make it ever night.
No, not forever. Only now.
In such confidence I cope;
But this instance will allow
Quiet sadness mixed with hope.
Image: spencer-watson-p0Yupww_SNM-unsplash.jpg
The God who created this beautiful world, the
heavens, the water and sky,
Will surely hold you in the palm of His hand to protect and
direct and supply
Your needs and your dreams and will comfort your cares,
And knowing you just as He does,
Give mercy abundantly, strength for the day, and you just need know that He loves.
Scratchy crunch of deadened leaves;
Musky scents of garden’s past;
Fading blues and reds and greens;
Shadows’ longer-reaching cast.
Spicy ciders, chocolate hot;
Comfort foods and pies and cake;
Fudge with nuts or maybe not;
Laden tables we can take.
Cozy fires with dancing flames
Mesmerize our dreams and thought;
Sweet traditions, years the same;
Sure reminders we were taught.
Heart’s desire is to express
In a place of grateful prayer
God’s abundance, His goodness;
And His kind and gentle care.
Poem: Connie Miller Pease; Images: wikimediacommons.jpg; Pexels.com; thanksgiving-1060214_960_720-pixabay-cco-public-domain.jpg
I wrote this nearly 30 years ago – before I owned either a computer or cell phone. Its length and language tell, perhaps, how much Tennyson I was reading at the time. Its truth, well you can decide for yourself.
*************************************************************************************************
Snow floats so lightly to the ground
Akin to diamonds’ sparkle bright.
It’s quiet, oh so quiet now
As onward winds the gentle night.
And light breaks up the darkness which
Was soft and warm, a friend to man.
Rays setting forth with their own gift
Of life, a silent contribution.
Acknowledged by the sons of Day
The sun projects its sharpest beam
Of warmth, of tenderness, of love,
Of clarity of visions seen.
The townsmen underneath the sky
In tasks intently diligent,
Yet stop to help a neighbor
In Greater work; benevolence.
A Child is born within this scape.
Fair, thoughtful, willing now to learn
He grows in stature, virtue, intellect;
Seizing lessons, each in turn.
In play with friend he learns of sharing;
Give and take, each in its place.
Perhaps to give the better part,
And in so doing finds more grace.
His father, mother, brother, sister
Teach him well in their own way
Of kinship greater than their own
Extending to the sons of Day.
Receives instruction, he and others,
From a wisened teacher there.
He learns of more than dates and graphs;
Learns the love of learning more.
Forgiveness from within his church
A lesson difficult to grasp;
Its merit true, yet grieving, freeing
Learns the Child as hands are clasped.
How charity and chastity
Go hand in hand, a deeper troth.
Consistent, true, considerate;
Teacher, student of his love.
A noble statesman teaches him
Not of rank or high degree,
But of higher consequence;
True vision, gentle quality.
Throughout the planting and the harvest
Child observes truths of the soil.
Seed produces same in harvest;
Patience requisite of toil.
From life itself the Child acquires
Understanding of own self’s control,
Without the which all else abridges
‘Til nought is left of value’s toll.
Along his journey thus instructed,
Child grows thoughtful, kind and good;
Stopping oft to help his neighbor,
Conscious of his brotherhood.
Light nudges night away again.
Child tends his work from day to day.
Projecting still its gift of life
The clarifying, warming Ray.
Into his work there comes a box,
A talking box with soothing sound.
Pleased to have this company,
Bemused, the Child keeps it around.
Its music stirs, its commentary
Sometimes stern, others humorous,
Box becomes a life its own;
Intent in its own righteousness.
Once again to help his neighbor
Child hears the box from shop to shop
Goading him for senseless labor,
“Have you had your turn?”, cries the box.
Troubled by this indignation
Child replies, “It matters not
Whose turn is whose in brotherhood.”
Silent is the box.
Soothing music, words that please him
Once again calm Child’s soul.
“I would not tell you what to do,”
Replies the box, sans virtue’s toll.
“I am your friend. Look! How I love you!
I am here both night and day!
I would not keep your brother hurting;
It’s only you I try to save.”
Not a little troubled, he,
The child considers its behest;
Yet what to do with the box?
Endures the stimulating chest.
And somewhat with relief he finds
The Box is what it claims to be;
A friend in hard times and in ease,
Providing helpful levity.
Again the Box scoffs at the Child
“O, innocent, you stupid man!”
Not one around chaste remains;
Each takes his pleasure best as he can.”
“Look yonder! Love is only
Temporal and nothing more.
Naïve you are. You poor dear Child.
Hold you only to folklore.”
Begins the child to answer it,
Yet pauses, thoughts newly confused;
Maintains his silence now disturbed.
Box, the one who seems bemused.
Thus encounters compromise
Of virtue, once he deemed as right.
Uncertain of his thoughts, his deeds;
The source unknown of Child’s plight.
Box seizes opportunity
With powerful song and dance.
It breathes a word, alluring,
Tempting. Whispers, shouts it. “TOLERANCE.”
“Yes, tolerance is fitting, caring,”
Says the Child, “It fits the beam
Of the Sun so high above us.”
Things not always what they seem.
Light inches in across the darkness
Radiating softer light.
Squinting, Child ponders slowly
“Why gleams the sun so bright, so bright?”
Once again a neighbor stops him
In this contemplative state.
“I advise you true direction,
Brother, friend who’s lost your way.”
“O you who are so high and mighty!
Slave to your own foolish task!”
Box admonishes the Child
“And what of Tolerance!”
“A man can turn ways manifold,
One way equal to the other.
Care you not to tolerate
The wanderings of your friend, your brother!”
Stutters Child, “The ways unequal
In the way; some briars, cliffs.
Friend would repent his wayward journey
To help was my sole motive.”
“Yet, perhaps I was hasty
In my vision for my friend.
Not I, but he it is who chooses
Paths to take to journey’s end.”
“Admitted he that he was lost,
But by my charge, admonition
Perhaps I unwittingly
Detracted from a truer vision.”
Thusly courses conversation;
“Surely you will learn to know
Even seedlings planted early
Into something different grow.”
“Childhood’s lessons better left
To babes. You are too great for these.
With societal correctness
More the masses you will please.”
Another day forgiveness asked
From one held in the child’s debt.
Box intercepted, whispers,
“Why is it for him you fret?”
“He has nothing done to help you
Nor to make your days seem bright
Pardon would the error prove;
Debt his due, of course is right.”
“But what of tolerance?”
Inquires the Child. His heart protests.
“This is nought of tolerance,”
Assures the Box, “Now take your rest.”
“Sons of Day need not the Sun
To guide them, keep them safe and strong.
Tolerate cacophony!
You will grow to love the song.”
Light filters through the clouds below
Touching, warming Child at play.
“Damn the light! It scorches me.
Await I ‘til it goes away!”
Offered now a high position
Child considers in this hour
“Take it! Take it!” Box demands him
“This shall offer you much power!”
“What of quiet, gentle service?”
Momentarily stays Child’s reply.,
Voices he the words to please it
“None more deserving than I.”
Years of subtle twisting, turning
Child and Box trace hand to hand’
Lessons learned so long ago
No more distract from Box’s stand.
Virtue, lost in years of message
From the Box, forever gone.
“’Tis hard to see the way I travel.”
Child loathe admits. And travels on.
Lessons taught by truer teachers
Tossed aside Child knows not whence
Liberated from their limits
In the name of Tolerance.
Enters he into the twilight
Recognizing nought of sunlight’s bend.
Night no friend, it offers strictly
Cold and darkness without end.
Quietly the child lies down
Task long forgotten, sighs
“I cannot help but wonder if . . .”
His words drift off as dead he lies.
Snow floats so lightly to the ground
Akin to diamonds’ sparkle bright.
It’s quiet, oh so quiet now
As onward winds the gentle night.
The Child in his coffin lies
Lost to Day, alike to dark.
Triumphantly, a voice rings clear
Now his casket stands the Box.
Poem and copyright by Connie Miller Pease; photos: pexels.com; pixabay
There are beautiful places in the wide world; colorful, exotic and lush.
Where warm breezes call, sweet sunshine is sure with tempting allure from the rush.
I could fly to locations with interesting sights; Or hike mountains that soar to the clouds.
Or maybe alight in a city at night whose action is fast, fun, and loud.
But only one place do I hold on my heart because from the start it held me.
Not bright nor dependably sunny and lush nor offers new sights to see.
Yet to just one place I unceasingly go, and I know its dear soul by design.
No, not for perfection, but for so much more: because it’s a place I call mine.
Images: Pixabay on pexels.com; pexels.com by Konstantin Stupak; www.pinterest.com-camerons-healing-kitchen.png
The pansy bowl sits, forlorn, on the floor
Searching for one beam of sun;
The sweaters I’d packed away with great hope
Again claim warmth second to none;
Thoughts of iced tea are now besotten;
Grass between toes? Imagination;
The smell of warm earth is nearly forgotten;
Neglected Spring left behind at the station;
It’s April the sixth in my northern state,
Outside, sparkling white, eight inches of snow;
I weep as I must be resigned to my fate,
With more in the forecast, or so we are told;
When will this nightmarish existence end?!
When will my socks no longer be wet?
When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When?
How much more miserable can it get?
Spring, if by some unknown, unintended breach;
We’ve carelessly, needlessly frightened away;
Or taken for granted green, pink, red, or peach;
Forgive! And come back for an extended stay!
Image: pexels.com
Warmth is cozier when it snows;
On foggy days light finds its mark;
Life’s winding path no one can know;
Faith is brighter in the dark.
