dogs on a frosty morning. a poem.

you felt the sun for the first
time since forever
and ran, the frozen air
freedom’s heist
on a cooped up soul
and on the slow jaunt back
home, frost clung to the bare
branches reaching desperate
and shimmering wild
toward the light

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in every thing. a Thanksgiving poem.

in
every
thing
the thanks comes
swollen
like a womb
full and wide

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in
every
thing
the thanks comes
shrunken
like the blotchy calloused hands of one who sits alone

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in
every
thing
the thanks comes
angry
like the plow shearing withered stalks

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in
every
thing
the thanks comes
held
tight by a hungry man bitter and begging for a belly full of peace

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in
every
thing
the thanks comes
undone
by the mercy of sunrise and sunset and summer and spring and winter and fall and the hard sharp wonder of it all

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rest, dear mama. rest.

As the days shorten, the to-do list of a mama lengthens, and we are, so many of us, worn plum out.

See, mama love and mama tasks don’t end with a check mark next to an item on a to-do list.

By mid-October, the gimp sets in, our psyches sulking and spent from back to school and the start of school, first report cards and first dances, car pool lines and school bus bullies, IEPs and 504s, SATs and endless school fees…

…but may I whisper something to you? Something that was whispered to me? I heard it the other day as the sun shone down and lifted the morning fog from the fields…

…be still.

God’s got it.

God’s got your kids.

He loves them more than you do, remember?

And God’s got YOU, mama.

His strength is made perfect in weakness, in our inability to do and be everything to our kiddos and husband and bosses, to teachers and PTA leaders and The Jones’.

Rest in Him and let Him take the reins blistering our worn out hands.

Rest in Him and know that after you’ve kissed your kiddos goodnight, He’s still with them, always.

And He’s with you, too, in the unforced rhythms of grace.

***

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