Practically Paradise

It’s not the big things I’ll miss

When you go, but the little things

These make a house a home

And tug on love’s heart-strings

And I smile now as you move

Slowly, rapt concentration

The titter of tea-cups and silver

Sing of evening celebration

Delivery complete; Tea-tray touch-down

On coffee-table landing strip

Scent of vanilla-rooibos

Teases the air as we sip

…And chat about little nothings

Which are really not nothings at all

But will tune the whisper of echoes

In mom’s memory-madrigal

© Janet Martin

It's not the big things, but the little things

that make a house a home! 

 

...this was re-iterated just now as I noticed the word POP (aka soda) on the corner of my grocery list. 

Hey, its always worth a try, at least that's what Matt would say:)

    

a few more 'little everythings'

2 days before Emily's wedding last fall my sister-in-law gave me a lily that she dug from her garden so I quickly plopped it in a planter...we've been enjoying calla lilies this winter-long...

...little guy I babysit LOVES apples!

 It's raining right now. This might bring an end to the after-supper cross-country skiing;( frown, ...oops, smile :)! In spiteof this longer winter there are things I'll miss...

Of Climbing and Canvasses

We each have our own range of mountains to climb

Spilling the art of our attitudes where

Accountability sobers our prayer

Urging us upward in reverence of Time

Clandestine cravings and comforts compete

No one but God can behold our hearts

And no one but God perfect pardon imparts

Thus making bearable life’s bittersweet

Over the canvas of daylight our thought

Paints into pictures life’s moiling chagrin

Reaching, ah reaching for something within

Straining to touch it but cannot tell what

We all are pilgrims and artists; oh God

Called and commissioned by Your love and grace

Our spills and stumbles fall to Your embrace

Pictures of pardon and hope brushed on sod

© Janet Martin

Guilt assaults me the instant those words left my mouth, ‘nothing ever stays clean around here’.

Victoria continues stirring her hot chocolate completely un-alarmed offering words of amused sympathy and suddenly I know I am not ready for a quiet, sterile house.

After she leaves for school I wander through messy rooms capturing ‘blessing in disguise’.

Even so, I believe a little organizing of ‘blessing’ is in order!

 Victoria is painting a house-warming gift to give to Emily when she returns from her honey-moon in a few days.

  

Breakfast Remains...

  

*Mount Wash-more waiting to be conquered! (*a name I read somewhere else:)

And as for you, brothers, never tire of doing what is right. 2 Thess.3:13

The Home-front

 

Sometimes the front-lines become blurred; obscured

Beneath piled dishes, laundry loads and such

The aftermath of battles we’ve endured

For all its grief seems not to matter much

As daylight dims we cannot see the yield

Of blood-sweat-tear-drops spilled into the air

Upon this precious home-front battle-field

Soldiers-in-sacred-making need our care

We forge toward a Prize we cannot see

A motley stumbling, fumbling infantry

We watch the fledgling flounder, struggle; grow

Restless to fly on eager, untried wings

We cut the cord when they are born but oh,

We cannot sever love’s tender heart-strings

As, midst the noise of pots and pans and spills

Of bills and slamming doors and soft good-night

We pray the Lord to keep us through the drills

To give us courage to be strong and fight

For soon the care-free little boy and girl

Must be prepared to face this wicked world

In boot-camps strewn with homework, footballs, shoes

With muffin-crumbs and heaped, half-finished chores

Where we are startled by the hues and dues

Of love-in-training recruits for life’s wars

It’s easy to lose sight of Love’s High Call

As common cares distract and circumvent

We cannot know what battles will befall

But this we know; we must be diligent

As we scold, cheer and kiss those freckled grins

The home-front is where the future begins

© Janet Martin

 In our Mother's Day Service on Sunday our pastor reminded us that Timothy became the man he was not on his own but because of diligent examples of faith...what we do today MATTERS tomorrow!

 I am reminded of your sincere faith, which first lived in your grandmother Lois and in your mother Eunice and, I am persuaded, now lives in you also. 2 Tim.1:5

 Thou therefore endure hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ. 2 Tim.2:3

I Like It Like This...

Someday I’ll get the chance to rock

And read those books still on my list

This steady pace of tick-and-tock

Slips quietly into the mist

And I, wearied within its leap

Climb into bed, my book in hand

But oh, alas, three pages deep

And I am off to slumber-land

Someday I’ll get a chance to write

Those words that evade me of yet

Or come to me within the night

And in the morning I forget

And someday I will organize

Those scattered thoughts within my mind

Instead of shoes and laundry piles

And tasks shaping the daily grind

Someday, too close to me, I fear

My moments won’t include the fuss

Of teen-age angst on what to wear

Or school-girl waving from the bus

Someday the noise of boys and toys

Will slip to sudden quietness

This kaleidoscope of moment-joys

Rotating where echoes caress

Someday, but oh, not now, not yet

The books upon the shelf will keep

Tonight when I climb into bed

I am so glad that I can sleep

The luxury of mundane toil

Startles with raw and fresh appeal

And I must tend its precious spoil

Which even now life’s moments steal

© Janet Martin

House-keeping or Homemaking

It may not look like much;

the filling, emptying, scrubbing

repetition of pots and pans,

of bowls and such

I have heard these walls

referred to as finger-print prisons

designated for women

of drudgery’s lowliest calls

The heaven of splattered,

everyday ordinaries

is often misunderstood

until its frame is shattered

We tread the gilded halls
of cracked linoleum,
of smile-smudged windows
and paint-chipped walls

I suppose if this were it;

plumping of cushions,

fluffing of beds and miles of laundry

I might concede a little bit

But, we are here, not to prove

our existence in halls of fame

As we keep house, we are making a home

for those we love

© Janet Martin

Of Home-makers, Mamas and Glory-days

 Image Source:

We do not tip the glamor Richter-scale

Of fashion, fortune or front-page applause

Yet we embrace, like heaven’s Holy Grail

Each humble task of love’s domestic cause

There are no halls of fame or monuments

To honor dish-soap hands of mama-smiles

No recognition for the hours spent

Of washed and folded, scrubbed and polished miles

We do not labor for crass platitude

Or trophies to acknowledge our pain

But oh, the childish grin of gratitude

Endears to us what some view as mundane

There are no banners waving in the air

For she who, for the thousandth time has served

Supper at six and no one really cares

Yet she toils not for recompense deserved

She toils to see her happy children smile

To nurture tenderly her patch of sod

Not for the wealth of fortune’s fleeting guile

But to make home a little glimpse of God

© Janet Martin

The inspiration for this poem; 

Both of my daughters work at Long-term care facilities. Yesterday while exchanging stories, they agreed it is so touching to see some of the ladies with dementia rocking and patting dolls or folding and re-folding tea-towels or aprons; re-living their glory-days…

We watched the movie The Help yesterday.Wow! That's all I will say.

On the week-end one of my daughters commented on how I seem so happy and content just doing laundry and stuff...ah, if she only knew:) and I pray someday she may, Lord-willing:) It's not the laundry, the dishes, the cleaning, the 'stuff'; it's the LOVE!

The other evening after supper had been over  for a while suddenly 'sonny' mentions while passing through the kitchen, 'oh, by the way mom, thanks for supper. It was really good'.'

I dedicate this song to all mamas and daddies.