Of Vacations...and Secrets (edited re-post)

 

After their travels they regaled us with tales
Of mountains and castles, of vistas and Wales
The food was splendid, the rooms were grand
The ocean green on silver sand...

...we ate apples on a moon-bathed fell

It was almost heaven, but we didn't tell

Janet~

Of Coming Home

My mind is on Home this morning... it makes that monstrous soiled laundry heap a little bit more sweet:)

Of all the sights our ventures boast

No matter where these miles may roam

One destiny surpasses most

None measures up with coming home

Of portals exotic and grand

Of mountaintops or castle-dome

Or turquoise waves washing the sand

Nothing replaces coming home

We leave its solace to employ

Love’s kind responsibility

But, oh the sweet and humble joy

Of coming home is heavenly

Someday, beyond life’s painted hall

Of tear and toil, of loss and loam

We will embrace once and for all

The utter joy of coming Home

© Janet Martin

This Beautiful Feeling of Home

My brother Dave has a poet’s soul. Last night while we (a few siblings and spouses) were chatting on his deck as the kids played in the pool he remarked, Hey, you guys, do you ever, as you drive in at your homes, feel this big sense of gladness that this is your life and this is your home? And do you ever think, man, I’m so glad that it is and what a wonderful place to be? (this guy has known difficulty in his life…much!!), but oh, I knew exactly what he meant; this feeling of utter contentment and thankfulness. He concluded then by saying how his heart breaks for all the people of the world who have never known this beautiful feeling of home! Amen, brother.

Last year on Dave’s birthday I sent him this poem, because his wife remarked that he and I were both ‘sky-lovers’(aka poets;). She laughed as I raved and she said, ‘you sound just like your brother.’

This morning his words have driven me to contemplating...

 This Beautiful Feeling of Home

What is it that makes a house a home?

A lovely solace where the soul

Is blissfully content in spite

Of living’s care and duty’s toll

At home we touch with tender ease

Those things not given second thought

Of common familiarities

Weaving an essence heaven-wrought

…and when life’s path leads from its door

Insisting that we cannot stay

How much more sweet is coming home

After the hours spent away

For home makes simple people kings

Not by the grace of things and stuff

But, as God weaves our broken strings

Into the music of His love

Here moments shape life’s memories

Of song and sorrow, joy and strife

Methinks this lovely thing must be

A glimpse of Home beyond this life

© Janet Martin

Home, sweet home, God bless our Home, Home is where the heart is, Welcome Home; these are not trite cliches.

The neighbors were gone for a few weeks on summer holidays. When the kids dropped by to pick up their mail I asked them if it feels good to be home and together they replied 'Yes'!
My sister and her hubby were gone for a week; she told me looking forward to a trip and leaving are great, but coming home is even better!

Melissa came home on Sat. night after a week up north at a kid's camp. She said it feels so good to be home. Here sisters share a moment as she shows them pictures on her phone and tells them about her week.

This Thing...Part Two

 Wow, said my son Matt, as he reverently touched the pages of a neighbor's family heirloom Bible, 'this never changes. These words are still exactly the same now as they were way back then, and way before 'back then'...Yes! and in this book it is written ' Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will never pass away.' Matthew 24:35

When on those dreamy banks at last we stand

Betaken, not by grief or living’s care

But by the utter glory of a land

Where pinnacles of earth cannot compare

To Heaven; we begin to see at last

Our hope complete; for His love has not failed

Though mockers spit and jeered and stones were cast

In ignorance and hate; God’s love prevailed

For Love cannot be slain; it transcends flesh

While evil threatens to destroy and kill

It cannot take what God instills in us

Our gifted breath He cradles in His will

And when He wills this flesh-blood cup will fall

But death for some, will be our gladder gain

For then we leave this sin-cursed orb of gall

Beyond this thorn-and-thistle port of pain

To eons of thought’s greatest mystery

Alpha, Omega, First and Last, the Same

Where I AM IS: we strain but cannot see

Or grasp the vaguest glimpse of Love’s acclaim

But oh, its Urge within us bids us on

For all we cannot know One Thing is sure

His Word abides; we build our hope upon

Love’s Truth; for its foundation will endure

Hate has no Heaven-promise; only hell

Pray tell then, who can its evil afford?

Soon we will bid this fickle world farewell

And everyone will receive their reward

According to the things which we have done

Not for salvation’s price; but out of Love

By this we prove what words cannot atone

Of whom we serve; this world or God above

For action’s voice is irrefutable

It testifies where speech stutters and fails

Its proof is certain and immutable

And in the end its witness will prevail

The wise take heed and ponder the discourse

Of thought and where its evidence will lead

And who among us has not felt the Force

Of He who seeks to satisfy our Need?

Our Need is universal; it is Love

Man cannot live by bread alone; the soul

Is not sustained by this world’s treasure-trove

Only God’s love fulfills and makes us whole

Clay holds no fortune that can satisfy

It simply keens the hunger of the flesh

The treasures of this world with this world die

Oh, what will succor longings that enmesh

Within the aching vortex of desire

And what will be the purpose to life’s pain

As we grapple and grope through life’s quagmire

If we shun God? Then is our suffering vain,

For hope pleads not from beds of sloth and ease

But from the broken heart, the weak and poor

And while we question suffering’s agonies

We weep to God, for He will not ignore

The cries of those who place their trust in Him

Proclaiming power, not by what we see

But by the promises that yet remain

Until that full and final liberty

When hope that is not seen will be revealed

The glorious climax to salvation’s plan

As the veil where His glory is concealed

Will part and we behold the Son of Man

And then, like Stephen we will cry aloud

‘I see Jesus standing at God’s right hand’

And all the unbelieving and the proud

Will believe, bowing at the judgment stand

Where Love will be the Victor evermore

The wordless groans for which He intercedes,

The anguish and the tears as we implore

Will be banished as Love’s triumph succeeds

The frustrations we were subjected to

By Divine Love, so we would seek and find

Freedom from sin’s bondage thus brought into

His glory as we leave this world behind

The glass we peer through now is dark, but then

When face to face we see the unknown known

His Love will be our ultimate acclaim

As we worship before His holy throne

Where death and sorrow will be wiped away

No pain and crying ever enter there

Though questions fill our answers with dismay

God did not His own beloved Son spare

But offered Him, a living sacrifice

To pay a debt of hate with Love’s pure blood

And we will enter Heaven by Love’s price

Redeemed within Love’s unrelenting flood

For He has suffered and was tempted just as we

But Love will overcome the wiles of hate

This suffering that seems must surely be

Will never pass through Heaven’s gleaming gate

© Janet Martin

 Our speaker Gord Martin at this morning's worship service just returned from a visit to Burundi. His topic was Is There Purpose to our Pain? and he showed pictures, told stories of the pain and horror they were told of and witnessed leaving them shaken, as those suffering proclaimed the power and love of God...and he came to the conclusion that many times the only purpose of pain can be that through it we seek Hope, the Living Hope, Jesus Christ.

I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.  For the creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed.  For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope  that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God. Romans 8; 18-21

A Poem is a Lovely Thing

A poem is a lovely thing

A soft and gentle winnowing

Of duty's spoil; a poem smiles

Like flowers on life’s mundane miles

A poem is a tender touch

Between life’s lumps of dirt and such

It meanders through our thought

In twirls and swirls in winsome jot

A poem is a little light

A beacon beaming, brave and bright

It twists those tiny ticks of time

To lilting melodies of rhyme

A poem is sweet word-spun bliss

A pleasant pause, a kindly kiss

A poet’s sudden unveiling

A poem is a lovely thing

© Janet Martin

Sometimes, while I'm shining up the house I think of this poem that I memorized as a child and it makes me sing... thank-you to the poet's who took the time to print their rhyme.

"The Shiny Little House"  by Nancy M Hayes


I wish, how I wish, that I had a little house,
with a mat for the cat and a hole for the mouse,
and a clock going "tock" in the corner of the room,
and a kettle, and a cupboard, and a big birch broom

To school in the morning the children off  would run
and I'd give them a kiss and a penny and a bun.
But directly they had gone from this little house of mine,
I'd clap my hands and snatch a cloth and shine, shine, shine.

I'd shine all the knives, all the windows and the floors,
all the grates, all the plates, all the handles on the doors,
every fork, every spoon, every lid and every tin,
till everything was shining like a new bright pin.

At night by the fire, when the children were in bed,
I'd sit and I'd knit, with a cap upon my head,
and the kettles, and the saucepans,
they would shine, shine, shine,
in this teeny little, cozy, little house of mine. 

Summer-wealth

Swirl of gold and turquoise

Splash of garden-green

Bouquet of Queen Ann’s Lace

For every summer-queen

Garnet of red-cherry

Waved-washed pebble-pearls

Ruby watermelon

For summer’s boys and girls

Wild-flower atonement

Blessing ditch and field

Where we, in humble worship 

Partake of summer’s yield

Storehouse spilling sun-beam

And mercy’s gracious show’r

Soft, silver rush of poplar-song

In midnight’s mellow hour

Troubadour of twilight

Spangled star-dust spires

Weeping-willow whispers

And tireless cricket-choirs

Sheaves of gifted harvest

From fallow-dregs of grace

Myriad of miracles

In every floweret-face

As we behold His goodness

Our tripe and babble wanes

Beneath the kind hierarchy

Of summer-sweet refrains

© Janet Martin

Tick-tock

Oh, make life’s moments count, my love

Its gilded offering pours

From heaven’s ether spring above

To sweat-and-blood-drop shores

For if we simply toss away

These moments that implore

Philandering its gifted splay

Then what’s the giving for?

And what’s this living for?

Oh, make love’s moments count, sweet-heart

For none of us can tell

When we will drink the final draught

Of moment’s from Time’s well

And none can carelessly afford

To waste its pulsing laud

For every moment that is poured

Returns again to God

From God to man to God

© Janet Martin

This time of year it seems like there are never quite enough tick-tocks in a day:) It's back to the garden for now.

Tears in a Bottle

We never cry alone

Above this fretting sphere

Above this maddened din of strife

Someone beholds each tear

Within the mocking dark

Where demons of regret

Would rob us of strength to press on

One remains faithful yet

The anguish that we clench

Does not escape His will

He plants His comfort in despair

And whispers, peace, be still

From far off we have seen

Though not as yet received

But you have promised, not by sight

By faith we have believed

We never cry alone

Each teardrop that we weep

Falls where the One who loves us so

Cradles them in His keep

© Janet Martin

 

 Psalm 56:8
You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?

Do you ever feel like you pray and shed tears over the same pleas, again and again and again, yet do not receive? 

 "Hear my prayer, O LORD, and give ear to my cry; hold not your peace at my tears! For I am a sojourner with you, a guest, like all my fathers. Ps.39:12

 

 These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. Heb. 11:13