“A Grateful Ode and Joyous Thank You to Thanksgiving”

Poem of the Day, Thursday, November 28, 2024

Our beautiful family

“A Grateful Ode and Joyous Thank You to Thanksgiving”

When all is said and done,
my thanks do not extend far enough—
too many blessings to count,
and when I do try counting them
and say thank you in so many ways,
I can never get to the end
of blessings before another one
sprouts before my eyes.

No matter where I travel
or what I see or even experience,
blessings emerge from every view,
every situation, every opportunity
even from every pore of my being.

Most are not large or extraordinary
like Moses’ parting of the Red Sea,
or the Brother of Jared’s seeing God’s finger
touching the stones or even the magnificence
and the wondrous nature of the Creation!

I just believe and stand in awe of it all.

My blessings flow in smaller doses
that draw my attention and focus,
give me pause each day
as I contemplate their significance.

Take for instance, that dance in Rexburg
when I met Joanne, now my eternal companion.
That blessing of being with her
keeps joyously happening—
every day, every day, every single day
for which I am so grateful.

How about two miracle babies,
our sweet Anna Rose and Hailey?
We prayed for years for them
to join our family, waited patiently
and then they came in miraculous ways
and have blessed our lives ever since.

And all those brothers and sisters,
one now hanging out in Heaven, waiting
for us to come to throw snowballs;
build snow forts; reminisce about camping,
fishing, eating candy corns, watching
Bonanza, working in the garden
and growing up in Menan, population 596?

What about the great jobs,
in different places, different colleges,

mixed with teaching and helping others
and being a part of so many
wonderful communities?

Or our Church missions to the Caribbean
and Riverside, California, and the blessings
of being with 500+ of the greatest young men
and women on the planet earth?

Who can forget about the incredible
and marvelous blessings of grandchildren,
four of them—smart and intelligent,
beautiful and handsome, great thinkers
and students, just like their parents?

And the many travels to the Caribbean Islands,
China, Korea, Viet Nam, Rusia, Chile, Mexico,
Canada, Hawaii, so many states, and more—
witnessing God’s majesty and creations
everywhere we go. We are humbled
and eternally thankful for our lives,
for what we have seen, experienced,
and felt along the way?

We are thankful for all these memories
and so many more that lie on the surface
and deep within our hearts and those
yet to come into our lives.

Instead of one day of Thanksgiving
each year, we give grateful, heartfelt thanks
for each day we live and breathe and grow
and become better than we could
ever have been without of these
marvelous experiences seeping
and flowing into our lives—
for that is why we are here.

“My Hand to Yours”

Poem of the Day, Wednesday, November 27, 2024

“My Hand to Yours”

What if you could take a few hours in a day,
visit places you have never been,
see things you have never seen,
and do what Christ would do?

What if you could talk to the homeless,
hand them a meal or two, help them
feel loved during Thanksgiving, hand them
a hot meal, pumpkin pie, a roll, an apple
or an orange, a bottled water—a simple meal.

What if you could receive dozens
of “thanks yous,” “God bless yous,”
delightful smiles, many head nods,
and a few fist bumps?

What if you could hand out scarfs, coats,
warm socks, gloves, pants, and winter hats
to warm their souls, both body and spirit?

What if you could see their smiles,
hear their heartfelt thanks, understand
their kind voices, and see their willingness
to take food to those who have no legs
or who lie sick and afflicted
in makeshift beds or under tarps?

What if you could watch them mill about
like family, eating lunch together, talking
about the present, perhaps wanting to think
about the past but hurting too much right now?

What if you could just spend a few hours
sharing peace and comfort to those
most in need, alleviating hopelessness
and instilling a bit of hopefulness
for just a few moments, maybe longer.

What if you could walk away, uplifted
and comforted, a feeling of peace,
a renewed sense of purpose,
and understanding flowing
through your heart and soul,
feeling blessed for what you have,
wanting to do more for others?

What if you could hear the sacred
and soothing words, “Inasmuch
as ye have done it unto to the least
of these…ye have done it unto me”?

What if….?

My hand to yours!

See https://myhandtoyours.org/

“Hands”

Poem of the Day, Tuesday, November 26, 2024

My oldest granddaughter's hands when she was a baby

“Hands”*

Hands are different for each person.
Think of the calloused and withered
on old farmers who bear the brunt
of cold winters and early mornings,
fixing fence, pulling calves and lambs,

soothing the tears and scraped knees
and shins, and caressing their dear wives’
faces during graduations and funerals.
A baby’s hands are prim and petite,
freshly from God who pressed them

to His lips before He reluctantly
yet joyously let go before they forgot…..
Mothers caress these tiny hands, imagine
what they will do as their babies grow up.
Will they be smudged in ink as writers

or soot-covered hands of coal miners?
Or broken and stiff hands of athletes?
Or missing a finger because of a woodsman’s saw?
Or the firm hands of a hard worker?
Or the applauding hands of a teacher or mentor?

Or the warm hands of a missionary or confidant?
Hands can turn out so differently,
depending on our life’s choices.
Yet little hands are wrinkled in cute ways
and grow taut and strong and viable

as they age and begin playing
with little trucks or baby dolls,
or digging sand at the beach
or throwing clods at cows
and dogs that saunter by.

Perhaps, they will even pick up
pebbles strewn along the path of life,
roll them over and over, analyzing
them until they toss them
into the water or back

where they came from or keep them
hidden in their pockets for safekeeping,
knowing they are their special find.
In time, we will hold the gnarled,
ancient hands of our spouses, mothers,

fathers, and grandparents, maybe even
children now lying quietly in the winter of life.
We take them into ours, caress them
like they once belonged to a baby,
wondering about all the work they have done.

Once strong and stout and calloused,
now shrunken, weak, and weathered.
I take their hand, touch it to my face,
knowing the powerful influence they have been
in my life as I used to place mine in theirs,

 
as we walked along the paths of life,

knowing I was safe and protected
as long as I held that hand,
the one now I do not want to let go
but hope that mine will be the same

in time when my children take mine

in theirs, remember the times
when mine clasped theirs
and kept them secure and shielded
and steady, so they would not fall.

*Inspired by Riley and Hope Abraham

“Snowballs at Noon”

Poem of the Day, Monday, November 25, 2024

“Snowballs at Noon"

Doing chores in the winter
sometimes causes even the hardiest
to contemplate Arizona, la playa,
or any point south and 70+ degrees.

Each morning, we bundle up tight:
snowmobile suits, one piece head gear,
yellow fuzzy gloves, and green packs,
and trudge to the barn where
the frayed corn stalks sag
against the pole fence.

Black baling twine bind them, sloppily
together like the neck of a burlap bag
full of six-week-old pigs.

With a long steel crow bar, I chip ice
from the watering trough
on cold mornings, pour cupfuls
of water into the ragged hole
and let the newly bred sows slurp
and slurp until they are full.

Old Tip, our collie, shoves his nose
between the slats, sniffs,
checking for who knows what.

He barks, and the oldest sow grunts,
knowing full well Tip’s temerity.

Beyond the sow’s pen in the open pasture,
now white from the night’s storm,
my old bay, silently munches breakfast.

For a moment, she hesitates, listens,
a clump of first crop baled hay dangles
from her lips like a spider
on a loose thread.

Her ears twitch as she stomps
and nervously looks around,
knowing something is about to happen
that might put her into a tizzy!

I turn just in time to catch
my brother’s snowball, loosely
packed, thrown from about twenty feet
away, right in my face, smothering
my black plastic framed glasses.

Then all becomes a whitish blur
like a snowstorm at midday.

 

“My official conversation with God”

Poem of the Day, Sunday, November 24, 2024

Sunset at the west end of Center Street, Orem, Utah

“My official conversation with God”

I had my official conversation with God today,
He and me together, I kneeling by my bed,
head bowed, eyes closed,

and a heart full of love and trepidation,
and He somewhere listening in.
I needed to talk, needed to express

my thanks for all that He had done for me,
needed to pour out everything
bothering me for the past decades.

I had heard that all one had to do
is kneel, be humble, talk straight, and listen.
I figured I could do that.

For a brief moment, I just knelt there,
wondering how to begin.
Not knowing really how, I just began.

I thanked Him for my family,
the blessings of health,
asked Him for a better understanding

of who He was and whose I am.
I gave Him a mindful of concerns and questions.
Then, I stayed still, listening

with both my head and heart.
The answer was not a shout out.
It was a feeling, a seeping, an infusion,

of an overpowerful sense of love
and connectedness I thought
I had never felt before.

Yet, deep down, I had felt that before,
never understood its origin,
but today I did—

clearly, concisely, distinctly!
I knew I would be back again
in more official conversations with God!

"Nothing is sacred at our house"

Poem of the Day, Saturday, November 23, 2024

"Nothing is sacred at our house"

My mother hides chocolate chip cookies
in the freezer, her hidden cache
for snowy weekends
and long trips to the city.

She thinks no one knows
they are there ostensibly hidden
where no one can find them.
She even locks the freezer

and hides the long, thin key.

Little does she know
that we know
the key’s secret hiding place
beneath the charcoal lighter fluid
lying in open sight inside the porch,
next to the freezer, just to the left.

Our small hands borrow cookies,
some frozen from last week’s batch
and some still warm
from this morning baking,
now carefully stashed in plastic bags
and Tupperware containers.

The cookies disappear
much like the potato chips,
thin slices of cake,
and marshmallows did last month.

Sometimes she asks us why
we do not eat much
breakfast or lunch or dinner.

We look at each other,
knowing our frozen chocolate chip cookies
thaw beneath our beds
and patiently wait for us.

“The Collection”

Poem of the Day, Friday, November 22, 2024

“The Collection”

Some people collect old china,
petite and pretty and polite;
or plates from every state in the country,
round ones, flat ones, bronze ones,
beveled-edged ones usually discovered
in scattered fleas markets,
just off I-10 in Quartzsite, Arizona;
or political pins from ‘60, ’64, and ’76,
Kennedy, Johnson, and Ford.
I, on the other hand, collect rocks,
smooth ones, flat ones, odd-shaped ones,
from railroad lines in Utah, high mountains
in Idaho, the plains of Montana,
or the high prairies in Wyoming—
some stuck out like farmers
in the New York City subway;
others lay half hidden in sand and weeds.
The three-date rock appeared after Church,
scavenged clandestinely from a river bed,
high in the Beartooths, by Boy Scouts
in search of dates with my daughter.
Another came from a rodeo coach,
a completely round one, rounded by years
of water splashing in and around it,
like a princess on a platter. One came
from my Dad’s place after he died,
a round black volcanic one with a bowl
in the middle where, he said,
Native Americans ground corn for supper.
Now, whether any of it was true seemed
superfluous to me until I held the rock 

in my hands, lovingly caressed it 

like a mother and her newborn babe.

The story was too good to let truth surface.
I used to keep them all out front 

where I could see them.

Often I shuffled from rock to rock, 

remembering how they came to be, 

wincing at the invariable words:
“We’re not taking those on our next move.”
I already knew the poundage and hidden spaces
between the brown sofa and bed stands
where rocks can hide their true identities
and stories yet to be told.