What to do today?

What to do today?
Many chores beckon,
Duties never-ending,
Children always needing,
Errands to be done.
But ...
Baby niece born last night
Tiny bundle of sweetness
Life beginning, makes me think
What really matters?
Should I vacuum all the house
Fold the laundry, organize,
Bead a necklace, shop for food,
Practice piano, write a song?
Somehow I don't know where to start
Today - just a Tuesday, I guess
But not.
This is the only "today" I have
These hours precious, not to be
Spent carelessly.
so tell me please
What would You have me do today?

In Pain

My soul is in anguish. My spirit cries out.

The world is in pain. And yet it dances the night away.

And babies die.

Does anyone care? Does anyone notice.

There are mommies who cry tonight. And yet the world says dance.
And so they do.

Why?

Why dance?

There is other music playing. Another song is being sung.
Just listen harder and you can hear it.

It says "You are loved."
It says "You can be sad."
It says "I still love you. I loved you first."

And when you listen your spirit soars.

Listen to the song of ages. Listen to the song of songs. It is a quiet song. It is not a loud song. But it is the oldest song.

You don't like it because it isn't new. You want the latest. The latest will fade. The newest will age.

But this song will remain. This song is the oldest. But this song will always be the latest. As the world looks for the next best thing. After you have been used up and discarded, the song still sings.

It says "You are loved."
It says "You can be sad."
It says "I still love you. I loved you first."

Just listen.

Expectations

Thoughts about me
Thoughts about others
Good, bad
Rehearsed
Over and over
Again and again

Poison
Fogging mind
Impairing thinking
Clouding emotions
Veiling eyes

Blinded
From Your Face
Deaf
To Your Voice
Disabled
From discernement

Cleanse me
From heady addiction
To praise and censure
Temporary highs
Terrible lows
Distracting from reality

Help me see, hear, know
Only You
Letting others' opinions go
Even my own
Hoarding no thoughts but Yours
Listening only to Your voice
Believing only what You say
For You alone are Truth
Freedom

My Baby

Morning sunlight streaming in
Illuminating baby face
Pink lips parted just a bit
Crooked grin responds to kiss.

Red-tinged eyelids close over
Wondering blue eyes, searching
For a loving face, finding
Me, he's satisfied.

Rounded tummy pressed to mine
Full of morning's manna
Little body cuddled close
Filling heart of Mama.

Another Quote

We cannot kindle when we will
The fire which in the heart resides,
The spirit bloweth and is still,
In mystery our soul abides;
But tasks in hours of insight willed
Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled.

(Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest, 3/22)

End of Day

I am weary, O God; I am weary and worn out, O God. I am too ignorant to be human, and I lack common sense. I have not mastered human wisdom, nor do I know the Holy One. (Prov. 30:1b-2 NLT)

Wearily I come
To the end of today.
What wisdom I had this morning
Has fled.
I come before the throne,
Empty and ignorant,
Passion’s fire died
To flickering flame.
Welcome as I am,
Asking to be filled
From the ever-flowing river,
To be cleansed
With fire.

Poem by Whittier

This morning found this amazing poem, and I just have to share it. How have I never before discovered this Quaker poet?

The Fruit-Gift
by John Greeleaf Whittier

Last night, just as the tints of autumn's sky
Of sunset faded from our hills and streams,
I sat, vague listening, lapped in twilight dreams,
To the leaf's rustle, and the cricket's cry.
Then, like that basket, flush with summer fruit,
Dropped by the angels at the Prophet's foot,
Came, unannounced, a gift of clustered sweetness,
Full-orbed, and glowing with the prisoned beams
Of summery suns, and rounded to completeness
By kisses of the south-wind and the dew.
Thrilled with a glad surprise, methought I knew
The pleasure of the homeward-turning Jew,
When Eshcol's clusters on his shoulders lay,
Dropping their sweetness on his desert way.
I said, "This fruit beseems no world of sin.
Its parent vine, rooted in Paradise,
O'ercrept the wall, and never paid the price
Of the great mischief,--an ambrosial tree,
Eden's exotic, somehow smuggled in,
To keep the thorns and thistles company."
Perchance our frail, sad mother plucked in haste
A single vine-slip as she passed the gate,
Where the dread sword alternate paled and burned,
And the stern angel, pitying her fate,
Forgave the lovely trespasser, and turned
Aside his face of fire; and thus the waste
And fallen world hath yet its annual taste
Of primal good, to prove of sin the cost,
And show by one gleaned ear the mighty harvest lost.