The

Joy
Of
Simple
Things

By Joshua Brian Krebs

 Poems and cover photo copyright Joshua Brian Krebs,
Shechem House Books © 2020
Author bio photo copyright Cari Griffith Photography © 2020

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When my soul is tossed upon the sea
And wind and rain drown out all hope
There is no doubt God is my anchor,
Nor that my wife is the rope.

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Introduction

The idea for this book came from a friend who told me,
“I like your simple poems, like the one about Safety pins.
I think we need things like that right now.” I agree that
the world, especially in 2020, needs more truth, goodness,
and beauty. I wrote this little book to bring you an
opportunity for quiet reflection, a moment of peace, a bit
of humor, and a sense of place.

When you’re done reading my book, please read more

poetry. I suggest Robert Frost, Wendell Berry, Edgar Allen
Poe, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, or Maya Angelou to name a
few. But whomever you read next, invest in poetry. Buy it,
read it, and see the soul laid out in words. A culture that
loses poetry loses its soul.

Joshua Brian Krebs

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Table of Contents

Some Simple Things 11

Grilling 13
Early Bedtimes 14
Trim Corners 15
Cicadas 16
Hills in the Distance 17
Shadow Trees 18
Moo Moo 19
Toy Stores 20
A Recipe 21
Pail 22
Safety Pins 23
Raindrops 24
The Candy Lady 26
Zimzaway 27
Twinkle Lights 28
Yardwork 29

Poems About Love 31

For My Wife, The Adventurer 33
A Constant Helper 34
35 Reasons I’m Glad You’re Alive 35
Two Pictures 36
An Old Confession 38
Valentine 39
Nine Years 40
Tired and Blessed 41
Highway Nights 42
Her Hand 43

Simple Poems for Complex Topics 45

Election Days 47
Theology 48
Job Loss 49
Labor Pains and Eternity 50

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Poems of Faith 51
Mustard Seed 53
A Reflection of a Reflection 54
Hymn #1 55
Hymn #2 56
Maranatha 57
Breathe of Life 58
Vapor 59
Same as It Ever Was 60
Psalm 2 61
Incarnation 62
Meditation on Ecclesiastes 3 63

Poems to Ground Me 65
Heritage 67
My Quiet Work 68
The Desktop Figure 69
Home 70
Dot 71
Gareth 72
Emmeline 73
Amelia 74
The Rest of My Life 75
Arthur 76

Poems for Holidays 77

Easter 79
The Manger 80
On The New Snow 81
For Rainy Easter Sundays 82
For the Perfect Day 83
More Than Mended 84
New Year’s Day 85

Endnotes 87

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The Joy Of Simple Things

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10
Some Simple Things

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Grilling
There stands our epic hero
Shrinking not from the flames of the gods.
Pester him not with petty squabbles
For this the demigod declares:
"I am Prometheus,
Thief of the eternal flame!
I contend with gods to cook my dinner!
Cross me now if any dares!"
Now he lifts his sacred cup,
The divinéd barley brine within—
"Behold! The bested beast is roasted!
Dinnertime, kids, let's dig in!"

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Early Bedtimes
There is a quiet hour or two that we can steal away,
The children have all done their chores and finished up their play,
They’ve had their dinner and their milk and finished up their day,
They’ve laid their heads upon their beds and stowed their toys away.

So now we sit upon the couch, don’t we? My love and I.

Or sometimes on the patio beneath the starry sky,
And talk or plan, discuss things at hand, or sometimes sit and cry.
“Do you think the kids are too early to bed?” “Nope.” is my reply.

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Trim Corners
Perhaps you have never stopped to look
At the wall trim there upon your wall,
And I can say without a doubt
You shouldn’t look at all
Unless the man who did your trim
Knew all the trigonometry
To cut the perfect carpenters cuts
And knew exactly the degree
That makes the trim to fit just so
Before he nailed it into place,
So the corners would be flush
In the corners of your space.

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Cicadas
Do not come again this year
Nor any year very soon.
Give my wife some time to heal
From your cacophanus doom.

She does not like any bugs,

Not even in the best of times
But when you come in droves
The world has insufficient wine.

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Hills in the Distance
Over the hills away and away
In the early mist in the first light of day,
When the fog is in the woods and meadows
And the beams are falling on the dew,
The birds are singing morning verses
That ring so true, so true.

In the clouds up high and up high,

The sun breaks over the morning sky,
And all the shadow runs, hides, and flees.
When the dark retreats into blessed light,
And is bathed in new morning mercies
The world seems right, seems right.

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Shadow Trees
Against the stars of the heaven’s cast
Are the silhouettes of trees.
From where I lay upon the earth,
Gently rustling in the breeze.
I have questioned their purpose,
But to obfuscate my view
Of the wonder of the skies.
But what I know is true
Is that the things I often look past
Are the things that help me breathe,
And the things that are often in the way
Are the very things I need.

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Moo Moo
Moo Moo the Elephant is pink with fuzzy fur
And I know that this may not occur
That often in the wild.

But when this little plushy toy

Was named by a little toddler boy
And his baby sister smiled?

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Toy Stores
I drove past its empty halls and barren fields,
The memories of my childhood days
Flashing through my weary mind, the joys
Of blissful dreams clearing grown-up haze.

There was a time when those hallowed walls

Were covered with all kinds of toys.
The fields stretched out with cars of
Parents bringing little girls and boys.

I too was once among their glad number.

A quest before a birthday or with allowance
Money to find the perfect gift or reward—
Stopped and stunned by the toy store trance.

But now the barren fields and faded signs

Tell of changing values and one-click buys,
No longer is the clerk a sage
Nor the quest itself a surprise.

My children will not know this joy

But in my childlike heart I recall the glory—
Walls and displays in every direction
Of toys like a mystic fairytale story.

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A Recipe
Take some popcorn, a quarter cup,
A tablespoon of oil, and a dash of salt,
Heat on high in a frying pan.
Don’t forget to cover it up!

Wait until the kernels pop,

Grab a bag of M&Ms to share—
Peanut Butter are the best—
Pick a bowl and dump both in there.

Sit on the couch, and pick a show,

Make a double if you have a guest,
Snuggle under a fuzzy blanket;
I think you can figure out the rest.

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Pail
There stands the diaper pail,
Small in stature but not in smell.
I rarely give his lot a mention
Nor pay him any real attention,
But when I clean the baby’s bum
I find he is my dearest chum.
For there he stands without complaint
Holding smells to make one faint.
All hail the diaper pail!
He stands beside the table there!
He holds without excuse—
My sweetest angel’s refuse.

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Safety Pins
Dastardly is the little fiend,
Safety is a lie from hell,
Coming to me as a friend—
Thou art foe, I know good well.
There in darkness lay the child
Covered o'er in sticky mess.
Granted, he is hardly mild,
And I was tired I confess.
Yet as I wiped him clean
And reached out for your help,
You stabbed me once again,
And I let out a yelp.

Whilst holding closed the diaper—

A job designed for you—
I grabbed again beside there
And finally grasped you true.
I pinned you in your place
Upon the baby’s nappy
And tried to clasp you shut—
I should have used a Snappi™.
There again you stabbed me;
I’ll not trust you again.
Believe me all who hear:
Trust not the safety pin.

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Raindrops
A drop of water slowly rolls
Then growing faster goes to join the streams,
Passing rocks and wetting grass
In silence, joining trickles together, seems
To disappear into the babbling brook.

The brook, small, flowing rapidly,

Skipping over stones and pulling leaves,
In spring grows with rains and dries
As the summer sun warms the breeze
But returns in autumn rains.

The rivulet, frozen in winter,

Awakes to melting snows in spring
And rushes towards stronger currents.
The stream accepts many little things
As it grows each day in depth.

A log lying across the stream or

A dam across a wide river may slow
The forward motion and draw up all
But a sliver, and so must it must regrow
It’s strength and momentum.

But the water does not stop

Even as the winter seems to make arrest.
Deep below the surface the river fights
And slowly marks the cold progress
Towards its truest home.

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Appearing slow, with great momentum
The old river meets the sea,
And to the simple eyes’ observance
The mighty river simply ceases to be.
But a sea is rolling, resting rivers.

And then in blessed sunlight,

The misty resurrection of rain reversed
As microscopic raindrops climb again,
And forming clouds until they burst
And bless the land with water.

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The Candy Lady
There is a dear saint named Susan
Who gathers round her a congregation
Each Sunday morning of precious kids,
And she gives them sweet confections.
At first they gather for the candy
But later the sweetness of her soul,
And then as they grow in wisdom,
We rejoice as God makes them whole.
It may seem a small part to play,
But parents know the simple grace
Of candy on a bitter Sunday morning,
And how it teaches the sweetness of our faith.

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Zimzaway
There is a land named Zimzaway
upon the dreamy sea,
And if you close your eyes we'll go,
my baby girl and me.
The mermaids hum their mournful tunes
deep in the dreamy sea,
For they stay away from Zimzaway,
where they long to be.
There are no storms in Zimzaway,
the thunder there's not scary,
And the only lightning there comes
from the Lightning Fairy.
She fill their tails with lightning to give
the lightning bugs their light
To help us sleepy travelers to
find Zimzaway at night.
So when the night is scary,
just swim the dreamy sea,
And follow starlike lightning bugs
to Zimzaway with me.

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Twinkle Lights
Lazy nights with twinkle lights
And burgers on the grill—
The world outside cannot abide
The level of our chill.

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Yardwork
The labor in the Springtime sun,
Which breaks the earth
And trains the boughs and branches,
Which makes of messes and wanton things
A garden for our fellowship,
Is not contrary to the Sabbath rest.
Though done with weary limbs,
It does not wear the soul and
Though it brings the sweating brow
The work is restful.
For in re-creating and recreating,
The work becomes true worship.

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Poems About Love

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For My Wife, the Adventurer
I put on a good show that people seem to believe;
Outside the confines of my mind I can seem tame.
But in the jungles of mind, the terrors of the tangled depths,
The lost tidbits of wisdom in wells of shame,
Not worth the time to explore, nor worth the bite
Of endless sarcasm, are word traps to push you away
From the swirling whirlpool of cacophonous shouts
That I weep and sweat, sleepless yet, to keep at bay.

I do not love with ease, nor am I easily loved.

For every poem of love there are a thousand pains
From a thousand poisonous words, the fog of anxiety,
And the insecurity that threatens any gains
You have made on the endless journey to find the love
I promise you is hidden in the labyrinth of my soul.
Yet for reasons I cannot fathom, you have adventured
In my wilderness—loved me—and your love makes me whole.

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A Constant Helper
The world is yet again ablaze and warring all around.
I have often wondered that we should find love at all,
And yet through a kind providence we each found
One another and sought to make our lives, small
Though they are in the great and profound
World around us, worthy of the call—
Together seeking a trumpet sound
That ends the labor of the Fall.

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35 Reasons I’m Glad You’re Alive
You think very deeply about everything,
You constantly worry about what is right,
And you stand your ground on what you believe,
And you always get hurt first whenever we fight.

You use every chance to be teaching our children,

But constantly question if you’re doing enough,
You get anxious about money when we haven’t any,
But you love getting rid of and giving away stuff.

You have impossibly high standards for everyone

That aren’t nearly as high as the ones for yourself,
But you’ve learned how to separate your own inner critic
From the words of Christ Himself.

You don’t roll your eyes when I take a late call

Nor begrudge me the time for the work that I do,
But you do desire my time and attention
And protect our time for us too.

You have worked hard for years on our kids’ bedtime,

So that our marriage has time to grow strong,
And you grow every day in the loving way
You correct our kids when they are wrong.

You have taught all our children to pray,

And how to be grateful when things get hard,
And you’ve taught them how to play,
And sometimes you lock them outside in the yard.

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You like to wear head coverings on your hair,
Because “hair takes too much time to get right.”
But really it’s because you might miss baby cuddles,
And your children are your toughest delight.

You put up with my crazy ups and downs,

Sometimes you push me to have them too,
Sometimes you kick my soapbox out from under me,
Sometimes you make me stand on yours for you.

You crochet, you love teaching kids Shakespeare,

You hate knitting, you encourage snuggle fights,
You love to for me read Eudora Welty aloud
In my Miss’ippi accent late at night.

Some of the reasons I give may seem simple,

Some may even sound of critique,
But none of the reasons are things I don’t love,
Because all of them make you unique.

And what more can I tell you of all of the things,

I list them mingled, big and small,
I’ve got no ranking system to grade them,
For I’m truly in love with them all.

But mostly I’m glad that you love God so much

That you often remind me you just want to be
The wife and the mother who reflects God with faith
That allows other people to see.

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Two Pictures
I have two pictures of my wife:
One from the day we married,
Beautiful in the classic way,
Full of youth, bright with life,
Kissing as we tarried
In the bright sun of our wedding day.

The other is of a woman young still,

But the lines in her brow speak
Of worry, work, and care.
Looking at the pictures, as I often will,
I cannot help but see our love as weak
when we were free of care.

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An Old Confession
I must confess I find you most attractive when
As you go about your day
A stray hair flies
Across your face, as if to disguise
The emotions you wear on your sleeve,
And gives a brief reprieve
From those who would judge a mother
Caring for her children in her own way.

In that moment I realize

I have not dreamed of a world without you
That is sweeter than my world with you,
Nor could my world be darker with you
Than my brightest dream of a world without you.

Time has changed our faces,

And we are always changing,
Exchanging flighty innocence
For the weight of experience,
Learning slowly through parenthood
The truths we should
Have seen when we were younger—
Before our lives were made of rearranging.

If I could change the past

No moments could change
Without changing who we are.
No change in who we are
Would create better moments in our past.

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Valentine
Will you be my Valentine,
While others write of violets and roses
And bring home flowers and wine?
For you have taken the blows as
One who preaches the Gospel to me
Even when I cannot see
The love through Christ made mine.

For imprisoned as you are

By laundry and dishes all around,
The broken house and car,
The constant, cheery, tiring sound
Of children wild and weary,
Sometimes happy, sometimes teary-
Eyed, I love you from afar.

You have been my Valentine.

Though I am not as I was—young—
I am likely still as blind.
I fear I have begged or wrung
Every gracious and kind
Feeling, so you scarcely had spare,
Yet you have given without care,
But for this hard heart of mine.

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Nine Years
Nine years came and went without much
In the way of frivolity or fuss or flowers.
And I must confess that there is a lot
Of stillness in this love of ours.

It could by some be misunderstood

As staleness or stoppage or stagnation.
Or perhaps could be seen as tiredness
Owing to our growing, energetic propagation.

But if they could live in our home and see

Our work and the counsel we keep,
Perhaps they would remember the old saying,
“Still waters run deep.” Still waters run deep.

So while I could not be happier with

How our love is growing, has grown,
Most of all I am thankful you and I understand
That love is not just spoken: it’s shown.

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Tired and Blessed
Gone are the days of Scrabble on the the den floor,
Cheap wine and pizza and talking until four.
We have traded rosy dreams of far off places
For two a.m. nightmares and tears,
Dawn wake-up calls for breakfast,
Sleep training, and story times,
And shining, disobedient, little faces.

Now the rushed preparation for Valentines,

The slightly nicer pizzas and wines,
The puzzle on the table in the den,
And talks of budget numbers,
How to train up our children,
What you read in your quiet time,
And hopefully in bed together by ten.
This is not what we talked and dreamed about—
It is so much better.

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Highway Nights
I hold out my hand
As my eyes watch the highway,
And the night falls around.
My soul falls in disarray,
But you hold my heart
As well as my hand
As we fly through the night
Of the heart-weary land.

And the streetlights they tell

Of the sadness and story
Of the dimly lit asphalt
And old faded glory
And hopes long forgotten
In potholes and tar
While our children are sleeping
In the back of the car.

As the street light passes

From light to black,
It's another moment of childhood
I'll never get back.
But the light comes again
Like a beacon of hope that my babies still rest
In the care of my love,
And I love them the best.

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Her Hand
Save only the Hand, the Anchor,
Salvation, and Sepulchre,
I'd give her the world
But my whole world is her.

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Simple Poems on Complex Topics

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Election Days
All those who fear great conspiracies
Ought to read more of Thucydides,
For the machinations
Of all politicians
Are more often fears and stupidities.

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Theology
"I don't see why it's such a big deal
That this post is a little crooked, my friend."
"Allow me to walk with you to the end of the fence,
And we can have this talk again."

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Job Loss
Losing a job is an interesting venture—
How should I feel? I wonder
If I ought to be more concerned, but
I know my friends and family and ponder,
Would anyone else have fared so well?
While some would see this loss
As catastrophic or some fearsome hell,
I see only the new adventure.
New venture or adventure, I do not care.
To sacrifice a job is no great loss,
And to dream is to dare.

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Labor Pains and Eternity
Now is your time of grief.
The late hour of labor pains—
The tired groaning,
The anxious counting—
As the waves of tension
Give only brief refrain.

But with the dawn comes life;

The joy of birth eases sorrow—
The pain forgotten,
The peace begotten—
As the groans of maternity
Give way to happy eternity.

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Poems of Faith

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Mustard Seed
Only God can hear my prayers
And destroy my own self-will,
And at the end will calm the storms
Of life saying, “Peace! Be still!”

Then my listening ear will hear

As before the gates I stand at last,
“Well done my good and faithful child.
Come unto me and rest.”

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A Reflection of a Reflection
We see now through a glass darkly
The reflection of your love, your incarnation
Made manifest in the visible church,
That we might find local representation
Of your hands and feet.
This week we would gather again
To reflect on your death and our union
With you in your eternal resurrection
As we join together in communion
And remember death’s defeat.

But Lord, the fallenness of this world,

The curse of sin is wringing out our fears.
As we cannot be together in body,
We see through longing, loving tears
Only the reflection of the reflection.
But in our silent, sacred prayers
We join the cloud of witness around
And rejoice with all the saints invisible,
Who with us wait the trumpet sound
That brings the final resurrection.

For God has put all things beneath His feet,

And till our final breath
All the saints long for the final defeat
Of the last enemy—death.

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Hymn #1
The nation you have made of priests—
A royal lineage to serve your name
Through all the lonely pilgrimage
Upon this groaning planet
Your glory to proclaim.

Though trials are here on every side,

And hard they press around us here;
Your spirit teaches strength and power
And disciplines our hearts in grace
And drives out all our fear.

Yet in our weakened flesh we find

That still the days can tire our love.
We find our deepest hopes can fail,
So we look only to your cross
Until we reach your courts above.

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Hymn #2
Lord, we are surrounded by the deepest, darkest cares,
For it seems on every side our enemies are there,
Yet beneath our weary feet does the pathway firm arise
That guides your children to their home and teaches them to praise.

The fiery darts of fear and doubt are flying all around;
The threats of sin and pain aloud ring out their horrid sound.
Yet still our listening ears can hear the joy that they perceived
When first the Spirit acted in the hour we first believed.

Is there no place of comfort for those whose lot has all

Been cast upon the cross’s hope when first we heard His call?
Still in your sanctuary you sit upon your throne.
How long must your people suffer here until you call us home?

The great cloud of witnesses surrounding us in faith

Has left their testimony of your unending grace.
So while we run this weary race as running for the prize,
We know you wait there at the end to wipe our teary eyes.

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Maranatha
Lord, I still hear creation groan.
I know you know what time is best,
Yet still you sit upon your throne
While we suffer without a home,
Waiting for the promised rest.
Once you came to walk below
And crush the serpent beneath your feet,
But we lose heart in what we know.
We long to hear the trumpet blow
And sound death's last defeat.
For all creation holds it's breath,
Yet send your spirit now to bind us.
We fear you, Lord, but we fear death.
Please Spirit hold us in our faith.
Come quickly, dear Lord Jesus.
Amen.

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Breathe of Life
What if life is just the long process of forgetting how to breathe?
We spend our lives trying to catch our breath,
And only when we gasp our last do we truly learn to rest.

Perhaps the poet's song, the lover's sonnet,

The playwright's mournful monologue, and the Haiku's stilted verse
Are nothing more than the breathless mutterings of those
succumbing to the curse.

The mountains and valleys of our beating hearts,

The rising and falling of our chests in rhythmic time
Are the Great Poet's reminder that meter is the timer that adds
meaning to our rhyme.

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Vapor
For a moment I was fearful,
And it was just a moment ago,
And I am quick to forget,
And re-remember what I know.

This always seems the way of things,

For time is always passing by,
One moment in the storm cloud,
The next the rainbow in the sky.

Help me, Lord, to see my life

As the moment it will be
Of the flash of pains and pleasures
Before eternity with Thee.

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Same as Ever It Was
The world has not changed.
It is the same as ever it's been.
There is no new normal.
Just as there is no new sin.

Twitter and Facebook, social media

Like forbidden fruit with knowledge good
And evil, show us that mankind
Cannot innovate sin and never could.

The isolation of pandemic constraint

Has cut the last artery of community,
And society has bled fear and anger
From it's heart and called it unity.

We have said "This is new!"

We have said "This is good!"
We would have seen this all before
Had we watched as we should.

Yet still we babble and pretend

To build towers to the skies above
Our empty heads. Our empty rhetoric
Touches hearts of stone who call it love.

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Psalm 2
I understand why newborns cry,
Why men fear their growing age,
Why children mourn a rainy afternoon,
But why do the nations rage?

I feel the sparkle in a child's first smile,

I chuckle at the comedian on the stage,
My wife's jokes bring a hearty laugh,
But why do the nations rage?

I've quaked before the mighty storm,

I've played the student and the sage,
I've felt the pain of loved ones lost,
But why do the nations rage?

I have taken solace in the Rock,

I have sought refuge in the Son.
Why do the nations rage, oh Lord?
They are deaf to the laughs of the Mighty One.

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Incarnation
There is a certain value in technological innovation,
And it allows a welcome break to our current consternation,
But it's good to be reminded it's not a permanent situation.
At some point we can return to gathering as a congregation.
So don't give way yet to the digital/emotional inflation;
Don't pretend you don't feel a real sense of isolation.
We need the physical church; this should be no revelation
Because our faith is founded on God's own incarnation.

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Meditation on Ecclesiates 3
To everything there is a time:
A time to gather and a time to quarantine,
A time to sleep and a time for sitting up all night,
A time to be heard and a time to be seen,
There are moments of quiet contemplation,
Moments of loud shouts and songs of war,
Moments of peaceful prayer in the garden,
Reminders of how we were before.
There are days of weeping for the loss,
Days of rejoicing for the Lord is near,
Days for mourning the Fall's cost,
And dancing for the Feast of the Lamb is here.

I know there is no good in man

Though the world is in his heart.
I know his eyes have seen God's works,
Yet he wanders in the dark.
Still there is a time for everything,
And in dark hours we weep to know
If the seed we plant so prayerfully
Will be watered by the Spirit and grow.

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64
Poems to Ground Me

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66
Heritage
Long they lived along the Mosel river
Building barges for the family wine.
Beautiful museum pieces built to carry
Casks of the family’s finest vintage
Over the river’s gentle current in the
Land of my ancestors.
Seven generations lived amidst
The bayous off of Pascagoula Bay.
Many dinners were caught in those waters
And shot from those skies
In the breeze of the Gulf waters—
Waters I can still see through my father’s eyes.
My great-grandfather crafted wooden boats
Not unlike the vessels of our old homeland.
My grandfather built great naval vessels that
Have defended the freedoms of our new heritage.
My father hauled cables in the hot summers
On those same great ships that still hold their sweat.
In looks I am like the men of my family,
And in my heart I will always love the sea,
But my path has taken me away from the waters
Where so much of my heritage was born.
My life has been mostly lived on the shore
With this great land firm beneath my feet.
Yet I have stood on the banks of Krebs Lake
And seen our house overlooking the waters.
I have hunted the grounds and fished the waters
Where my fathers grew from boys to men.
I hear the stories of my family and tell them.
I tell my children of water and blood that run deep.

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My Quiet Work
Is it to the detriment my beloved children
That they will grow up in concrete jungles?
Man-made gardens that seek to hide
The natural order of earthly things?

It is not the command given in the garden

That leads to sky-scrapers and pavement,
Nor is it the curse that nature ever works
To overthrow our binding chains.

The trees crack our asphalt bands,

The pigeons share their opinion of our statues,
The rains work slowly against our labors,
But the soil responds to the Gardener’s touch.

For when joy and peace have come

It is the trees that will clap their hands
And the mountains that will be singing—
When all things are made new again.

Shall we seek the eternal places together

In the patches of grass and the breeze,
The birdsong in the air and the rainfall?
Let us groan for renewal and recreation.

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The Desktop Figure
On the desk in my office there sits a small figure
Under a lamp in the darkness of night
And he seems to have only the light for his task
And whisper “I’m here, it’s alright.”

But his posture is bent, and he sits there and holds her
And seems to be shielding the darkness away
And he seems to be praying and crying and hoping
That there’s coming a better day.

Perhaps it’s because my office exists

For the crying of tears and the telling of sorrows,
And I’ve listened and watched as men and women
Trade in for small pleasures all their tomorrows.

And he struggles to see how the world that I’m seeing

Could be a place she could ever rejoice,
And he wonders if over the din of the darkness
God can even hear his voice.

“Give this child faith in the night

When the darkness seems to hide your face,
And when faith is found weak and failing,
God, please give this child mercy and grace.”

Many a night we have sat here together

In the light of the lamp and the shadows it casts,
And we pray for the strength to keep on in the night
‘Till at last we go Home for our rest.

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Home
All the houses in the world could never be a home.
All the air in the hills of Tennessee
Could not fill my lungs, nor all the sunshine
Over all the valleys warm my spirit.

The beauty of the created order is calling;

The sun over the mountains rises and sets.
Over the Watauga river it rainbows the trout,
But my soul is not satisfied with it.

The mountains and even the trees, their children,

Are older than I am by generations
But they are no wiser nor more satisfied,
For we have all groaned together in solitude.

Find me in my innermost places, the valleys

And the caves of my tired spirit.
Find my cold, stoned heart, and warm it,
And remind of my home, eternal and assured.

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Dot
It still stings a bit in my soul
Though I know she is at rest
And with her beloved husband
At the feet of her savior;
She sings among the choir of the blessed.

I remember soft and knowing eyes,

Her neatly permed and shimmering white hair,
The blind eye turned to snuck snacks,
The never-ending feast of comfort, food,
The corrections always firm but fair.

I remember the hushed moments of study,

Large reading glasses and furrowed brow,
More than words taught in ladies Sunday School;
She taught as well in the day-to-day.
Oh Death, where is thy sting now?

For the life she was given she poured out

In daily works and words that we might see
Through her care and faithfulness our Savior
And there find life—and that abundantly.

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Gareth
The first son of the morning,
The first light of my day,
A burst of energy before my coffee,
And he has a lot to say.

A lot to say of wonder

And his latest Lego toy,
So much more than words express?
In his pre-daylight joy.

For within the thin facade

Of witty boyish charm
There beats a loving heart
As tender as it's warm.

So wake me in the morning, son,

With all you need to say,
And remind me in my bleariness
To have a passion for today.

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Emmeline
My daughter has a little box;
She fills it up with little things.
Thingamaboboos she calls them—
Bits and bobs and shreds of strings.

The things that you might throw away

Or sweep into the garbage pile
She hides away in her little box.
These are the treasures of her smile.

With a twinkle in her sea blue eyes

She rescues the broken necklace beads.
"They're still beautiful to me,"
She says, and I confusedly concede.

Oh, that in the broken baubles

Instead of trash I would find a prize,
For in the world of her thingy-box
She sees jars of clay through heaven's eyes.

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Amelia
There is a feral little child who plays among the flowers—
Her face is smudged with dirt and sweat from countless hours.
Spent under the shining sun that bleaches her golden hair,
And if you catch her bright blue eyes there's a wildness there.

Within her chest loudly beats a heart both fierce and kind
Rapidly playing out rhythms from her wild and curious mind.
She has flown the confines of our man-made complication
To grow and dream among the lilies in the garden of creation.

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The Rest of My Life
I remember when my bride walked down the aisle,
So beautiful I couldn't help but smile.
We said our vows, and we took a chance;
We ate some cake, and we shared a dance.
All these years later, and I love her so.
There's no part of her I don't want to know;
I don't know a time I've felt more alive
Like it was the first day of the rest of my life.

I remember each of my babies' first breaths

And their contribution to my old self's death.
I love their smiles and watching them grow;
There's so much about You I want them to know.
I've seen Your spirit working in their hearts
And the pain of conviction when it starts.
I wanna see their faith and see them baptized,
So they can start living the rest of their lives.

And time goes on, and people grow,

And the world keeps spinning; round and round it goes,
And where it stops no one knows.
But we know.

Pop was laying there on a hospital bed

Too weary and tired to lift his head.
He said, "Son, don't worry about this old man,
Just serve the Lord the best you can.
And if you come back and I've died
Don't spend too long in the tears you cry
Because son I've never felt more alive—
This is just the first day of the rest of my life."

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Arthur
Arthur is a rumbling, tumbling,
Tough, and tender little guy—
If you hurt his feelings he
Will hide away and cry.

But he greets you with his mischievous grin,

And his rough and tumble hugs
Are matched with his dirt stained face
And a jar with a captured bug.

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Poems for Holidays

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Easter
There the Groom kneels in the garden
Offering prayers, “Let pass the cup.”
Beads of bleeding sweat while waking
Disciples sleeping off their sup.

Not the kiss of love upon His cheek,

Yet that kiss was wholly mine,
And I knew that I would give it
While still we shared the bread and wine.

I have sold His love for silver;

I have sold His love for pride;
I have played the whore, the betrayer;
And I counted coins while He died.

When asked I claimed I did not know Him

Though my hearing ears had heard.
When the time came to profess Him
My harlot’s lips said not a word.

Yet He did not let pass the cup of blessings.

He paid the bride’s price with His life,
And as He rose He crushed the glass,
And made the harlot beloved wife.

I cannot comprehend the story

As I taste again the bread and wine,
But I will trust His grace and mercy
Till His love is seen in mine.

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The Manger
I’m not surprised anymore by the new star in the sky,
Nor by the chorus of angels to lonely men watching sheep,
Nor am I surprised by the baby in the feeding trough,
Nor the miracle of kings bowing to a child, small and meek.

I am not astonished by creation’s creator’s coming,

Nor am I astonished by the carpenter and his wife,
Nor by all the anticipation in the carols we are humming,
Nor the fact that the King of Kings chose a small town life.

I’m not amazed by the God-Man who was humbled,

Nor am I amazed that Simeon saw a promise fulfilled,
Nor that through 400 hundred years of prophetic silence,
Am I amazed there was a remnant’s heart with hope instilled.

I fear that in the groaning I have grown too far apart,

And in my fears I have given over to the world and all its anger.
But Lord, still draw my childlike heart through the wondrous star,
And break my heart again with the humbled glory of the manger.

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On the New Snow
How like the newly fallen snow is God made flesh among us—
The peace on earth that abides in the quiet coming,
The dark stains of winter mud covered in purest white,
A school child's joy at freedom with anticipation drumming.

How like the pharisees our “grown-up” response to snow—

It spoils the well-planned goals of our work-wrought days,
Our clean and polished floors baptized in wet winter wear,
The greatest of joys met with frustrations and dismays.

But the children feel the truth of gently falling grace—

Their hearts beat fast to remember the freeing joy,
Their eyes tearful as they think of the Great Almighty God
Coming to live here with us as a little baby boy.

How like the Incarnation is the falling of the snow—

That despite the foretelling it should come with little warning,
That something so pure should dein to come and dwell,
That in it’s passing it should leave the hope of it’s returning.

And so the children all await the returning of the snow

To cast away the cares of school and focus on their play,
And those with childlike faith await the returning of the King,
Who will break their every chain and wipe their tears away.

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For Rainy Easter Sundays
For we need to remember
That we are still awaiting the perfect day,
That the tears of the suffering saints still flow like rain,
That the world's calamity still roars like thunder,
That our fears still flash like lightning,
That we are still quick to get stuck in the world's mire,
That our thoughts are still flooded with sin,
That we still see your light dimly through self-clouded minds,
But all of these are only passing things.

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For on the Perfect Day
Your hand will wipe away every tear from our eyes,
Your saints' praise will roar like thunder,
Your wrath will pour out with lightning upon your enemies,
Your saints will be pulled free from even the depths of the sea,
Your bride will be washed clean and presented perfect.
Your bride will see you in your glory,
And we will look upon eternal things that can never pass away.

Come quickly, Lord Jesus!

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More Than Mended
The Spring comes each year—
The flowers poking their shy
Heads from the crumbling earth.
The birds sing their songs and
Fluttering across the warming sky
Drown our wintry tears in mirth.

There is a time for the mending

Of every sad and broken thing
and freeing the captive spirits of creation.
But that is not the goal of Spring,
When dead things are made alive again,
Nor is it the hope of our salvation.

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New Years Day
A mere few hours ago we were closing down a year,
Looking back on missed goals and lost time
As if the arbitrary calendar we keep of months and days
Gave to each the full measure of their remaining hours
And at the stroke of midnight all was washed clean
And only the future mattered.

We make grand plans and try to live our years ahead

To go to such and such a place and do business
To make love, money, to feel happiness and joy.
We make our resolutions and ask for blessings,
But the past is dead, and the future is not yet living,
And good is not good tomorrow.

For even with the renewed hope of a year made fresh,

Is it not the same blessing God has promised each day?
The sun rises to remind us of His steadfast love
Are His mercies not made new every morning?
While we make our plans for the years, every moment
Escapes our captivity into ether.

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Endnotes
To The Editor,
I know you get no byline in the pages of this book,
So I thought I’d write a poem for the ones who took
The time to read the rhymes and are appreciative to see
All the unseen edits that make my poems sound like me.

I could not do my work without your thoughtful edit,

And I know it’s unfair that I’ll get all the credit,
So I wrote a little poem to bring everyone’s attention
Because I’ve never liked the fact that editors don’t get a mention.

Thanks,
Your Husband

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