Called

 Dad wrote this about feeling too over strict on his children and not understanding enough. A tough tightrope for a father to walk.

Here it is:

He cringed, and cowered in the shadow of his darkened room.

Fearing to venture out from the safety of the protection of the gloom.

He had been disobedient and the penalty he now feared.

As his Father's return from his work drew swiftly near.

This heartrending scene was re-enacted time after time,

Just apathetic battle for attention and affection, his only crime.

He stood at the door of our hearts pleading entrance in.

Hurt, dismayed with a long, long battle he'd never win.

With tears in his eyes, a break in his lonely heart,

Hoping for, and begging for entrance, in whole or in part.

He begged and implored with no realized reply.

As his tender, young, hungry heart, wondered, why, why?

He sought and reached for love, from any who could understand,

We were too blind and busy to see the pitiful outstretched hand.

Rigid discipline, strict codes, hard rules with no exception.

Too late, too late I realized I was tragically practicing deception.

He called and called but I couldn't see his desperate need.

Grandma's Hands

Grandma, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. She didn't move, just sat with her head down staring at her hands. When I sat down beside her she didn't acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat I wondered if she was OK. Finally, not really wanting to disturb her but wanting to check

on her at the same time, I asked her if she was OK. She raised her head and looked at me and smiled. 'Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking,' she said in a clear voice strong. 'I didn't mean to disturb you, grandma, but you were just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK,' I explained to her. 'Have you ever looked at your hands,' she asked. 'I mean really looked at your hands?' I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them over, palms up and then palms down. No, I guess I had never really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point she was making. Grandma smiled and related this story: 'Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you well throughout your years. These hands, though wrinkled shriveled and weak have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life. 'They braced and caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor.They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. As a child, my mother taught me to fold them in prayer. They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots. They held my husband and wiped my tears when he went off to war.'They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent. They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son. Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was married and loved someone special They wrote my letters to him and trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse. 'They have held my children and grandchildren, consoled neighbors, and shook in fists of anger when I didn't understand. They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed the rest of my body. They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw. And to this day when not much of anything else of me works real well these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to fold in prayer. 'These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness of life. But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when he leads me home. And with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the face of God.' I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God reached out and took my grandma's hands and led her home. When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and husband I think of grandma. I know she has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God. I, too, want to touch the face of God and feel His hands upon my face.

I'm Not Finished With You Yet

I was born in late September in Tennessee.The humidity was still high from August.Doctor said I was lucky to be alive.Severe allergies and all you I'm afraid was rough on my tiny body.Finally,got to go home.

And since then I've been in trouble since the day I got here.I'll be in trouble until the day I disaapear.On that day I'll finally get it right.

Dad always said," There's hope for you yet.God has got plans for you. Just have to wait and see."

In school I was never that good.I talked too much and trouble always followed me.I become the walking, hopeless fool as far as others were concerned.I don't know how but I made it through.

Still wondering why I'm here.I deal with the fear of my uncertainty.Will I prove them all wrong?I don't know.But I've seen enough to know that I'm not here for nothing.He's up to something.

So I hold on tight to my daddy's words,"Wait and see,he's not finished with you yet."Him and God must see something I can't.The finished product that comes out this mess that is me must take a miracle only God can deliver.He didn't leave me at the beginning, He won't leave me at the end,and all those parts in between both.

by

Lance Gargus

My Daugher-In-Law

My daughter-in-law treats me like a mother. She calls me Mom. We are close to each other. Some people thinks she's my daughter. We go to different places together. But the best place together is when she and I with the whole family go to the house of the Lord.

By

Louise Gargus