There is hatred in this world, 

Anger on every street.

Yelling, fighting, marching,

"I'm right!" "You're wrong" "Defeat!"

On ballfields around this nation

Two teams compete with rare a fight

But fans return to neighborhoods

Shouting politics into the night.

And quiet souls who show respect

Regardless of their stance

Are battered with words and visions of hate

Their silent respect has no chance.

For anger and hatred and marches and shouts

Get stages and photos and fame,

But those whose hearts are at peace with God

Care little how much they're defamed.

No changes how large or widespread done

Will make eternity different

So stop, my child, learn to hear the small voice

That changes a HEART that will listen.

Prayer crayon scribbles

If you’re a Mom, there are some at your house no matter how old or young your children are. Crayon scribblings. On walls, or paper, or furniture, and most of all in your memories. They are meaningless, worthless to anyone else but you know which child drew them, and when, and even the details of that time together. Why do we keep theses scribbles? Tonight I was thinking about my prayers - self-centered, broken, childish, scribbled-with-no-skill prayers. And I was overwhelmed to realize they are more precious to God than my children’s drawings. Not because I ask (draw) rightly or perfectly. Not because I am a master pray-er (artist), know the right words (colors), stay in the lines, or even make sense with my pleas and cries. But because HE loves me.  HE, the God of all, is more in love with this child than I am with my crayon coloring bundles of joy. No words can describe, no art can convey, no planet contain His love. And that love turns my scribbled mess of a prayer into something beloved.

LaoLao’s Concert

Today for several hours I listened to the most beautiful music this side of heaven. No love song by Dion and Bocelli, no piano concert by Horowitz, no guitar solo by Jimi Hendrix, no folk balad by Emmylou Harris, no country crooning by Carrie Underwood, no pop hit by Michael Jackson could ever compare to the beauty of this afternoon’s concert. The fast rhythm was a soft drumming of pattering feet across my living room floor.  The crescendo exploded at the end of each stanza with giggles.  Soft, loud, occasional and frequent bursts of “LaoLao” “I Loves You”, “Hugs”,”Up” and “Ai-ne (Chinese for I love you)  created this heavenly music that left this LaoLao (Grandma) in tears of gratitude for the music of grandchildren. Heavenly music for sure.

Mother’s Day Letter to My Children

You shower me with love and gifts of all kinds.
Not just today.
But every day.
So I have to explain, point out, reiterarate, shout out something to you, my children.
Please forgive me.
You deserve more love than I could ever give.
You deserve a better life than I could ever make for you.
You deserve more patience, more care, less judgement,
More empathy and understanding,
More good and less evil
Than I can ever make happen.
So forgive me.
I could lie and say I did my best
But there is always room to do better.
I could gloss over the times you
“Got on my last nerve”
And I acted or spoke out of frustration.
I could pretend that I never lost my temper,
Never set my expectations too high for you,
And never spoke too sharply.
But I did.
Probably times you remember that I don’t.
Probably doing things that hurt you that maybe neither of us even realize.
So please forgive me.
Not because I deserve it but because you deserve it.
The weight of  unforgiveness is a burden I want you to escape.
So forgive me.
My love for you has been, and will always be, imperfect.
But it is never ending.
It is constant.
It is deep and indescribable.
And it grows with each day we both have breath.
You are my child and my heart.
You are loved.

That stubborn sticker

You know the kind. You pull at at, scrape it with your fingernail, wet and rub it, peel at it and it just refuses to come off. Stubborn sticky sticker. So you just ignore it and finally forget it's there. Until suddenly one day the slightest corner reaches up and adheres to your new dress. Or your newly painted nails.  Or your freshly pressed tablecloth to impress the new neighbors. And you realize you never really, genuinely spent the time and energy to deal with it when you first inherited that stupid sticker along with the item you desired and bought. Grief. Like a stupid sticker gets picked at and half-heartedly rubbed, but it just keeps sticking back up and reminding you of its scar, it's ugly presence, at the worst times in life.
Grief. I thought I knew it. The ache in my heart was as big as Hoover Dam, holding back the floodgates of tears and emotions buried deep beneath my pride and hurt and fear. But it just keeps sticking back up, collecting grime around it, irritating and dirtying everything it touches.
And then one day a friend shares her "secret" with you. Oil.  The beautiful, fragrant oil of shared grief  healed by the Holy Spirit that so easily removes that stubborn sticker.  And as the unwanted slips away, you see the glorious shine of everlasting love left behind. Sweet fragrance of memories clinging to beautiful glossy hope.

The Hospital

Once upon a time a few days ago
In a village far, far away just next door,
There was an epidemic of lost and dying people who called themselves healthy.
A great and wonderful man had paid for and built an amazing healing hospital
Where everyone was invited to go to receive perfect healing for free.

But the other patients put themselves in charge,
And blocked the entrance by standing in the doorways
Arguing about who could or could not come in,
What those who entered had to look like, or do, or say,
And which of them was the best person to be in charge.

These patients had forgotten that it was not their hospital
They had forgotten the One to whom it belonged.
They had forgotten that they had once been hopeless, and despairing and sick.

Who will remember?  Who will admit his or her selfishness and
humble themselves to move aside,
to take hold of the crippled,
to hold open the door,
to welcome the blind,
to feed the sick,
to act more like the Hospital owner?
Help me today, O Lord, to remember.