Sundays after Church

Sundays after church, how universal a feel in these robin's egg blue days of children's laughter and barbecues. To share in watermelons and hotdogs, and in kayaks and paddle boats, and through sand-in-my-eyes and ants a' plenty -- to share in the sunshine of family circled love, after filling up and out with God's good Word, how thankful I am for the beauty that graces our joint Jungian moments in the sun. I treasure them as memories, place them inside my book of paged life to dry and keeep as reminders that life with all its troubles is good; that a child's laugh can curl up inside your heart and heal any tears, and that "a little child shall lead them."

Your Will

Pink for blue and cans for boxes, funeraled biers and death night watches. There are times when one can't sleep, times to remember and weep when thoughts abandon and words fall and falter. But you lean inside the breath of God as you pass the bonehand potter, waiting instead for the rush that comes --of exhaled Word, of healing water; co-mingling with your heart's counterpoint beat, you bend and say "Your will not mine be done."