Wet from womb,
both of us crying,
shaking hands bring skin to skin
and hold on tight.

Rocking and swaying
on the tree top,
I coo, caress, and kiss away cries
and hold on tight.

Boo-boos and Band-aids,
skip, kick, and trip;
I dry both cheeks and ice both knees
and hold on tight.

Bedtime monsters
creep out from closets;
I scare them away and dare them to stay
and hold on tight.

And then came the day when
she held me.

Pulled me in close,
my head to her chest,
two small hands encircled my neck

and held on tight.


For the love of little girls

You whine and
You wail.
You screech, scream, and stamp,
And I, shake my fist.

You stumble
You slip
You blubber and bawl,
And I, bag the ice.

You laugh and
You giggle
You wrestle and run;
You fight and
You sleep
You sing song after song;
You chit-chat
You comfort
You dance and you dream–

You’re a constant mess
You’re a fairy princess
You’re the belle of the ball
You’re the fairest of all
You’re sugar
You’re spice
You’re everything nice and you’re mine (!)
And my cup, overflows.

The Sound of M(otherhood’s)usic

a poem celebrating motherhood

The shrill, frequent quiver of a newborn’s cry,
2am feedings in silence of night.
Bouncing baby’s squeals of delight,
Cries of a toddler, wide-eyed with fright.

Hiccups and burps and whimpers and slurps.

The swing that needs oil, the cd that skips,
Overplayed Elmo and whining on trips.
Chewing, complaining, ‘There’s nothing to eat!’
Hushed pitter-patter of pajamma-ed feet.

Crashes and bangs and clatters and clangs.

The washer that hums, the bottles that clink,
The splashing at bath-time, the brushing of teeth.
Singing and shhing and creaking up stairs,
Gentle, sweet whispers and saying of prayers.

Giggles and laughter, and Happily, Happily Ever After.

Thanksgiving Prayer


We thank you, God, for life and breath,
for love and food and happiness.
We thank you for our soft, warm beds,
a place to lay our weary heads.

We’re grateful for our mothers,
for our fathers, sisters, brothers.
For our children, growing strong and safe,
we ask you’d guide each step they take.
We thank you for our friends so dear,
those far away and those right here.
And for those we love who’ve gone ahead,
we thank you for the life they led.

Our hearts rejoice at what you’ve done
by giving Christ, your precious son.
We thank you for the price you paid
and ask that we would bless your name.
May you become great and we become less:
Honor yourself in our thankfulness.

Fly, Child, Fly

thoughts on Rae turning three…

Run, child, run
with the wind in your hair!
You laugh and you dance
as you twirl in the sun.

Cry, child, cry
with your fists small and tight!
You flail and you fight
and I rock-a-bye.

Dance, child, dance
with your arms open wide!
You grin and you dare
as you brave every chance.

Fly, child, fly
with your hopes and your dreams!
I watch as you soar
as life rushes by…

I love you like rain

Oh Rae,
I love you like fire,
orange, burning, bright.
Like the crisp of autumn or
a strong, sharp melody,
you depart familiar and
pierce the darkness
with your blaze.
Unafraid and bold
you beckon all who would
to follow.

And My Ally,
I love you like rain,
soft, sweet, needed.
You are the comfort of cashmere,
the lull of a whisper,
the blue of the night.
You are joy and warmth
and smiles and sugar.
You coo and sigh
and I fall in love.

What of that?

Nikki went home to heaven last night (see previous post: But Even if He does not). And I struggle with it, just as most do with tragedy. Why does God allow some to live full lives and others are taken (what seems to us) much too soon? I have to keep reminding myself that I am not judge. I am not creator. I think of the Lord’s reply to Job, who was writhing in loss….”Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding….shall a fault finder contend with the Almighty?” Forgive me, Lord, for my doubts and for my boldness in expressing them.

Emily Dickinson writes

I reason, earth is short
And anguish absolute.
And many hurt;
But what of that?

I reason, we could die:
The best vitality
Cannot excel decay;
But what of that?

I reason that in heaven
Somehow, it will be even,
Some new equation given;
But what of that?

What of that, Lord?
I do not know. But what I do know is that you are there…and that YOU know.
“O Lord, hear; O Lord, forgive; O Lord, pay attention and act.”~Daniel 9:19

Ode to the Wet Wipe

Oh dear wipes, so useful and wet,
to thee I feel so often in debt.

For whatever task I beckon you,
be it cleaning snot or wiping poo,
blotting stains or washing tables,
you jump to the task, willing and able.

Whether Huggies or Clorox, organic or not,
you keep us from illness and blot away spots.
Oh dear, precious wipes, know how I love you–
but if you dry up, I’m not sure what I’ll do.

My hands hurt

My hands hurt,


from holding on so long.

Please. Please

pry through these

stiff fingers

and take it.

I cannot give,

my grip it stays.

I’ve locked my hold so tight

that, though give be my desire,

I cannot crack this fist of mine;

it’s plastered in my palm,

etched in by my nails.

I cannot dig it out.

Please.  Please

take it.

I’m tired.

And my hands hurt.


Maybe the raindrops

are God’s tears.

Maybe the clouds

are the accumulation of His




remembrances of the

sin that severs us strangers.

Maybe the storm

is is his passion for his children.

He sees their scars;

he heeds their husky sobs,

and the skies open

to spill His aching heart.