The Mother’s hour

The time has come,
The night is still.
I’m bone tired,
On this treadmill,
I should to bed,
And yet I will:
Stay up and feast.
On calmness fill.
My morning self
Will pay the bill.
For current hush
In which I thrill.

Someday the chaos
May all be still.
No running, stomping,
No angry shrill.
Nor tender giggles
This house to fill.
Silence may then
Be a bitter pill.
But that is then,
And then until;
I embrace this peace
When night is still.img_0247


Not An Ounce!!

Not an ounce of your Glory,
Not even the smallest bit.
May I take from you Lord
Adoration for me unfit.

May the the treasure that I seek
Be born in you alone.
May all I have to offer,
Be offered to your throne.

My blessed gracious Father!
Let not my vanity ensnare.
All the weighty praises,
That you alone can bare!

A humble heart I seek,
Though it comes at egos cost.
For treasures in this world,
Are treasures to be lost.

I cannot resent.
The compliments I’m given.
But pass them unto you,
Seated enthroned in heaven.

Further Lord I thank you!
That I am blessed to serve.
May I never steal your Glory!
May I never have the nerve!img_0706

Battles We Watch.


Sometimes we are called to step out on the battle field God has called us to alone with him, and the enemy we must face. And sometimes we are called to support in prayer the one facing the giant. I’ve been both, and this poem came out of times when I was not able to do anything but weep, watch and pray on the sidelines for brothers and sisters in Christ and for my own children as well. Most mothers can attest to the pain of not intervening, not taking over, not snatching back our children. Trusting God with their care. Of choosing to stand back and uplift our babies in prayer. Thankfully we also often experience the joy of seeing our children draw nearer to God through their difficulties, and stumbling. We get to witness their awareness of their need to rely upon God. This is a beautiful thing:)

Upon the open battle ground,
The giant looms ahead.
A frightening, towering figure,
That fills her heart with dread.

His mocking laugh it echoes.
She feels it pelt her soul.
He’s wounded her before,
She remembers well his blows.

Battered yet not beaten,
Many cheer her on.
They cannot fight her fight,
But pray God would make her strong!

From the side they long to intervene,
To save her from the pain.
But the battle is Gods to give,
The strength is hers to gain.

Battle weary she steps on the field,
To face the massive foe.
They watch and weep and pray,
Trusting the God who knows.

Swinging the sling round and round,
Trusting not in her own might.
In faith she then releases,
Relying on God to win the fight.

Upon faith the stone becomes
The very breath of Christ.
It smites the arrogant enemy.
It bares God’s glorious light.

Long though the battle seemed
To rage upon her mind.
But all that once was stolen
Will be redeemed in time.

Not only is the foe struck down,
But all the ground he’d taken
Is redeemed and transformed;
Speaking life to the lost and forsaken.

She now stands strong imprinted
Deeper with God’s anointing.
Glory all to God be given!
She heeded his appointing!

A Poem of Stephen

The idea for this poem came to me earlier this week, I simply wrote in my notebook ‘poem of Stephen’ today I finally put it down in writing.

It is hard to retell what is in scripture. I tried my best to remain accurate to the Holy text of God. May this poem bless you by giving you a fresh perspective of Stephens death, even as it did for me as I wrote it. Blessings:)

The Lord in all his wonder,
Chose me to serve his throne.
I was greatly humbled to witness
The harvest he had sown!

Upon my lips his words spoke,
Smote demons, healed the dying.
Gave his light and saving love,
For which the world was crying!

What joy to see the early church!
So growing, thriving, strong.
Singing songs unto the saviour,
Preaching, praying all night long!

To come before Holy God, Creator,
Cleansed by his sinless, Perfect Son!
Was beyond our deepest wonder,
Nothing we could have ever done!

The day I step beyond the vail,
They lay false claims on me.
They did so with my Saviour.
I am in good company.

I may tremble as I speak:
Speech true, comes none the less.
To hold such a captive audience.
I speak hope, and life with every breath.

They reject and hate the truth,
As their fathers did before.
They drive me from the temple.
They can bare to hear no more.

I look up to the heavens,
See Jesus by his fathers side!
I speak the sight in ecstasy!
The stones in their hands begin to fly.

My blood spills on the earth…
‘Oh Lord Jesus receive my soul!’
Now upon my knees I plead
‘Against them their sin do not hold!’

Stephens plea and prayer echoed,
The Holy Spirit gave it flight.
Into the hearts of many, and Saul,
Who thought his murder right.

Remembering Summer

In the middle of this dreary February, when spring seems a million miles away. I looked back again on a poem I wrote in summer. Hopefully it gives you a gentle rememberance of the warmer months. Especially if your a Canadian girl like me:)

Dear summer sweet I must attempt
Though I know it is in vain;
To capture with this pen and page,
What words cannot contain.

My very soul cries out in me,
‘Linger but a minute more!’
But in your finite deity,
Your fleeing beauty soars!

Stay awhile dear summer sky,
And breeze with fingers soft.
Yet go for if you never fled,
My admiration would be lost.

So revel now, enjoy this season.
I advise my heart.
And memories capture within
For winter days cold and dark.

Healing Hidden Wounds.

Not everyone will relate to this, and if you’ve never felt unloved by God, bless your soul. Bless your truth loving soul. But if you do relate, I challenge you to avoid placing human failures that have made it hard for you to accept love upon the shoulders of the Good and Perfect Father, the creator of all. It doesn’t feel like the sin, in fact it is soul wrenching and unbelievably painful. But it is a lie about God. It is denying the truth he told us on the cross. And it is hindering to the work he would do through you. I don’t pretend to know your pain, but I do know God loves his children and has chosen every single one! If you have called on him to save you, he first called on you!

The words that echo through this poem are words I felt over and over vibrate through my brain. You are Cain, you are Ishmael, you are Saul, you are Judas, you are the unchosen one, you are the unwanted one, God loves you, but really doesn’t like you, he merely tolorates your existence. It was such an ugly twist of scripture, and the truth. I clung to these words for much of my walk with God, until he finally let me really have them. Over and over, as in the poem, beating, like an ugly hateful drum inside my mind. Praise be to God that his truth won, His word prevailed. And a stronghold of the enemy in my life was broken!

I encourage everyone to remain daily in his word, so that when the clever lies and half truths of the enemy come against you, you can cling to truth, no matter how much more real and tangible the lie feels. Blessings:)

The voice began to whisper.
The words I chose to heed.
The wounds I thought were buried,
Began again to bleed.

Unchosen you are Ishmael.
Failure you’re king Saul.
Despised you are Cain.
Unseen by the God of all.

A little girl undeserving,
Small heart crushed again;
The longing to be cherished,
Made for a annoying little pain.

Unchosen you are Ishmael.
Failure you’re king Saul.
Despised you are Cain.
Unloved by the God of all.

I, now grown, hid the girl,
I hid her in a box.
Dug a pit and covered,
The lid clasped with a lock.

Unchosen you are Ishmael.
Failure you’re king Saul.
Despised you are Cain.
Unwanted by the God of all.

God in his great goodness,
Spoke love into my heart.
Yet I never let it reach,
The girl hid in the dark.

Unchosen you are Ishmael.
Failure you’re king Saul.
Despised you are Cain.
Unknown by the God of all.

God, again in goodness,
Allowed my soul to break.
Left me to held falsehoods,
Whispered by that old snake.

Unchosen you are Ishmael.
Failure you’re king Saul.
Despised you are Cain.
And Judas above all.

Then from the darkest pit,
The box it was now open;
I saw my helpless soul,
Curled, filthy, bleeding, broken.

Unchosen you are Ishmael.
Failure you’re king Saul.
Despised you are Cain.
You’ll not survive this fall!

Hope and life, they faded.
I wept, sorrow overcame.
I felt the words in every nerve,
As louder the voice rang!

Unchosen you are Ishmael!
Failure you’re king Saul!
Despised you are Cain!
No one to hear your call!

‘Lord!’ In my mind I cried,
‘If you left me I’m undone!
If I truly am unchosen,
I’ve nowhere left to run!!’

Unchosen! You are Ishmael!
Failure! You’re king Saul!
Despised! You are Cain!
Unheard by the God of all!!!

Strength was given to me!
I spoke into the night.
That’s a lie! A lie! A LIE!
I again beheld the light!

Chosen I am his
Fallen? No more. Saved.
Beloved I am called.
I boldly bare his name!

That little hidden girl and I,
Stand hand and hand redeemed.
Held by the loving Father,
Who made me whole and clean.

Chosen I am his
Fallen? No more. Saved.
Beloved I am called.
I boldly bare his name!

Thank you Lord, good Father,
For the pain you you made me face.
Your wisdom is such that,
Your truth I can embrace!

‘Chosen you are Mine.
I’ve risen, you are saved.
Beloved is what I call you.
Now in my truth remain.’

Frozen living water

I wrote this as I stood outside gazing at the now frozen river I am so happily able to view just behind our home. I hope not to condemn others, the Church is the bride of Christ. As such I do not lightly criticize her, or her people.

Truth be told, around the world there is astounding movement in the church, and even in North America I see bursting forth many who burn hotly for Christ. I just still, with hope in my heart, await the coming melt, of the great rushing living river of the North American chruch as a whole. As I write this I am aware of my own need to surrender myself more and more to what the Holy Spirit would lead me towards. So with all the humility I can muster, here is my poem.

I stood on the bank of the river,
Frozen in her stride
A vision of the church,
Imposed upon my mind.

A great and mighty river
Flows under what’s now frozen;
The Holy Spirit moving
Under the unmoving chosen.

Waiting for the breath of spring
To flow and move our hearts,
And melt what now is bound
The ice to break apart.

That no longer would we seem
As what is hard and cold, unfeeling;
But as living rushing water
Anointed, holy, full of healing.

That those not in the church,
Would from the bank look on,
Would see such loving wonder,
They’d dive into the Holy throng.

A Moment. A breath. A poem.

Last few nights, and days at our house have been rough. The flu is making the rounds. Which makes for a lot of momma heartache, a lot of laundry, and not a lot of rest. Yet still today, I was able to enjoy a moment, and even have time to write it out. I hope it blesses you with a little sliver of peace, even as it did for me.


Holding on this moment,
Merely existing in the sun.
The worries fade away,
To the stillness I now run!

I melt into this instance;
This briefest breath of time.
I place it with great care
In a peaceful corner of my mind.

When I walked past my window,
Where sun brightly streamed.
She gently kissed my cheek;
And said ‘hello again’ to me.

She caught me unawares
Her friendly salutation.
I looked then to the view,
To heed her invitation.

The snow lay thick around,
Where shadow and light play.
The trees danced bare and naked
Winds song to which they sway.

Beyond all this the river,
Stood a solid icy guard.
A monument to winter,
His harsh beauty my reward!

Thank you gentle sunshine,
And winter how you bless.
For this brief, and happy minute,
That I now in my heart possess!


via Photo Challenge: Repurposeimg_0347

I saw this word, ‘repurpose’ and thought of all the things I have repurposed in my life. There’s been a lot. when you have five children, a small home and a humble income, you learn that in fact: yes, necessity is the mother of invention. But it’s not the dresser I repurposed as a TV stand, or the old bed board and knobs, that got upcycled into a place to hang plants. It’s not the coffee cup display that was created from repurposed cabinet doors. These are not the most important, or best repurposes I have experienced.


Those are just things. The biggest and best repurposes happened in myself. The the body, once so firm and young and beautiful, repurposed for more then just getting me from point A to point B. Was changed into a sanctuary, to nurture and bare wonderful life. My tummy repurposed from something hard and flat, to something soft and squishy for little feet to bounce on, and tender blessed heads to rest when weary or broken hearted.

The little girl broken, broken in ways many don’t, and never will understand. The little girl who felt unwanted. The little girl repurposed as something cherished loved and Royal.

A soul imprisoned, chained. Bound to slavery of with self loathing hatred selfishness, jealousy, rage, and bitterness towards others. Transformed into one who truly knows the redeeming love of the King and creator of all. One free to serve with Joy and peace the Saviour of this world. Free to love with purity. Free to stumble, and be forgiven.

And finally the biggest repurpose to affect my life, was not of my doing at all. It was the man, the God, the lamb, the Christ. Coming down and repurposing the device that was for torture, the instrument that caused the stoutest of hearts to tremble. The cross. He came down hung upon it, rose again three days later, and made the cross a symbol of redemption, of hope. A symbol of the powerful love which overcomes, not by force of strength, but force of humility!

That what I thought when I saw the word repurpose today.


Holy Healed

God places pain in our hands,
Pain stuffed down deep inside.
Pain avoided at all costs,
In darkest corners of our mind.

He makes us touch and feel it.
Allows it to seep into our soul.
He lets it break our spirit;
Around our hearts enfold.

To face an hold the hurt.
To unleash memories we bind.
Gives us grace to release them;
Truly freedom, from past find.

He’s the great, and Holy healer.
So perfect, and wondrous is His art.
He won’t merely bind and fix wounds,
Makes lovely scars upon our heart.

I imaging in my deeper thoughts,
Of those so filled with His pure light:
If we but glimpsed their soul,
We’d weep for the beauty of their strips.