My Thankful Story

Every year, about this same time, when the winds begin to blow in the change from summer's holiday to the next season, I am reminded of childhood;

School days spent following my sisters down the road from our little rent house to our neighborhood school,

blustery winds blowing our hair into our eyes and our papers into oblivion,

books tucked into book bags,

soggy sack lunches and the daily frets of homework...

Time when all our little family had to hold it together was God.

Didn't have money, that's for sure.

And I'm reminded much more of how God lived and moved right there among us every single day.

During this time, Mom was the sole provider for our family. Dad was in prison.

So hard times came as natural to us as wind in west Texas.

But it was during those hard times when I found the faithfulness of God to be real and true.

We were hard pressed for money, and yet never went a day without food.

Sometimes there were fresh fruit and vegetables that mysteriously appeared inside our car in bags or boxes or just laid out on the car's seat.

Other times a friendly face would bring them to us in paper bags and leave them on the porch, or hand deliver them to us during church.

My favorite time was when we all came home from church one Wednesday night, and found somebody had opened up a window... to leave us a mountain of food on the table and inside our refrigerator.

Boxes of clothes, bags of coats and shoes and sweaters, endless supplies of just what we needed just when we needed it most... always supplied at the precise moment of our greatest need.

Anonymous gift certificates for back to school shopping would come in the mail.

People would walk up to Mom and just hand her an envelope, give her a hug and a smile and then turn to go.

And we never had to beg. Never had to borrow. Never had to go one time of being without.

Small miracles on every side.

And the love overflowed and washed over us wave after wave.

I remember feeling closer to my sisters right then than I've ever felt since.

And we're still close, even now.

But the closeness during that time, it was so strong... the love of God just absorbed us inside it and clung to us as though we'd been dipped in honey.

I won't say there weren't days of wishing for things.

Our society has taught us materialism to a fault.

But our NEEDS were met. We lacked nothing we needed.

Rent was provided. Meals were had. Clothes were given.

And the blessings it brought on those who gave to our little family were just as great as the blessings they had given to us in our time of need.

I recall in particular one Thanksgiving day.

Mother had worked and saved and paid every bill.

Every utility and the rent, all paid.

But there was nothing left over for anything beyond the basics.

Mother opened the refrigerator and found all we had left was a package of hot-dogs and some bread and some canned vegetables.

Now for a kid in elementary school, hot-dogs are great.

Never a complaint about a hot-dog for any meal.

But for Mom...

well, she was very sad that all we had to eat was only hot-dogs.

But she prayed and thanked God for the food we had, and reminded us the real thing behind Thanksgiving is about the thankfulness, and not the food.

But she wished for at least a chicken or something that would seem a bit more traditional for us to remember.

And then.... the most wonderful thing happened......

Across town, a boy in our church was outside raking the yard.

He was thinking of Thanksgiving, and wondering about what other people who were less fortunate would do for Thanksgiving.

And his mind crossed over the new family with three little girls who had recently come to his church.

So right where he was, he stopped his raking, bowed his head, and said a prayer for them.

At that very moment, he opened his eyes, looked down at his pile of leaves, and there, caught among the the tines of his rake,

he saw a ten dollar bill.

He smiled, looked up and said, "Thank you Lord!" and ran into the house to show his mother.

Then he asked if she would mind going to the store to help him buy a few things for that little family with the three girls who had so very little.

He wanted to buy a turkey and whatever else was needed for a Thanksgiving dinner.

His mother said of course, and in less than an hour they were delivering a box full of food across town.

Doesn't God move in the most awesome and mysterious ways?

Doesn't He just amaze you with His faithfulness?

He sure amazes me... to think of using a kid across town and putting a ten dollar bill into a rake...

Now that was a miracle in my life.

There are many more.

But every autumn, when the leaves begin to fall, it always brings to mind

the faithfulness and wonder of our Heavenly Father....
ever reminding me to be thankful in all things.
=)

Like Little Children

Had the weirdest thought hit my head the other day...
I was standing there thinking of how as we pray, we enter into the presence of the Father. We close our eyes, then come before Him and stand right there where He alone sees us....
But what struck me was, how He sees us.
We see ourselves as adults. Career women and men. Moms and dads, uncles and aunts, sisters and brothers. We look at that face every day in the mirror, and to us, that is who we are.
But what God is looking on is the heart. He sees us as we really, really are down inside.
Inside each one of us, we're more than the clothes on the outside. We're something more than just flesh and bones and hair and makeup and what we do up every day to make ourselves presentable to others.
Inside, we're all just children.
Children of God.
So as we stand before Him, do we stand as children?
I got a sort of mental picture that came to view of a group of people standing before the throne, at first as adults.
Then we closed our eyes, lifted our hands and as suddenly as we really got into the worship and prayers and praise of Him, the outside of each of us began to sort of unzip and then fall off like an oversized character suit worn by a person (sort of like those at Disney World or other theme parks).
And out of each suit stepped a child.
Wearing typical kid clothes. Shorts, pants, dresses, t-shirts, just a bunch of kids.
Like we'd been playing dress up as adults and suddenly we stepped out of those too big dress up clothes and they just laid there on the ground while we stepped outside of them.
And as we looked around in wide-eyed wonder, we saw one another as children.
Smiles began to spread over our faces.
Then we laughed and hopped and skipped around and danced and ran circles like kids do, and enjoyed a wonderful time in His presence.
The old stuff just dropped off of us. No more tired muscles. No aching backs or hurt shoulders or stiff knees or arthritis or bad eyes or loss of hearing...
nothing holding us back.
No hurts. No pain. No old age.
Just giddy child-like happiness and joy as we danced as children before the Father.
And I do think that is how He sees us.
Not as these aging creatures so stiff and bent and ravaged by time, but as the children He created us to be.
Able to run, dance, skip, hop, jump and twirl around before Him in joy and freedom.
Freedom.
In Him, we find freedom and joy and laughter and love and life abundant... just as He meant it to be.
In His presence, as we enter there, trusting and hoping and joyful, just as little children, we find there what we're so hungry for.
To be in His presence, worshipping in freedom and real joy.
Trusting in Him with faith as a little child.
For if we become as little children, we look at things from that perspective. We really believe He can do all things.
We trust that He loves us and will take care of everything.
And we know everything He says is truth because that's what our Father is all about.
So let's drop these drab and heavy old clothes.
All our dress up games of being adults who carry the heavy world on our shoulders...
Let's lay them aside, leave 'em lying on the floor.
And let's dance as the little children we really are inside.
No self conscious peering around to see who is watching us.
No feeling as if we don't know the right moves.
God is watching, nobody else matters.
Let us kick off those heavy shoes and lay aside our heavy hearts and close our eyes to see only Him...
and dance.
Twirling.
Prancing.
Jumping.
Leaping.
Dancing and running and laughing...
Free as the children we really are inside.
No bullies.
No cares.
No worries.
Just us and God, sharing the moment together.
Flying with our feet in sheer joy for the Life He's given us.
Let's run and play with the Lord!


Matthew 18
1 At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?

2 And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them,

3 And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.

4 Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.

Thankful In All Things

Now thankful IN all things doesn't mean the same thing as thankful FOR all things....
There is a difference.
But, I had to share this little story with you that I found to be very interesting... especially since we are flying into Thanksgiving in the next few days.
Sometimes it is hard for me to remember to be thankful when frustrations run high.
But this story kind of puts things into a different light.
I hope you see what I mean....

Thankful for the Fleas

The barracks where Corrie ten Boom and her sister Betsy were kept in the Nazi concentration camp Ravensbruck were terribly overcrowded and flea-infested.

They had been able to miraculously smuggle a Bible into the camp, and in that Bible they had read that in all things there were to give thanks, and that God can use anything for good.

Corrie’s sister Betsy decided that this meant thanking God for the fleas.

This was too much for Corrie, who said she could do no such thing. Betsy insisted, so Corrie gave in and prayed to God, thanking Him even for the fleas.

Over the next several months a wonderful, but curious, thing happened. They found that the guards never entered their barracks. This meant that women were not assaulted. It also meant that they were able to do the unthinkable, which was to hold open Bible studies and prayer meetings in the heart of a Nazi concentration camp.

Through this, countless numbers of women came to faith in Christ.

Only at the end did they discover why the guards had left them alone and would not enter into their barracks.

It was because of the fleas.


Kind of makes me say, what on earth am I complaining about?
Point taken...
Much to be thankful for, even in the big and little frustrations that seem to fill our lives every day.
Maybe the next time I get a little bite from a flea, it will make me remember this story.

Let us keep our hearts full of Thanksgiving every single day.

Love Is Written On His Arms

Actions speak louder than words...


Who knows this better than those who have needed help and found somebody there right in the nick of time? A helping hand in our time of desperation is more precious than a box full of treasure. How many of us have been stranded as the car ran out of gas, or just stopped running for some reason and left us totally unprepared and at the mercy of anyone willing to stop and help? Or how about getting up to the check out at the grocery store and realizing you've left your money at the house which is a half hour or more away? Or how about being in a quiet panic knowing what you've been paid isn't going to cover all the bills, and you're wondering how on earth you'll make it through the month?
There are many more emergencies and dire situations we've all experienced. We’ve all needed some help, big or small, to make it through a hard time. And what a relief and a surprise it was when somebody stepped up and came forward to offer you assistance when it was most needed in your life.


The high school choir at church just got back from a trip to the Houston area where they went to help fix up some areas that had been affected by the recent hurricane. They scraped and primed and painted, mowed and raked and picked up garbage, cut down and pulled up and hauled away trees, branches and bramble of all sorts. And at the end of every day, after working long hours in the 100+ temperatures, these kids would still find the energy to shower and change clothes to look nice and put on another concert every night. And people say teenagers are a lost cause... I beg to differ.
When my son came back from this ten day trip, I was there to greet the bus as soon as it pulled in. He was still in his hoodie from the trip home. It has long sleeves for those who get a little chilled under the air conditioning. So there he was, busy grabbing luggage from beneath the bus, acting as though he was a one man loading crew...
Anyway, I watched and smiled to myself remembering all the times he's done this before. Three previous years of high school band, not including this last one, and three prior high school church choir trips... which all combined makes for a lot of unloading busses. Finally he had dragged the last of the bags from beneath the vehicle and located his own suitcase and began to walk back toward the car. In the heat of unloading, he had pushed up his sleeves. Then I suddenly saw his arms. I gasped! What on earth???


He laughed and joked about it. I couldn't believe how scratched up they looked. His arms looked as though he'd been in a fight with a weed whacker, or a cage full of psychotic cats. They were scratched from the wrist to the elbow and had little clear blistery sores scattered around between all the scratches.
"What on earth happened to your arms?"


After his joking about it for several minutes, he finally told me.
He had been helping to clean up this one house, and they had a lot of overgrowth that needed to be cleared away. So he and the others had been hacking at trees and branches and bramble and all sorts of fence line plants and shrubs and carrying it off. And he hadn't really noticed it much with the scratches, with bramble you're going to get scratched even with your best efforts to avoid it. But then he got into some fire ants.

When he was done with that, his arms were red and swollen and pretty painful. But he took it all in stride. He's just like that. It's no big deal, he will say, and won't admit to feeling any pain.


But to me it's painful to look at.


And seeing his arms brought to memory a song I'd heard.
Here are the lyrics:
**********************************************************

The boy only wanted to give Mother something
And all of her roses had bloomed
Looking at her as he came rushing in with them
Knowing her roses were doomed
All she could see were some thorns buried deep
And the tears that he cried as she tended his wounds

And she knew it was love
It was one she could understand
He was showing his love
And that's how he hurt his hands

He still remembers that night as child
On his mother's knee
She held him close and she opened her bible
And quietly started to read
And seeing a picture of Jesus he cried out
"Momma, he's got some scars just like me."

And he knew it was love
It was one he could understand
He was showing his love
And that's how he hurt his hands

Now the boy's grown and moved out on his own
When Uncle Sam comes along
A foreign affair, but our young men were there
And luck had his number drawn
It wasn't that long till our hero was gone
He gave to a friend what he learned from the cross

But they knew it was love
It was one they could understand
He was showing his love
And that's how he hurt his hands

It was one they could understand
He was showing his love
And that's how he hurt his hands
**********************************************
And it struck me.
His arms aren't just covered with nasty painful scratches and fiery blisters...
These are the wounds of love.
Not gushy flowery words that tickle the ear and blow away in the winds of time...
but real, hard-working love given from one person to another.
A helping hand.
Ready and willing to give until it hurts.
I'm so glad he did the work.
I know it helped somebody who desperately needed other people to intervene.
And even as he gave something precious and real to the owner of the home he worked on,
he brought back something priceless to me as well.
God uses such personal ways to teach us things, doesn't he?

Point taken.
Powerful lesson at the hands of a group of teenagers.
Blessed are the scars of love.
His passion, his love is written right there on his arms for all to see.
Sometimes scars hold a powerful meaning.

Remember the scars of the only One who could save us are still there for all to see when we finally meet Him face to face.
Let us wear our scars without shame for they tell a story everyone in the whole world needs to hear.

Let us look at our own scars and let them help us to remember a love so powerful and deep and real that we would give anything and everything we have to share it.

Let love be written on our arms, our legs, our hands, our feet, our entire being.

And above all, let love be written on our hearts

“I have engraved you on the palms of my hands. Your walls are always in my presence.”

            -Isaiah 49:16

UP

Little seeds, planted in the ground...

they come alive from their sleepy pods and begin to grow.

Up they go. Always up.

Growing up is what we do.

I am small. A little tree.

Sprung from an acorn no bigger than a thumb.

I get older and what do I do?

I grow. I grow to the sky.

Reaching ever upwards.

Growing Up.

Always, always growing UP.

Little children.

arms and hands and fingers reaching high

Up to the sky like I'm a tree

Branching toward heaven

I'm growing up

Up, up, up.

Can you see me growing?

I'm a mother

learning what it means to be mommy

Still growing ever inside.

Where do I grow?

How best to expand my thoughts, my desires,

my hopes and dreams?

Up.

Grow your dreams to the sky.

Grow them to the heavens above.

Look up, there you find the answer.

Growing up to see the Son.

Stretch your arms wide

your heart to the whole sky above.

From above comes your peace, your hopes, your LIFE.

Grow UP.

Fruit of the spirit

bloom in my life

cause me to grow

keep my eyes on what is above

and not what lies beneath

Help me learn what it means to grow up.

Up into what I've been created to be.

Up above all things mortal

above what is unclean

Up to the giver of life

rising above all things

We grow older

the end of our days here grows nearer

what awaits us?

We have grown to know where it is.

Up.

Heaven lies above our heads.

It is not so very far away.

Just another little jump.

Like the tiny seeds that fly from a pod

on fluff light as dandelion's down

rising to the heavens

growing ever
up.

In Memory of Dee

Riding on thoughts today... head is filled with memories of a cousin who passed six years ago today.
He was a cowboy with every fiber of his being from hat to boots and everything in-between.
Dee was a rowdy one.
My mother remembered a little nephew who would rope a stuffed toy and wrestle with all his cousins til they had more than they could stand. Never still for very long. She told of how he'd gotten hold of a bottle of baby aspirin as a child and chewed up the whole bottle full... then as grandmother tried to rake the pills out of his mouth, he bit her finger. They had to give him some epicac syrup to get the aspirin back up. Poor fellow. He was a boisterous little handful when he was little.
I remember him as an older cousin of mine. He and his brother Bob were always doing something.
I don't recall him ever being inside too much... except for meal time.
Then he'd be back out on horseback, or in his pick-up, or running the greyhounds chasing rabbits, or doing one of a hundred jobs that the ranch needed done.
Always in motion.
His skin was forever tanned, his hands calloused and rough, and he wore jeans, boots, hat and a shirt usually covered with whatever he was working on that day.
He had sort of sleepy looking eyes, dark hair and thick black eyelashes to the envy of every girl.
Usually he was smoking with a cigarette casually hanging from his mouth.
It was all just part of who he was.
I recall a few times when he'd stay in the house with all the little cousins.
He played a few games of checkers with grandpa and maybe watch a little football on TV.
But mostly, he was outside.
I think Dee was most in his element there.
Under the wide Texas skies, wind in his hair, riding his horse chasing after a calf or steer with a rope in hand.
Highly skilled in roping. I remember as a kid when I used to go and visit my grandparents, he would be there and would rope me as I walked through the living room.
Never missed, much to my disappointment.
I sure miss him.
Odd how you miss a person a little more with each passing year.
Somehow I thought as time passed, it would lessen the missing, but it seems to have gone the opposite direction.
I remember the funeral as if it was only a month ago.
We drove to Silverton on Friday night and got there to see my daughter Kimberly playing in the band with a little group of college kids who came from Texas Tech in Lubbock to watch the Silverton Owls take on the Kress Kangaroos. The whole town was buzzing with the Goin' Band coming to their game.
At grandmother's house we saw cousins and relatives from everywhere.
My cousin Bob, Dee's brother, had not slept in days.
The two of them had always been buddies... never too far away from each other.
And now...
The two Sons of Thunder had been separated.
No more rodeos or riding together, or swimming or practicing roping... no more anything.
Dee was always quiet in a crowd, but put him on a horse, and he was poetry in motion.
He and Bob had been around horses and cattle all their lives.
Probably put in a saddle before they could walk.
I can't remember how many summers my sisters and I spent up there on that ranch just watching the two of them rope and ride.
How I loved them for all they could do.
I was some uncoordinated city kid just standing at the fence amazed.
But somehow, they loved me as the greenhorn I was.
I was hesitant to go back at first. I'd grown fat and older...
And yet as I walked into the room with all my relatives, I was overwhelmed by all the warm hugs and hearty hellos and a dozen people gathered around me waiting to catch up.
How foolish I was to forget the love there just waiting for me to walk in the door.
I didn't want to leave.
But finally it was very late, and I would not take a bed away from the family members who were more closely related to my cousin.
So we drove over to Plainview and stayed in a hotel.
We got up the next day and drove back to Silverton to be at the Baptist church at noon.
The church was full of Dee's relatives from both sides of the family. It was hard to tell who was family and who was not related, but one of his friends. All looked so close to the same. As natural as cousins on every side.
I saw my uncle Walter there, Dee's dad. He looked nearly untouched by time.
Maybe a little more silver in the hair he had left, maybe a couple more wrinkles, but the same smile and quiet gentlemanly manners I'd always known. A little older. A little more tired.
He wore an older, gray, western-cut suit which seemed to be almost a part of him.
Walter was born in the old house out there on the ranch. He said his mother died there. Said he guessed he's be there until he died too.
The service started and it was simple and beautiful.
There were flowers arranged with Dee's saddle and horse blanket and a lariat on top of the casket.
Seemed to be sleeping there among us, thick eyelashes closed forever in rest.
His har was still dark as a raven, but bits of it had lightened due to all the years under the sun.
His resemblence to Walter was striking. Older. More aged.
His typical black cowboy hat was on top of his hands.
At the bottom of the casket were his boots surrounded by more flowers.
Beside him sort of sticking up at an angle from the side was his fishing pole with flowers and vines all twined around it.
It was beautiful, but seemed out of place to see him lying there so still and quiet.
The service began with one fellow doing the eulogy.
It was pretty good, but he was kind of new and nervous.
A second fellow came up after the first, and he seemed to know everyone better.
He talked about Dee's life with his mom and dad and his brother and sisters and grandmother.
He said, it's not natural to lose your son, brother, nephew or grandson like this... but then he spoke of the comfort we find beyond what this life has to offer us.
Very fitting. Dee was never one to try and live beyond the rustic cowboy he was inside.
Nothing fancy. Nothing dressed up. Plain and simple.
Lastly, an older cowboy gentleman stepped up with a guitar in hand.
He sang
And then he sang Beulah Land
Simple.
Guitar and song.
Nothing else.
Just like it was supposed to be... the way Dee would have wanted it to be.
Just like him. Simple, plain cowboy.
And as he was singing it was thundering and raining too.
Nearly seemed as if it was planned the way the thunder would sound just after the preacher said something fitting, and how the rain stopped as the casket was loaded and while we went to the grave site.
And just as we'd gathered around with the last words, it began to sprinkle again.
During the talking it would thunder now and again and I'd smile thinking of Dee riding by us all again on his new horse in the clouds with lightning in the skies... hooves thundering past us as he rode on the wind.
It was less a good-bye, and more a see-you-later.
I can hardly wait.
Miss you Dee.
Ride on.

"I'm kind of homesick for a country

to which I've never been before.

No sad good-byes will there be spoken,

and time won't matter anymore.

Chorus:

Beulah Land, I'm longing for you

And some day on thee I'll stand.

There my home shall be eternal.

Beulah Land... sweet Beulah Land.

I'm looking now across that river

to where my faith is gonna end in sight.

There's just a few more days to labor,

then I'll take my heavenly flight.

Chorus."

"Oh the place where I worship is the wide open spaces,

built by the hand of the Lord.

Where the trees of the forest are the pipes of an organ,

and the breeze play an amen chord.

Oh the stars are the candles and they light up the mountains;

mountains are altars of God.

Oh the place where I worship is the wide open spaces

built by the hand of the Lord.

There's a carpet of green and a sky blue roof above

And I'm welcome there alone or with the one I love

In your heart take a good look; if you follow the good book.

You're sure to find your reward

Oh the place where I worship is the wide open spaces

built by the hand of the Lord."

Visitation

Back seat travel

sitting next to my sister

watching the trees fly by outside my window

like a forest going by on a very fast train.

Sleepy thoughts floating in and out

between daydreams and reason.

Huntsville.

An eternity away to nine year old me.

I watch the window

stare up into the sky

and wish I could fly

Free and happier than anything

to taste the clouds

and feel the wind blowing against my face

while smiling like crazy

because

I can fly.

I wake up and we're almost there.

The car stops at another red light.

I'm a little scared of whatever is up ahead

We pull into the drive and I wish I could shrink away inside my seat

until I'm invisible.

Guards stand watching in towers higher than the trees in my neighborhood.

Arms folded.

Eyes searching everything.

I can see their rifles shining in the hot afternoon sun

My heart beats so hard I'm afraid they can hear it.

The fence in front of me stands taller than my house.

Great loops of barbed wire give a cruel looking razor sharp, man-eating shine.

I look away quickly, and hope they won't ever tangle me

The guard we talk to speaks like he's a part of the fence.

He's like the wall.

No smiling in his eyes.

No nonsense in his voice.

He looks at me like he's reading another empty chapter

in a very long and hard book

that he wants to put down

and stop reading.

I'm too afraid to give him a smile or a wave.

So I just look back at him with a very wide-eyed, wondering look

trying not to do anything wrong.

We park a long way out.

It takes a long time to walk across the hot black parking lot toward the building.

Like the fence and the guards,

it looks enormous.

It stands like a giant brick box against the sky

as if it's trying to keep us all out

even the sunshine and the air.

Holding mom's hand tight as we start up the sidewalk

imposing

the doors don't want to let us in

the walls and bars don't want to let anyone out

I hold my breath as I walk inside.

Faces...

mean ones

tired ones

sad ones

angry ones

hungry ones

they all turn and look at me

Eyes tell me a story behind each person

some are sad

some are old

some full of hate

and others are only very tired

they look to see who the door let in

inside of their caged in world

made of glass, wire and steel

Fences and walls

inside of the giant box filled with guards

I feel small and afraid

and I wonder why we have to come here to see my Daddy

My sister is braver

She walks tall and unafraid

She acts like she can't see them looking

walking straight past the lady with the stroller

following mom like she's another grown up.

I look at the floor and keep up with her tennis shoes

I don't want to look up anymore.

Hard folding chairs line the room

with a counter full of little windows made of screen wire and glass

separating the whole room down the middle

groups of men sit on the other side of the windows

sitting and talking with us on the outside

guards stand at each side of the wall

and one sits in the middle between the two separated window aisles

He watches the men with folded arms

and stares at them, and us, all the while.

Daddy is behind the glass.

I see him come from outside of the hallway.

He looks different

but he has his same smile.

His eyes smile at me

and look tired around the edges.

He tries not to show it.

But I think his eyes are sad too.

He sits in front of the window.

And puts his hand on the glass.

It's like a game.

I put my little hand up to the glass too.

His hand is much bigger.

I smile and for a moment

I'm not afraid.

My sister talks first to Daddy.

She's older than I am and she's got a lot more to say.

School, the new house, new church, new friends...

Daddy smiles and then says to wait just a minute.

He goes up and gives the guard some change

and buys us sodas.

Puts them on the little ledge at the guard's post.

Then tells us to go and pick them up.

They are for us.

We walk down and wait, afraid to ask.

The guard stops being a wall for a half a minute

as he smiles and hands us the sodas.

Then goes back to his folded arms

and staring like a watchdog.

We play small games

whatever we can

on either side of the glass between us

Watching Mama and Daddy

they talk and smile some

and wipe away tears and talk some more.

It's not as good as a hug,

but the guards and the wall won't let him past.

So we put our hands again on the glass

and press them together there as long as we can.

Too soon, another guard calls time.

He stares like a wolf ready to bite somebody.

Daddy says he loves us, be good, listen to Mama.

And then he says good-bye

I think there were tears in his eyes.

Mama tries hard not to cry.

She watches as he leaves the little room

going down the hall

behind the caged-in bars.

Then we all turn away and leave for home.

I sleep nearly all the way there

waking now and then to stare up at the moon

wondering and staring

waiting for an answer to be spelled out in the stars.

The forest turns black and the sky to dark blue velvet.

while the trees fly silently past the window

like giant black bars made of iron.

I fall asleep and dream of flying over the big brick box

past the guards and razor wire

until I find my Daddy

where we both fly away together

soaring over the prison like a bird

and smiling like crazy

because we're free.