MISC POEMS AND WRITINGS

NOBODY KNOWS

By Ruth Lyberger    September 1999

[Birth Mother of Roger Meir]

Nobody knows what a mother goes through

When she gives up her baby so tiny and new 

Nobody knows what lies ahead

Sometimes a life that the mother dreads 

Nobody knows the hurt and the pain

Of not knowing if she will ever see him again 

Nobody knows how it feels

To know that time does not heal 

Knowing your son is somewhere out there

Not knowing what his parents will share 

Nobody knows how a mother longs

To know her son and to see how he’s done 

Nobody knows if you’ll ever meet

The son you gave up when you were weak 

Nobody knows what joy it is to

Hear the words “I forgave you” 

Nobody knows what God has in store

He gave me a son and a whole lot more 

Nobody knows how happy I’ve been

To meet my son and start over again 

Only God knows that this was His plan

And now with joy and love we are both in God’s hand 

So till you walk in this mother’s shoes

You’ll never know what she’s been through

GRATITUDE LIST    By Donna Carr-Jenkins

Love -from so many, family, friends, even when they don’t say it. But God’s love shines through their darkest moments and overshadows any human love. 

Breath - even when my nose is clogged  and I have a sore throat He is not done with me here on earth as He continues to give me breath. 

Sight - even when my eyes are filled with tears or my eyes are closed, seeing Gods creation but also God at work past, present and knowing I’ll see more in the future with spiritual eyes moving my heart. 

A sound mind - even though I may lose it at times, He brings me back to truth. We do not fight against flesh and blood but against the powers…..which Jesus has already defeated if we walk in the Spirit. So the fight is as easy as knowing He is in charge and has it handled as long as we are resting in Him. 

Taste and smell - bombarding the senses with His creation. From  the air after a spring rain, flowers,  and sweetness of fruit off the trees. But the presence of the Lord in all His goodness tops them all. 

Touch - the hugs from those who love you, miss you, and or greet you, a soft back rub, being able to detect the dish is not clean and something is still stuck on, and the warmth of a blanket on chilly nights. But when God touches that part of you that He’s been waiting for the perfect moment, because He is patient, kind, and gentle, brings healing and truth, that’s heaven touching earth. 

Afraid?   Of What?           By Ruth Bell Graham
       

Our mission board made it a policy never to pay ransom, a policy that spread rapidly by word of mouth. As a result, none of our missionaries was ever held for ransom. One, however, was killed in cold blood.

“Uncle” Jack Vinson was recovering from an appendectomy when bandits pillaged a village inhabited by a number of Christians. He insisted on going to check on them. While he was there, the bandits returned and Uncle Jack was captured. After being roped together with a long line of prisoners, he was ordered to start walking. Because of his recent surgery, he was unable to keep up.

A young Chinese girl heard a bandit threaten to shoot him if he did not hurry. Uncle Jack replied, “If you shoot me, I shall go straight to heaven.” The soldier shot him.

When “Uncle” Ham heard this account, he wrote a poem that I think reflects the feelings of all those missionaries under whose influence we were reared:

Afraid? Of What?

To feel the spirit’s glad release?

To pass from pain to perfect peace,

The strife and strain of life to cease?

Afraid—of that?

Afraid? Of What?
Afraid to see the Savior’s face
To hear His welcome, and to trace
The glory gleam from wounds of grace?
Afraid—of that?

Afraid? Of What?
A flash, a crash, a pierced heart;
Darkness, light, O heaven’s art!
A wound of His a counterpart!
Afraid—of that?

Afraid? Of What?
To enter into Heaven’s rest,
And yet to serve the Master blest,
From service good to service best?
Afraid—of that?

Afraid? Of What?
To do by death what life could not—
Baptize with blood a stony plot,
Till souls shall blossom from the spot?
Afraid—of that?

—E.H. Hamilton