Sometimes Things Get Broken

Heavenly Daddy,
"Sometimes things get broken,"my mother says.Yeah,right.My tractor breaks,both mowers break, and there is still stuff to do.
I curse the tractor and the mowers.A car broken as I try to fix it brings on more cursing.These poor dumb inademate words can't tell
anything I'm saying.And I ask for God to bring down curses on all these hunks of iron,the one object truly broken is me.The struggles and trials
that never seem to end.My spirit is broken under the weight of all the demands put on it.Whether actually put on me or self inflicted is
a matter for debate.I don't even know where to start.
Will there ever be a day with no more suffering and no more tears?I have had very few broken bones in my life.What ones I've had broken incapcitate that area
of your area of your of body.A spirit broken incapactates every fiber of your being.Am I beyond fixing?God,I've failed sometimes as a son I should be left for dead.
How do I deal a world that can't be trusted?Self interest has been put first.These weight of doubt bring me to the point of losing hope.Hope is all I have in You.
You didn't leave me, I left you.
Time heals all wounds they say.But healing leaves scar tissue that builds around my heart.It builds walls between you and
I.So easy to walk away,not so easy to stay.
In my brokeness all I can do is crawl to a place I felt safe as a child.In my father's arms.It was the place of my refuge.As I lay down to sleep with my heavy heart,may I be silent enough
to hear the unspoken words that You are near.Take the broken pieces while I sleep and let me love again.Tears,where have you gone from me?
Amen.

Judge Gently

Pray, don't find fault with the man who limps> Or stumbles along the road.> Unless you have worn the shoes he wears> Or struggled beneath his load.> > There may be tacks in his shoes that hurt> Though hidden away from view.> Or the burden he bears placed on your back> Might cause you to stumble too.> > Don't sneer at the man who's down today> Unless you have felt the blow> That caused his fall or felt the shame> That only the fallen know.> > You may be strong but still the blows> That was his if dealt to you> In the selfsame way, at the selfsame time> Might cause you to stagger too.> > Don't be too harsh with the man who sins> Or pelt him with word or stone> Unless you are sure - yea, doubly sure> That you have no sins of your own.> > For you know, perhaps,> If the tempter's voice should whisper as soft to you> As it did to him when he went astray> It might cause you to falter too.> >

Called

 Dad wrote this about feeling too over strict on his children and not understanding enough. A tough tightrope for a father to walk.

Here it is:

He cringed, and cowered in the shadow of his darkened room.

Fearing to venture out from the safety of the protection of the gloom.

He had been disobedient and the penalty he now feared.

As his Father's return from his work drew swiftly near.

This heartrending scene was re-enacted time after time,

Just apathetic battle for attention and affection, his only crime.

He stood at the door of our hearts pleading entrance in.

Hurt, dismayed with a long, long battle he'd never win.

With tears in his eyes, a break in his lonely heart,

Hoping for, and begging for entrance, in whole or in part.

He begged and implored with no realized reply.

As his tender, young, hungry heart, wondered, why, why?

He sought and reached for love, from any who could understand,

We were too blind and busy to see the pitiful outstretched hand.

Rigid discipline, strict codes, hard rules with no exception.

Too late, too late I realized I was tragically practicing deception.

He called and called but I couldn't see his desperate need.

Grandma's Hands

Grandma, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the patio bench. She didn't move, just sat with her head down staring at her hands. When I sat down beside her she didn't acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat I wondered if she was OK. Finally, not really wanting to disturb her but wanting to check

on her at the same time, I asked her if she was OK. She raised her head and looked at me and smiled. 'Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking,' she said in a clear voice strong. 'I didn't mean to disturb you, grandma, but you were just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted to make sure you were OK,' I explained to her. 'Have you ever looked at your hands,' she asked. 'I mean really looked at your hands?' I slowly opened my hands and stared down at them. I turned them over, palms up and then palms down. No, I guess I had never really looked at my hands as I tried to figure out the point she was making. Grandma smiled and related this story: 'Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you well throughout your years. These hands, though wrinkled shriveled and weak have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab and embrace life. 'They braced and caught my fall when as a toddler I crashed upon the floor.They put food in my mouth and clothes on my back. As a child, my mother taught me to fold them in prayer. They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots. They held my husband and wiped my tears when he went off to war.'They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and bent. They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold my newborn son. Decorated with my wedding band they showed the world that I was married and loved someone special They wrote my letters to him and trembled and shook when I buried my parents and spouse. 'They have held my children and grandchildren, consoled neighbors, and shook in fists of anger when I didn't understand. They have covered my face, combed my hair, and washed and cleansed the rest of my body. They have been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and raw. And to this day when not much of anything else of me works real well these hands hold me up, lay me down, and again continue to fold in prayer. 'These hands are the mark of where I've been and the ruggedness of life. But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when he leads me home. And with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to touch the face of God.' I will never look at my hands the same again. But I remember God reached out and took my grandma's hands and led her home. When my hands are hurt or sore or when I stroke the face of my children and husband I think of grandma. I know she has been stroked and caressed and held by the hands of God. I, too, want to touch the face of God and feel His hands upon my face.