When my thoughts go to your younger years and I hear your deep voice cursing the time, my eyes fill with hot tears and I wonder if singing Jesus Loves Me with you as a toddler was enough.
I lit a fire this New Year and watched the hot embers fly high and burn out fast and fall cold and faltering to the ground and felt my mothering was the same.
A seed may die and defiantly sprout up to new life and grow a tree. But ashes, ashes, they just fall. Hot for a moment and that’s all.
I have no hope for these burned out years unless ashes can be traded. But who does that?
I don’t know how, but here I offer all my ashes. Will you take them Resurrected? Will you make them a crown?
Published by Sheila Dougal
Hey, I'm Sheila, glad you're here.
A little about me: I'm a 40-something woman, wife, mom, RN, soap maker and wannabe suburban homesteader. I think better when I write. I've kept a journal since I was 9 and started blogging over 10 years ago.
I'm introverted, but I love people. I'm curious but shy. I'm contemplative and easily distracted. I feel deeply and know numbness. I want to make things right and I'm learning to let go. I wax poetic sometimes and often don't know what to say. It's complicated.
It boggles me that I am Christ's and he is mine. I gaze into the heavens and the Heaven-Maker's words, remember the hard things, fight depression, and long for home and King.
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