Musings of a Single Mother

Build a Home

Build a home.

Lay the foundation deep;

make it strong.

Build a hearth,

and in its sparkle-warmth

place an easy chair;

A table set beside it

will hold a cup of coffee

and all your favorite books.

Paint your kitchen yellow;

hang ruffled curtains

in the windows.

Set potted begonias

on the sills;

Let the aromas of apple pie

and baked lasagna

permeate the air.

Put a piano in your living room;

        learn to play happy songs.

Teach your children 

to laugh in harmony.

Join the family plan

at Olan Mills;

Decorate your walls

with smiles.

Open your door to friends

and neighbors;

Share with them the music

you have memorized

or can play by ear.

Take in stray cats and other

unloved creatures that may

wander into your yard.

Build a home;

        share the key with

the one you trust most.

If, however, he should prove untrue,

tearing down what has been built

and leaving you alone,

Don’t be afraid;

        you know how to build.

Gather your children and

        teach them how

to lay brick on brick

smooth mortar on stone;

Whatever you do,

build a home.

Don’t Make Your Children Choose

Don’t make your children

choose allegiance;

as if love can’t forgive

a multitude of sin.

Don’t teach your children hate - 

It burns like fire

and turns direction

with the wind.

Let the children love him.

Place his picture in their room.

Put his number by the phone.

Help them bake him cookies

when he comes.

Repayment isn’t yours.

Repentance can’t be forced.

Years of bitterness

will only make him certain

he was right

in having left.

When the Goats Come

In the dusk of the evening

when the goats come,

be aware that

night is upon you.

Go inside; bolt the door.

You will hear their bleating,

pitiful, forlorn .- 

You will be tempted to 

let them in.

Do not be deceived.

Soon they will be 

butting their heads 

against the house.

They will disassemble 

the garbage you

have hidden 

behind the garage.

They will pull down

the laundry you

left hanging neatly

on the line.

Stay at home and

pray for morning

to come.

When the sun shines again

and exposes strips

of gnawed leather

that were once your shoes;

Be glad your feet 

were not in them.

Purple Clover Chains

I remember the day my Grandmother and I

lay on our backs on the warm earth

while God entertained us with cloud pictures.

We were weaving purple clover chains,

Grandmother sometimes humming

“What a Friend We Have in Jesus,”

Listening when I spoke, 

Giving significance to childhood dreams.

You would not have known my Grandmother had

endured years of struggle for the smile she wore,

But I can tell you that for seven years 

her husband beat her,

then left her with seven daughters.

Alone, she worked two jobs

to kept her home together.

And weak became strong.

In later years, disease claimed

her eyesight and both legs.

She lay in a nursing home,

Her mind more often weaving through the past

Than engaging in the present.

The last time I saw her, my life was broken.

In the safety of our moments, 

I knelt by her bedside and cried.

Interrupted by a touch, I looked up into eyes

Suddenly able to see bruises, visible or not.

“Grandmother,” I whispered, “How did you do it?”

How did you go on?”

“Listen closely, Child,” she said,

“The strength was not my own.”

Grandmother’s indomitable spirit soars.

I lie on a sometimes dampened pillow

listening for her humming;

Finding power in the Person of her song.