In days of yore, the pilgrims walked The Way
to show their piety, their love of God.
They took their sins and burdens, seeking grace,
renewing faith on every path they trod.
Tradition is the golden thread
that binds our lives together,
weaving through every memory
sweet ties that last forever.
It shines a light on every face,
adds luster to the commonplace,
reminds us of a distant song
and tells our hearts where we belong.
He approaches the podium, earnest gaze,
blue eyes bedimmed by gentle haze,
to speak of lasting things and true,
pure testimony shining through.
Belief is a garden our hearts choose to grow.
Hope is the rich ground we need.
It takes testing and tilling, feeding and filling
to raise up the truth that we seed.
Born of God’s love, we are born into love;
then love is born in us, if we are wise.
Good seeds are given, but it’s ours to plant them,
to raise them underneath uncertain skies.
When Todd is watching me, I hope he sees
more things that please than things that give him pause.
I would not cause him grief – that’s my domain –
but surely human pain feels softer there,
where earth and flesh and loss no longer reign.
Today, this long-awaited day,
such bright son-light emerged!
A sacred purpose was fulfilled
as heaven and earth converged.
LOVE IS A BRAID
Stranded we are –
lone shafts of golden grain,
bowing and weaving,
laid low by wind and rain –
raised to bright sky.