A doctor friend of ours said to me afterwards, “God only allows His children to go through so much.” While I regret that Doug left us far too early, I’m confident that His healing came in heaven. Miss you, Doug! As I grieve the loss of another loved one, I realize again how nothing prepares us to deal with death. However, we do have the incredible opportunity to draw near to “The Comforter”, another name of the Holy Spirit (John 16:7), and receive supernatural help and care for our deepest of needs. Only this heavenly support from a God whose name is Love, and is available 24/7, gives me power to move forward, along with the hope of being reunited one day. I found this poem recently, which I wrote on Doug's birthday in 2020. I worked on it some more and came up with this. Thank you for reading! Please share any thoughts in the comments.
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Variations of frost on our walkway this morning... getting ready for tonight's snow!
"The frost makes a flower, the dew makes a star."
Sylvia Plath As my pursuit of creating art digitally is expanding I googled, "Top Digital Artists" today. This guy came up! If you have time, it's a beautiful, short, multiple-award winning film about this 97 year-old artist, his life and art. Enjoy!  The lovely poem Hal mentions (below) is by New Jerseyan, Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)
TREES (1913) I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.  Amaryllis by our kitchen window  Amaryllis
by Connie Wanek A flower needs to be this size to conceal the winter window, and this color, the red of a Fiat with the top down, to impress us, dull as we've grown. Months ago the gigantic onion of a bulb half above the soil stuck out its green tongue and slowly, day by day, the flower itself entered our world, closed, like hands that captured a moth, then open, as eyes open, and the amaryllis, seeing us, was somehow undiscouraged. It stands before us now as we eat our soup; you pour a little of your drinking water into its saucer, and a few crumbs of fragrant earth fall onto the tabletop. (Lovely poem! I found it here) |
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