Manna Menu {a #poem}

Blue Plate Special–Good Today ONLY

Get your own bread,
Stop grabbing off your sister’s plate
And eyeing your brothers’.
I gave them just what they need—
I’ll do the same for you.
“What is it?”
“Manna.”
“What is it?”
“Yes.”
“but what IS  it?”
“You’ll just have to taste and see.”
“So what’s good today?” you ask.
We have items that are seasonal,
depending on what’s ripe and ready.
Wouldn’t want to give you anything too green-
It causes indigestion.
Like it???
Well, no, you can’t stuff some
In your pockets for tomorrow.
It’ll either turn into crumbs
From the pressure
Or get moldy—it’s dark inside there
And you’ll forget I gave you anything in the first place.
Don’t cram it all down at once—
Take small bites—
Then come back for more.
Do you have enough for today?
Great—we’ll see you tomorrow—
Your Father’s setting up a banqueting table….
~~~~~~~~~
 I’ve been reading the Pentatech and really feel for poor ol’ Moses leading the complaining children of Israel.  When they asked God for food (Exodus 16) God said he would ‘rain down bread from heaven” for them, and in this way he would ‘test them to see whether they will follow my instructions.’  Test them?  Well, that’s kinda  mean.  What instructions?  Why? To trust HIM, with a capital T.  He is teaching me to look to Him for something new and fresh and my own every day.         
‘manna’, accent on the 2nd syllable, literally means ‘what is it?’
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Leaving Soon {a #poem}

You point to the air
up there,
wordless yet speaking.
your hands, eyes conveying something.
What do you see?
Are you ready? Yes.
Is it time? Maybe.
Leaning in, you listen.

You hear He’s come for you
but we can neither see nor hear
we’re earthbound, living,
tethered by the doing.
So we chat and move and do and help,
missing the Messenger.

But you see Him;
viewing the Invisible,
Confident He’s calling.
Yes, you’ll be leaving
very
soon.

~~~~~
My father-in-law Ernest Paul Collins passed away on the 4th of July, 2010, his Independence Day. It was a glorious home going.

Neat Little Package{a #poem}

I wrote this poem on the January day in 2003 when my first grandson, Hanan Samuel, was born. 
This week he turned 9….I wanted to share this to honor him.
              

Your birth today unequivocally proved

that science still can do nothing

at explaining the miraculous.

The day you came into the world

the university physicists claimed to

be pursuing an explanation of gravity.

an unseen force, it defies definition actually

They lamented that “it can’t exactly be pinned down” and

“doesn’t act in a way that science can explain.

It has been said that “nothing important is completely explicable.**”

Indeed, your miraculous birth cannot be explained apart from God,

your creation cannot be contained.

Though swaddled tightly now,

you will not be confined to a neat little package.

Your long, wiggling fingers will noodle on a keyboard some day,

Your legs will flail in the ocean waves,

Your daddy-sized feet will carry you into the unknown,

You will fall, you will climb, you will think and create.

We will sit back and watch, observe and record

As you unfold from this neat little package.

Hanan Samuel Collins, Age 8
Multnomah Falls, OR
**Madeline L’Engle