Morning has broken

In our back yard

 

 

For Dads

Those Winter Sundays

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

Robert Hayden (1913-1980)

 

Huh?

So, this morning at 9:15 we are ready to start the worship practice at church and I get called to the phone. It's one of my daughters asking if I can end practice and come pick her up and take her to Walmart so she can get some sandals for church. Seriously.

What do you do with that?!?

 

just loaves and fish

This weekend Laura was gone to the ladies/girls/women's retreat. Along with her went a good chunk of the other ladies from church, including the pianist, the organist and the recorder player, over half the worship team.

I'm not too proud to say I was a little afraid, ... ok, alot afraid.

I had Matt on Bass or Electric, whatever we needed, Steve on the Acoustic guitar, who's been playin about a year, and Chris on the drums. They really stepped up and they owned the day. Steve played with a look of terror on his face, Chris hit most of his runs and fill-ins beautifully, and Matt carried the crew.

We worshiped, and He came. He took our meager offerings and fed people with them.

Sometimes its good to be weak and unable, and to know it.