I was surprised one day talking to a fellow worker to learn as a mother of four children, she had not raised them to open a Bible, instead "I am not going to worry about that, they are in good hands." She meant, she trusted the Lord but has not applied, train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it. I was stunned to know this actually came out of her mouth.
This incident reminded me of my upbringing. My grandparents did not go to church. My grandfather had his own way of believing, which left me, no inheritance. My grandmother at times, would elude to Jesus, but as the years drifted by, said less and less. Two adopted children, with no faith base. My brother does not believe in God. For me, I believed, I just didn't have anyone to cultivate the soil, so to speak, and head me in the right direction. Jesus stepped in though, and led me to where I am today.
A Child's Dream of a Father
I have a male parent,
that is all I have,
he sometimes is cruel,
I don't understand,
he sometimes is bad,
the way he treats me somedays,
his words hurt deeply,
when I disobey,
I went to my mom,
asking, "Why mom, is he so mean?"
my mom put her arms around me,
said, "he does really care,"
but I still drift on my own,
where is the father I long for?
Who comforts in disappointment,
put his arms around me,
to strengthen my way,
teach me where to find hope,
in a world where love has grown cold.
I have seen in my life
children locked out of their homes,
Beating on the doors,
With tears, "Please dad, let me inside!"
hearing their cries,
standing in the dark,
reminds me of my childhood,
left to my own way.
Cruel words of adults,
last a life time,
repeating their message,
in years that go by,
who do you turn to,
when those who should care,
hardened hearts,
leave you in the dark to cry?
Playback recordings,
where memories are stored,
as you grow older,
you pick up their tones,
parents words echo,
continous legacy of pain,
when no one stops the cycle,
then everyone loses, no one gains.
A society of hurting children,
with no love to find,
then you wonder how,
a child can pick up a gun,
with rampage to kill on the brain?
Sometimes I wish pastors,
would make a altar call,
to call the children,
who are hiding their pain,
teach them how to walk away,
into the Savior's arms,
find the Father,
they have been searching for.
Then call the fathers,
of each child that came,
and teach them how to father,
a child of the living King.
qbee_75@hotmail.com
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