Author: Marcia Gunnett Woodard

To Papa, on Fathers

Dear God, I don’t understand. It doesn’t seem fair. Some of us grow up with wonderful fathers— Amazing fathers who leave too soon, Though not willingly. Some of us have ones Who turns the word “father” into a curse. Some have no father at all. A father Is so crucial to life— Forming. Shaping. Challenging. Directing. We need our fathers. Why can we not— Each of us— Have a wonderful father? Then, I remember. We all— Every single one of us— Does have a good, good Father, The fountain from whom flow All the blessings Of Father-love. A Father...

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One of Those Days

Papa, Already, It’s been one of those days. We woke up late Because the power was out, So there was no hot water for showers. And in the warm fridge,the milk had spoiled So the kids got zipper bags of cornflakes for breakfast. The power was out because of a storm in the night, And the driveway was flooded; Which I discovered When Emma splooshed out through the puddles In her brand new shoes. I got Thomas and the baby into the car without mishap (Except for the pacifier dropped in the mud), Only to find the kids had...

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Are You There?

God Are you there? I call and call to you Asking for relief, For answers, But the only reply is more troubles. I feel shackled, And my prayers Bounce back to me In repeating echoes… Echoes… Echoes…. As if I were a tiny beetle You have trapped under a brass bowl. You say you will be my strength. Where is that strength? You say You are my refuge. Oh, God, be my refuge. Let me feel your sheltering arms Let me see you fight for me, 122When I have no other champion, No advocate. Set me free once more....

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Risen

Papa, I sit here in the dark Of Holy Saturday night, In the moments Before the dawn of resurrection— Waiting For my miracle, The answer to my prayers. The change I long for. The change in me. I am tired. The old me Is exhausted, Weighed down, By my tendency to sin. Come, Do a new thing In me. Transform my mind.. Give me a new heart— A heart to follow you. Resurrect...

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On The Mountaintop

Here I stand, on a mountaintop. Alone. I chose this path, This time of solitude. Of isolation. But some days, I miss the lowlands. The lush greenness. Fruitful. Productive. Refreshing. Here on the mountaintop, life is strenuous. Harsh. Demanding. Raw. In the lowlands, I have known breezes of blessing, Rainbows of prosperity, Sunshine of success. Here on the mountaintop, I find Your Voice in the thunder, Your revelation in the lightning’s flash, Your Spirit in the rushing wind. In the lowlands, I have romped, through meadows of worship. Here on the mountaintop, I struggle, Climbing to stand on boulders...

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