tales2apoint

…stories and poetry to touch, teach, & turn the heart toward truth.


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When the Cold Didn’t Feel So Cold – A Poem

A little boy in a wonderland

Of snow and ice with bright red hands

‘Cause he forgot to wear his gloves

Though his momma told him to keep them on

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Throwing snowballs and building walls

Climbing up a drift at least 6 feet tall 

He didn’t notice his freezing hands 

Until warm inside after the fun was had

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Oh I remember when the cold didn’t feel so cold

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The boy grew tall and he made his plans

Of what he could do with his grownup hands

He fell in love and he held her close

He promised he would never let her go

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But after 13 years he let her down

So she took the kids and they left town

And he cried alone with an empty glass

No one to hold him but a drafty house

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And he remembered when the cold didn’t feel so cold

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After he finally found his knees 

Though he’d tried to stand by his own will

He’d lost it all chasing empty thrills

Until his eyes were opened and he found true joy
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Now looking back as an aging man

He tells his grandson what he understands

About a life well lived and mending broken hearts

About God’s love and grace to restart

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He reaches down with wrinkled hands

And shapes a ball of fresh white snow

It takes him back about 60 years

And he thanks the Lord for what he feels

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‘Cause once again—in his heart and on his hands—

He remembers that the cold doesn’t feel so cold

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Daddy’s Song

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O daddy loves you

Momma does too

O Alan Micah

How we love you

 

We love your smiles

And your blue eyes

Your gentle noises

And even your cries

 

O Alan Micah

Our little boy

Ours is a love

That none can destroy

 

Bigger and stronger

More handsome too

God made you special

And He loves you

 

Trust in the lord

With all of your heart

Honor His Word

And never depart

 

O Alan Micah

Our little boy

A gift from God

That fills us with joy

 


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Freedom Day

This story was not meant to be happy…

As I break from my busy day, I see through the eyes of my broken heart a young boy. He is a small child, but he is brave and strong.

He has seen what most could not imagine, but he lives calmly among common, everyday suburbanites. If you were a fellow 11 year old, you would never guess he’d been born into third world poverty. If you were his elementary teacher, you wouldn’t easily suppose he’d only lived in the U.S. for five years. If you called his name, you wouldn’t know by his response that it wasn’t the name his mother gave him. If you passed him on the street, walking beside his new mom, you’d be stunned to hear that he’d watched his childhood abductors drive a machete into his birth mother’s chest.

There were two who took him from his childhood home at the age of five, two sixteen-year-old boys. There were two, because evil desires companionship. There were two, because cowards don’t prefer to work alone. There were two, because one might have lost heart when he saw the depth of love that is shared between a mother and her son. One might have remembered his own mother who’d been snuffed out in a similar way only a decade before. Yes, two was safer. When boy soldiers were in high demand, there was no option for sentiment, no room for weakness. Two meant the job would get done.

I will call this child, Boyd, though his true name—his heart’s name—is Angelo. Boyd doesn’t mind being called by his new name, though. He likes it, in fact, because he is grateful for what it represents. It represents his freedom day.

When his abductors were caught and arrested only hours after they captured him, Boyd was placed in a children’s home. The small orphanage was filled with 147 other children, most of whom had similar stories to Boyd’s own tragedy. The long war had destroyed most of the families in his region. What few families the war had spared, disease and AIDS had quickly snatched.

Boyd was sharply aware, even at such a young age, that his hopes of escaping a life of hardship and pain were all but futile. Some older boys in the orphanage used to boast about who would sell the most drugs or sleep with the most hookers when they got turned out to the streets in a few years. These children had been orphans longer than Boyd, and they’d already forgotten much of what it was like to be safe and loved, to be held in the tender arms of a mother. Some didn’t remember their lives before at all. They’d been orphans since shortly after infancy.

Boyd was sickened by these sad ambitions. He wanted nothing to do with drugs or hookers. He wanted a mother, maybe even a father! What could drugs or prostitutes offer that a family could not ultimately surpass? Once, he had voiced these thoughts, and the other boys grew very quiet for a while. After a few uncertain moments, one of the older and more hardened boys had called him a little mommy’s boy who “had much to learn,” and the nonsense had quickly resumed. It was obvious that they had given up hope. Realizing this, a little more of Boyd’s own hope had died as well.

At night, Boyd would struggle for hours to overcome the terrors that made him tremble as he relived the memories of watching his mother’s death. He never let the other children know he was crying, but he couldn’t hold back the silent tears that shook his lonely little body. Each night his hope of rescue had grown fainter and weaker.

Boyd had never met his father. From a young age, he had dreamed that his father was alive and looking for him. He imagined a strong, handsome man who’d lost his way temporarily one day while hunting. He’d been convinced that his Papa had spent every waking moment since trying to find his family again. When he would speak of this to his mother, she would smile sadly and tell him to keep dreaming, that one day any dream might come true. She never told him to give up on the father who had abandoned them. In truth, she’d never given up on him herself.

Most of a year had passed since Boyd was placed in the orphanage, when two kind-eyed Americans came to visit. This was a day Boyd hoped never to forget for the rest of his life. This was the day of his freedom.

photo credit: http://www.fastfifty.net/Watoto-Boys


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Pelisca and the Little, Grey Horse: A Modern Parable for Children

I would like to tell you about a special, little lady named Pelisca and a day she will always remember; but first, I must tell you how Pelisca got such a special, little name.

While Pelisca’s mother was waiting for her to be born, she was playing a word scramble game. There on the page were the letters, “P-E-L-I-S-C-A.” When her mother unscrambled the letters, she found that they spelled the word “SPECIAL.” Pelisca’s mother liked that very much, and decided that P-E-L-I-S-C-A would make an excellent little name for her own special, little daughter. From the day she was born, everyone knew that Pelisca was to be a special, little lady indeed.

Now, many years later, Pelisca had a special, little day. It went something like this…

It was on the first, little day of the special, new week when Pelisca woke up early in her special, little periwinkle-blue house. She jumped up, cleaned up, and put on the same special outfit that she wore every Monday: a chocolate-brown business skirt and a bright-orange blazer. She loved to start the week off looking sharp.

After a special little breakfast of eggs and grapefruit, Pelisca drove carefully through the especially busy town of Littleton—waving at friends along the way. Just in time, she entered her special place of work and went straight to her own little office. In her office, on a special, little periwinkle-blue shelf, were perched several nifty, little statues.

While her periwinkle-blue computer got warmed up for a busy day of work, Pelisca made herself a fresh, little pot of coffee and poured it into her special, periwinkle-blue mug. Then she carefully dusted her special, little collection of trinkets on the shelf.

This little collection was her very favorite part of her very special, little office, and she took time each day to admire and appreciate each one. First was a little, pink pig, munching on an old ear of corn. Second, was a little, golden-brown statue of a squirrel with BIG blue eyes that seemed to smile right at her. Next, sat a special, little black-and-white cow with a yummy mouthful of hay in her cud. She had a big, red collar around her neck with a special, little yellow bell hanging from it. There was also a little, pale-pink bunny sniffing a pretty, purple flower, and a…

Pelisca gasped! A statue was missing! And she knew exactly which one it was: a special, little gray horse with a long, curly tail and a sleek, black saddle.

Pelisca was very worried that it was missing, and she searched quickly all over her special, little office for it. No matter how hard she looked, though, she just COULDN’T find it! Saddened, little Pelisca slumped into her periwinkle-blue desk chair and tried to work on her computer. Only two minutes passed, though, before Pelisca wadded up a piece of periwinkle-blue paper and, discouraged, tossed it into the periwinkle-blue garbage can beneath the partly-empty shelf.

That’s when Pelisca got an especially nifty idea…the trash! Her special, little horse statue must have been knocked by accident into the garbage can and taken away by the cleaning man. She had to find it and rescue it!

First, Pelisca grabbed for her periwinkle blue telephone and called the maintenance man, but he didn’t answer. She left a special, little message on his phone, then sat back down and tried to work while she waited for him to call her back.

She waited, and waited, and waited…but he just didn’t call!

Flustered, little Pelisca made a BIG decision; she was going to go and find her special statue all by her own little self!

She jumped up from her chair, marched outside, rolled up her bright-orange sleeves, and climbed right into the STINKY, little dumpster! She dug around in the trash searching for her special, little horse statue—hoping very much that she would find it without stepping on it first.

Pelisca dug in the dumpster for nearly twenty minutes and was about to give up in distress, when she found a periwinkle-blue scrap of paper in a clear garbage bag. It had to be from her trash can! She searched frantically through the bag.

In her haste and excitement, she didn’t even notice digging past an old banana peel that she’d eaten last Tuesday, or the mushy corn flakes that she had forgotten to finish on Friday. By now, her bright orange blazer was covered in chocolate brown smudges to match her skirt, and she smelled like last week’s strawberry yogurt…YUCK!

Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, Pelisca’s finger brushed against something little, cold, and grey. She’d found it! Quickly, Pelisca snatched up her special, little horse statue, jumped out of the stinky and NOT-very-special dumpster, and ran inside to tell all of her friends & co-workers what she’d found.

Later that week, she even took special, little periwinkle-blue cookies and blue Kool-aid to work to celebrate her special, little adventure! She had learned a special, little lesson about how God rejoices when one of His special, little creations repents and gets found by His love.

Based loosely on the parable of the lost coin in Matthew 15:8-10


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Orphans

Drafted by the winds of change

These orphaned leaflets float

Clumped in clusters weakly knit

Tight clasping calloused hands

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Severed harsh from loving arms

Like budding branches torn

When stormy auburn winds attack

A tattered sycamore

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For fertile soil never felt

Their tiny souls aspire

Though all around them stone and thorn

Choke out the bravest hope

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Born in silent, careless night

These leaflets green and fresh

Are quickly browning dry to death

Who will their rescue be?