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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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?


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WordPress Family Award

 

 

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I nominate the following bloggers for the WordPress Family Award, as someone so graciously did for me. I thank each of you for posting quality, thought-provoking content, for reading my blog now and then, and for interacting through comments. There truly can be a sense of family among strangers, when you read the musings of another’s mind. What a phenomenon!

Blessings, Clayton from tales2apoint

  • Jessie from http://veederranch.com – One of the blogs I most anticipate reading. You truly make me laugh.
  • David from http://allenfiction.com – I really enjoy reading your stories and nonchalant musings. You are talented, but don’t take yourself too seriously. It’s refreshing.
  • Cortney from http://misswidgetspeople.com – I cannot imagine living in Europe and having such quaint adventures. Thanks for your quality photography and candid stories.
  • Karen from http://karenworth.wordpress.com – You are like the warm, encouraging “grandma” of my blog world. Your posts are always an excellent combination of encouragement and challenge. Thank you.
  • Mr. Echwalu from http://echwaluphotography.wordpress.com – Everyday life in Africa is a real treat to read about and see through your QUALITY photography. Keep loving others through your camera lens!
  • Jacqueline from http://jacquelinevroe.wordpress.com – Your posts are deep, tender, and transparent—a blessing in this world of pretense.
  • Patrick from http://www.hikingphoto.com – You live in a once-in-a-lifetime kind of world. I can only dream of experiencing the beauty you photograph weekly. Thanks for sharing.
  • Stephanie from http://sgoodman2china.wordpress.com – Thanks for pointing to Him in your living and your blogging. I always enjoy your engaging and quality storytelling.
  • BW from http://bottledworder.com – You are just plain and simply an excellent transcriber of thoughts into words.
  • Adam from http://1storyaweek.com – As a fellow writer of original fiction, I know how much work it takes to create such believable characters in everyday circumstances. Keep it up! We should try co-writing a story sometime, too.

A message from Shaun, the creator of this award:

This is an award for everyone who is part of the “WordPress Family” I started this award on the basis that the WordPress family has taken me in, and showed me love and a caring side only WordPress can. The way people take a second to be nice, to answer a question and not make things a competition amazes me here. I know I have been given many awards, but I wanted to leave my own legacy on here by creating my own award, as many have done before. This represents “Family” we never meet, but are there for us as family. It is my honour to start this award. Thank you, Shaun

Rules:

  1. Display the award logo on your blog.
  2. Link back to the person who nominated you.
  3. Nominate 10 others you see as having an impact on your WordPress experience and family.
  4. Let your 10 Family members know you have awarded them.
  5. That is it. Just please pick 10 people that have taken you as a friend, and spread the love.