Human are little bits of stardust, so a professor once told me.
And maybe they become those stars after death.
I believe stars are really little holes in the floor of Heaven
And the light shining through is the love of those gone before.
Daddy, my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends –
They’re all there waiting for the rest of their family to arrive.
Before those still on earth come home, the ones already in Heaven
Act as our guardian angels, covering us with warmth and protection,
Guiding our way in life.
So look to the stars, those millions of twinkling bits of light, and Remember love.
— Jenny Munro
Oh Lord, why has thou forsaken me?
Oh my God, please hear my cry of pain and rescue me.
The talons of the wild beasts tear at my body as the pain grows
And never ceases.
I have not defiled your name or your temples.
I have done good in thy sight.
But you have left me. You do not hear my cries.
Is my pain a punishment for my deeds or my thoughts?
What do I do to reach you?
As I huddle under a blanket, nursing my pain, I hear the song of birds
And see the colors of the trees. I seek cool water to quench my thirst ere I faint.
Oh Lord, I feel thy spirit enfolding me as with a warm blanket.
God, thou has not forsaken me. Thou hast given me strength to endure until I come into your kingdom.
– Jenny Munro
Note: My mother is fighting severe and continuous pain as she ages. This is dedicated to her.
My mother’s hands show love. I see her hands and know who it is – even without looking up at her face.
Those hands are worn. They are lined with large blue veins. They’re wrinkled with the passage of time.
Her nails are short and ridged. A few brown age spots have shown up. (I consider them decoration that doesn’t have to be added.)
Her hands have soothed children. They picked my brother Chip up when he held his arms up to be carried. They held my hand as we walked down the street, me skipping to keep up. They’ve also spanked children.
They’ve stirred food and washed dishes. They may hold dishes more gingerly now, but they still hold them. They’ve washed and iron clothes. They’ve probably been wrung together as she worried about her children or others in the family.
They’ve done more. They’ve typed letters and term papers and research papers. Those hands have learned to use a computer. They’ve graded students’ papers.
And they’ve trembled as my mother sat by a casket or a hospital bed. They’ve also been active in prayers – either the gentle kind of folded-hands prayer or the active kind of taking food to a friend.
Now they are less busy. She worries that they are too idle. But she still uses her hands for others. The methods have changed; the love has not.
My mother’s hands are lived-in hands.
– Jenny Munro