Prepare your heart.  Prepare your mind.

Make way for our Heavenly King,
who humbled himself from Holy on High,
to earthly flesh - in a lowly manger to lie.

Th Author of the Universe,
born to live the perfect life and take upon Him man's own curse,
delivered to the cross to die.

Reconciled and freed from sin, now pure in God's own sight,
we give thanks and praise to Christ Jesus our Lord
who was born that first Christmas night.

Now that you’re two, we see the boy you will be
Whether you’re chasing the dog or surprising us with hugs, we love your personality-
Energetic and kind, strong-willed and smart;
naughty, sweet, or wild, we love your big heart.

Now that you’re two, you have lots of things to say.
With excitement in your eyes, you tell us new stories every day.
We listen intently, though we can’t decipher it all,
most of your stories end with a laugh, an exuberant shout, or something about bup bup and a ball.

Now that you’re two, each day you learn something new.
You can point to your nose, your tummy and toes, and let us know when a choo choo is passing through.
You’re observant like an engineer, and try to figure things out on your own.  
“I got it” is your confident phrase, but you’ll ask for help if you can’t do something alone.  

Now that you’re two, you’re a great little helper.
In addition to being the best mess maker we know, you’re also a great picker upper.
Your favorite chore is feeding the dog every morning and night
because when we’re not looking you like to sneak a bite.

Now that you’re two, your world is so much bigger,
Wanderlust is in your blood, you always seek adventure.
Sometimes your curiosity strays you too far from our side.
You’re fearless and bold, and brave enough to conquer the big kid slide.

Now that you’re two, you would rather live outside.
If you could, you’d play in the yard all day and never step inside.
You’re easy to please; all you need to have fun is a stick or a ball, and a little bit of space.
But, it breaks your heart when we have to be done and puts the saddest look on your cute little face.

Now that you’re two, your talents are on display.
Every sport you’ve picked up, you naturally know how to play.
Maybe someday you’ll be a soccer star and play on the national team-
maybe you’ll be a pitcher, an artist, a doctor, whatever your choose, we want you to chase your dream.

We love you with our whole hearts and with every fiber in our being.
We pray you’ll grow to be a good man, who loves the Lord, and serves Him willingly.

When the light inside your head turns gray
and all you’ve had for breakfast was coffee and some cold regrets;
you choke down words you cannot say
and stumble out to greet the day.

The faces on your desk look blank,
like the shadows that you stop to thank.
You’ve died inside and met your fate,
your heart cries out don’t complicate.

You stop to watch two lovers as they walk hand in hand,
suddenly, you think you understand,
but you don’t.
Your heart cries out, don’t contemplate.

This chapter in your book of life,
once full of love and happiness-
now the hole inside your chest
is pain and strife.

And it ends not like you know it should
and you’d try to fix it if you knew you could,
try to mend it all the same,
but it’s hard to fan a burned out flame.

These pages coming to their end,
in this chapter it seems you've lost a friend.

We rock together in the chair-
your morning tempest nestled into the crook of my arm.
I wait patiently for the edge of your storm
for clouds and cries to ease away and my coffee to cool.

What do you think about in the quiet calm?
Do you think? Or do you simply feel?
Comfortable and complete, I wonder about you
and the person you will be.

What do you see
when you stare
at the wall, the window,
the side of my face?

Colors, shapes, shadows, light- captivate you.
I enjoy watching you try to figure it all out.
Everything new,
nearly too much to take in.

Slowly- the sights, warmth, and motion
overwhelm you.
Your eyes close-
although you fight it.

We breathe together.
I hold you close,
lost in the wonder of your face-
so familiar and strange.

We had been trying for a few months
and she had convinced herself that something was wrong-
that it was never going to happen.

I didn’t know, but said it would, eventually.
Told her we had to be patient.  It was out of our control,
but we would keep trying.

I came home from work tired;
expecting to see her upset on the couch again.
At the door I took a breath-    walked up the stairs,

tossed my keys and wallet on the table, prepared to comfort.  
Her face was silent, but her eyes smiled.
It was then I noticed, next to my keys, a pregnancy test with

two pink lines.

the purpose of life is to
love
and
grow.

As we get older,
friends change.
We lead different lives,
value different things
and are less inclined
to compromise.

You are my only friend
who will remain.

And when
you
or
I
change,
we will change (and grow)
together.

Through his grizzled beard,
“Mary says I need to work
on my people skills.
I don’t know- maybe I do.”

His relentlessly youthful eyes
know when the sap will run.
His sense of the woods is deep.

His thick gnarled hands
can take nature and find its art.

The deep lines on his face map a life well lived.

There once was a lad from the Lone Star State,
who dreamed of exploration and realized that just over the horizon, adventure await.

He was commissioned by the internal desire for adventure,
which burns deep inside us all, and within him grew,
so he assembled a ragtag crew to explore a land seen by few.

He set off for the ancient land- more north than he’d ever been-
whose beauty and wonder only true voyageurs and men of the wilds knew.

By air and by land, the voyageur lad traveled to his Uncle’s cabin,
nestled deep within the Harshaw Hill country.
  
This legendary cabin, was built solely by the hands of the one they call Uncle Buck-
the most amazing cabin one could ever see.

Uncle Buck is renowned and recognized throughout the land
for his merit, adventurous spirit, long grizzled beard, and skillful hand.

It was here, in the cabin’s comfort, the brave Sugar Beans (as he was fondly named)
greeted his courageous crew with a hearty, “Boozhoo!”
They were some of the finest canoeists around-
paddlers tested, tried and true.

Together they pondered, planned, and plotted the course of their adventure
for which they’d set forth;
packed their belongings, and dreamed of North.

Sugar Beans’ crew consisted of five, rugged braves-
paddlers he knew had grit and could battle the wind, rain, and waves.

Uncle Buck, a wise and grizz old guide, had seen many moons in the Northland sky.              
Respect of all living things and the song of the wild are the codes to which he ascribes.

Jonesy, a well-traveled voyageur himself and Sugar Beans’ proud dad,
had been to this land and wanted to share its magic with his brave little lad.

Joeseppi , a young blood at heart, was the lad’s loyal cousin and friend,
a trustworthy bowman, on whom all paddlers could depend.

Makwa, the newcomer- fierce as a bear and as tough as the rest-
and after day one, she gave it her best.

And last there was Pierrὲson; the lad’s other cousin and fellow adventure zealot,
who once learned his lesson and stayed away from anything that resembled an apricot.

They loaded the van, strapped on the canoes, and greeted the early morning with a boisterous “Bonjour!” and embarked North to begin The Magical Northwoods Mystery Tour.

Traversing blue highways the voyageurs meandered north, through the wilds of Wisconsin and the Land of 10,000 lakes, hoping to make the Canadian border before it was too late.

Eventually they arrived at the Magical Northwoods’ doorway- delicate and ornate.
The crew unloaded their gear and launched their canoes- confident and sure.
Each eager paddle stroke brought them closer to all the memories they would create.

And Sugar Bean and his crew created memories- some of the best.
Memories that seep into dreams and make one feel blessed.  

Memories of:

discovering a pictograph and plodding through a ****** river- just to get back on path;

stumbling upon wolf tracks and forgetting the fishing poles- but never the packs;

exploring  craggy caves and battling and paddling against the wind and waves;

hunting for ice under rock clefts out of the sun, they searched and searched but came up with none;

swimming in the warm water nearly every day and asking painted turtles if they wanted to play;

practicing the art of stalking seagulls, and on every lake, they gave greeting the glorious eagles;

dropkicking each and every single portage and of food and laughter there was no shortage.

The crew came back with fantastic tales and experienced everything a voyageur could wish.
And although his dad will try to tell you it was only by an eighth of an inch, there are pictures to prove that Sugar Beans caught the biggest fish!

So here’s a paddle rattle for you- young voyageur lad- the greatest voyageur old Quetico’s ever seen!  May your adventurous spirit continue to grow and may the waters you paddle always be serene.

When I look into your eyes,
God is granting me a glimpse of what’s to come:

warmth and love,
wholeness.

His discerning hand working,
blessing us with children.

I see challenges and difficulties,
but with His help, nothing insurmountable.

We have strength and confidence
to provide for our children and love them unconditionally.  

Our children-
A patchwork quilt of love:

A brilliant child- once institutionalized and neglected-
who knew no comfort or hope-
knows love and belonging.

A healthy child- once lonely and scared
with an aching, distended stomach-
is now happy and strong.

An able child- once contorted,
powerless to walk, left isolated and discarded-
takes steps to accomplish dreams.

I see their smiles.  
I feel their joy.
We are family.

They are growing and thriving-
achieving and succeeding.
We believe in them.

Though only glimmers in your eyes,
they are beautiful and we love them.

Waiting    listening    watching -
senses strain against
the darkness.

Dark gives way to gray
enough to see
deceptive shadows.

The woods stir slowly.
Chickadees speak, still sleepy.
Leaves rustle in the distance

alerting vigilant ears and eyes; inciting hope.
Scanning the ridge and shooting lanes, my eyes - then ears -
lock on rummaging squirrels.  

Cold hands slip back into pockets;
it tries to snow.
Ravens complain        back        and        forth.

Stillness -
then the rise of wind
through the trees.

Around eleven I walk to Dad’s stand.
Quiet talk and hot soup -
no deer.

The afternoon is spent, back against a Maple, with cautious thoughts comfortable enough to creep forward and linger in the peace of the woods.

straining
eyes and aching back
summer sun skin    sandy toes
wet pants rolled up

waves recede
look close search seek scan
sand shells stones pebbles grit    glass

churned by tarnished Michigan water and sand
smoothed by time
left to find

brown blue white green
small large rounded angled flat clear
frosted smooth
each piece
a trophy

each piece a memory a moment
minutes hours and
afternoons spent
together

The conscious decision
to make your life
about
someone else.

We dream of a home-
nothing excessive, just what we need:
love,
a mess of babies,
and dogs.

We dream of a home
and
being rooted in our careers-
satisfying and purposeful,
with enough pay to not worry.
Enough to provide for a family,
everything they need.

We dream of a home
and raising our children there.
A few of our own, some adopted-
all gifts from God.
Raising them with patience and love;
instilling in them the faith,
morals, and values
our parents instilled in us.

Our new apartment is nicer
and feels like home.
Decorated with our favorite memories:
polaroid moments,
a jar of concert tickets,
bottle of sandglass:
blues and greens (our favorite),
browns and whites,
you and me,
minutes,
hours,
afternoons.

Teacher’s pay and grad school:
student loans, car payments;
bills.
We don’t have a lot, but
we save what we can
for the life we want to have.
Too poor for a house,
contentment
can be our home.

The lines on his face-
road map of a life well lived.
A map to follow.

A bright light annoys my eyes.    I can’t get away from it- I don’t like it.  
Tired and overwhelmed with obligations and requirements,
I’d rather not complete or even think of-
I’d rather they did not exist.  

What do they prove?  

I am comfortable and lazy.  
I would like to sleep, but the smallest agitations are an unbearable annoyance.  
Obnoxious voices speaking a tongue I don’t know, laughing at my condition-
I’d rather be asleep-
quiet and asleep.  

I want a cigarette.  I hate cigarettes.  
I don’t hate cigarettes; I rather like them, especially with coffee,
but I hate how they manipulate me.  
I want one, but I’d rather sleep.  
I wish I could smoke in bed.  
I should have showered before bed.

Self-confidence comes and goes.  
Sometimes I don’t care what people think; other times it’s all I think about.  
It’s judgmental; it’s worry of acceptance, worry of not belonging, worry of standing out.  
People- including me- want to be individuals, but are not brave enough.  
Society does not accept true individuals, it kills them.  
How can I be unique or allow true self to be and true identity to exist when there is fear?

When I see her, I wonder what might have been.  
There was a connection, or maybe just an attraction.  
We lead different lives.  
She is pure and good in the church sense; I am pure and good in my own way.  
But, these two lifestyles could never intertwine.  
I must admire what she is from a far.  
I should not dwell on it too much because it is unfair to the present.  
We always want to know.  
We want to know the future, but I will get there at my own pace.

Lying in bed, I don’t remember most days.  
I only remember lying in bed the prior night, trying to remember the previous day.  
Sometimes I hate my body- not enough muscle, skinny legs, blah hair.  
Against society's standards I am mediocre.  
They know what a man should look like; I am not him.  
We are all not the portrayed he or she.  
Those people only exist on screens.  

This is the last place I want to be.  
Stuck in a class I couldn’t give a **** about,
listening to a Professor I can’t understand drone on and on in his sing-song,
marbled-mouth accent.  
Occasionally trying my patience with a drawn out, “You noh wah I main?”  
No.
I don’t know what you mean.  
I can’t understand what’s coming out of your mouth.

Apparently, the only way to be a good teacher is to jump through hoops and
dance for the cloudy heads of a department.  
If I play their games, I will have blisters on my lips from having to kiss too much ***.  
I do not need to be validated, approved, passed, accepted, or liked by them to be a good teacher.  
I know I will be a good teacher- they have no influence on that.  
They only have the ability to stall me and help steal my money.

The worst is when the pain sinks into your eyes, dull and deep.  
The pressure tunnels around your temples and tries to bore a whole through your forehead.  
Six Advil cover up the pain- only for an hour.  
Everything within your skull pushes out like a balloon on the brink of bursting.

The worst is the restless anxiety experienced lying in bed right before sleep.  
It is the empty churning of stomach, half shots of adrenaline that tickle your veins,
while the mind races like prey trying to evade predatory jaws.  
Your heart flits, skips, and stops,
as your mind obsesses about the seemingly infinite list of things you have to get done.  
That only adds to the stress- since you’re not sleeping, something could be accomplished.  
The worry heightens, the obsession increases until- sleep.

An instant of eye contact can be rare and intriguing.  
Instants too small to have time, can convey so much.  
Eye line meets eyes, eyes lock- message of vast information conveyed.  
A minute moment, an insignificant second, so monumental.  
This blip exchange ignites an internal fire of emotion or ruins your day.  
The messages that can be exchanged in the smallest,
feasible time frame are vastly unique to each experience.  
Polar and extreme: Love me - I nothing you.  
Eye contact conveys an incredible amount of information, but perhaps to be keen to it-
is to be vulnerable.  

What if it were acceptable to give into every desire or want?  
What would the world be?  
Would it be that much different or would the internal, human morale still enforce invisible boundaries?  
What would we do?  
Would the private become public?  
Would others see our lowest animal drive?  
Humans are the only being capable of acting above or below their nature.  
Rough.
Raw.  
Human animals.

It is ironic when something is built up to high expectations, but turns out anticlimactic.  
Was that it?  
That is what we waited for?  
When something does not meet expectations, it creates hollowness, an emptiness, or unfilled hole.
  
What do you do?  
What can you do?  
You can learn from it or you can let it bring you down.  
It is better to look for the positives
than dwell on and become disheartened by the negatives.  
Learn and Grow.

I am a poor student.  
I have been loaned money I will never be able to pay back.  
I am paying for a degree, to get a job that will never return the favor.  
I am strangling myself financially for a “higher education”, but am I getting it?  
Perhaps it is not the institution’s fault; perhaps, it’s my own?  

so much depends
upon

a green dollar
bill

glazed with American
greed

beside the fabricated
dream

I am poor and will be poor, but I will be happy.  
Everything costs.  Everything has a price.  Life is expensive.  
How can I save?  What can I afford to put away?  
When forty dollars in your bank account is a pleasant surprise-
surprises are cheap.

Our mind- an ocean
can't contain a drop of God,
but we fit in His.

Paddles lap softly
against water, dark as coal.
A calm mind within.

The cry of a loon,
eerie and hollow-    silence.
Red sun gently lows.

Water color scene-
water blurring into sky,
uniting as one.

Foolish gulls argue
for the remains of our catch.
Eagles claim their fill.

With each paddle stroke,
drive shoulders and back against
ruthless wind and waves.

Dull red pictographs-
reminders of the old ways
abandoned by time.

Awake!
                                                        O sleeping
                                                        ­                  October leaf,

                                                          ­            to skate
                                                           ­                          over the ground.

                                                        ­ Your color
                                                           ­                 &
                                                                ­                beauty-
                                         ­                     vibrant,
                                   ­                                          entrance;
                                                  
                                                      no blemish
                                                         ­                to be found.

                                                         ­                                    Freed from your
                                                            ­        
                                                        ­            binding branch,
                                                         ­                                        you
                                                             ­                                           defiantly
                                                                ­                       dance
                                                           ­                                            the
                                                             ­                                   ground.
You give Autumn life one, last breath- before encompassing snows abound.

Upon forlorn and desolate days, when colors fade and hide;
the wind so dank and piercing, it quivers bone from inside-
Your lustrous spirit perseveres, until the worst subsides.

Enduring seasons can never be, as death will come from divorcing the tree-
again will never be your beautiful tragedy.

Monday:
We both don’t like today- long week ahead.
You say it will be ok.

Tuesday:
More tired than yesterday- so much to do.
You make dinner for us and let me work.

Wednesday:
Laundry heaping- I’m out of socks.
You give me a pair of yours.

Thursday:
Papers to grade- lessons to prepare.
You take a stack and mark spelling and punctuation.

Friday:
Running late- forgot my lunch.
You bring it by.

Saturday:
You stay in bed- I’ll make toast and coffee.
I want to.

January    cold    damp    little snow.
Cleaning two fish in the garage-
a rainbow    a brown    both gifts.

Dad taught me:
Cut down behind the gill
use the bend of the blade    follow the spine    flip    repeat.

Hold the tail    slip the knife between skin and meat    push
let the knife do the work
don’t waste meat.

Two beautiful fillets.

Half done with the brown    his hands stiffen    red and cold.
He stops    puts the knife down    stretches them    
wipes them of slime    blames the arthritis    continues.    

His hands never get cold.    
His age never shows.
Some day he will die    I realize that now.