My Father was my example.  I have a lot of my father's traits.  He was a man of few words but his actions of caring carried much weight. Growing up on a farm in Western Nebraska, it seemed that it was a place where sandburs knew no bounds.  They were everywhere.  My father wore bib overhauls that had big pockets in the back. When I was little, the pockets were just right to fit my feet.  When we came to a sandbur patch, he would pick me up and carried me over the sandbur patches.  When I was tired after being with him on the farm and hot from the scorching summer heat, he cared for me.

My heavenly Father is my teacher through prayer, his word written and spoken and through the lives of others like my Mother and Father and many others.

Jesus is our example.  Growing up and even today, the 4 words that keep me going in the right direction are: What Would Jesus Do.  There is no better example to follow.

As a father, I try to follow the example of my heavenly Father.  There are times I fail miserably and must ask for forgiveness from my family.  My heavenly father never fails me.  He carries me through the sandbur patches of life.  He loves me unconditionally.  Some day I will set foot on the heavenly shore as He carries me over the last of life's sandbur patches on my final journey of life.

Even though I have never heard my earthly father say, "I love you son", I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he loved me.  When I would say to him, 'love ya Dad" his reply was always "uhuh".  I can't hear my heavenly father audibly say "I love you" but I know from all He does for me His love for me is beyond words.  His love transcends the audible and speaks directly to my heart.
              
I tried hard to not bring shame on my mother and father.

Naughty shadows, like wayward clouds
they cast a spell……
With full of yearnings and ambitions
For some
It is the survival!

The precincts and the back lanes
the villas and the alleys
filled with aesthetic thespians
the white, the black, and the brown
and they all look alike in the nightfall
in that beautiful night

factories chimney out the agony
the dying day leaves with sad shades
the Maiden Evening robed in gold
embarks in boundless shadows

who overhauls  these pleasure workers
there are unwritten stories in their  eyelids
there are untold sagas  behind their eyebrows

here and there is a song
striving to colour these shadows
but it is the curves that matter

Late in the night
Silence nurses the wounds
Only to shape the distorted figure
Next day
It’s a new shadow of an old body

It happens under a clear but crying sky

frosted fingers tracing lines
interfaced to the void

another image, clawed
scrabbling it's way past your eyelids
a numerical movement, venomous
winding it's body across your scalp

you cannot unsee them
paradigm shifts
situational perception overhauls
in an already chaotic nothingness

It happens under a clear but crying sky, realization

you are not the predator
watching, waiting
but remain the prey