A few Minutes by a Creek

I love to spend a few minutes by a creek-

The peaceful sound of water rushing over stones and fallen trees

Autumnal colors: amber, brown and mossy green

A smooth, cold boulder seat

Stepping stones anchored to the creek bed

Jagged sticks and floating leaves cluster together

Capturing wild waters and taming them before my very eyes

Would-be waterfalls and an icy breeze

Spindly twigs and smoky clouds overlap the brilliant blue above me

Scented evergreens stand with bare maples

Remnant leaves waft by and then rest beside me

Too many to count

Ferns and slate protrude from the banks

Unmistakable and incomparable

I love to spend a few hours by a creek

What Will You Bring?

Ah, to inspire…

Like the expanse of the ocean-

Waves crescendoing against a pink-blue sky

Or 70 and ten musicians devoted to the score

An atrium of sound flooding the soul

Or a climber who reached the peak

Against all odds

To inspire would be great

But then what?

Will the spark perpetuate greatness?

Or will it die like an ember upon the hearth?

I think I will bring joy instead

Available in a moment

Seen on the face

And felt in the belly

The giver and receiver, both lighter

Floating gently upward

Like two balloons released into the sky…

Hide and Seek

For a country kid, a church graveyard is just a great place for hide and seek.

Every once in a while, we’d climb the hill behind our house until we reached the little white church. Then the game would begin!

We would take off running, weaving in and out between saints and sinners and pick a spot.

Barely old enough for school, we were just the right size to fit behind a tombstone.

I remember walking around studying those stately monuments and looking at all the different colors of marble. I was always fascinated by the double heart shaped ones.

Finding our last names on one of them was amazing and our minds wandered as we tried to imagine what the people looked like and what their stories might have been.

Sometimes if we planned it out right, we’d bring a snack with us and have a picnic under a tall, shady tree.

I don’t remember the counting much and I don’t even remember being found. But I do remember running and hiding, which is a funny thing if you think about it.

The saints in our playground had been found. Found forgiven by a loving savior whose free gift of redemption they had accepted. Leaving their own wills at the altar, (maybe even the one in that little white church) they made a decision to follow Jesus.

The sinners had most surely done their own share of running and hiding. But they too were now found; not found forgiven, but eternally separated from the same loving savior whom they had rejected.

But we were young; preoccupied with the business of living.

“Seek the Lord while you can find him. Call on him now while he is near. Let the wicked change their ways and banish the very thought of doing wrong. Let them turn to the Lord that he may have mercy on them. Yes, turn to our God, for he will forgive generously.”

Isaiah 55:6-7 NLT

Author Unknown

So many thoughts
Can’t keep them contained
I put them on paper
To make room in my brain

Sometimes poetic
Sometimes plain
Sometimes nonsense
Sometimes pain

I read and re-read
Edit and critique
These words on the page
That I dare not speak

An inspiring sentence
A sentence of joy
I long for a reader
This is my ploy

For without someone
To journey with me
My writing, yet published
Is but a diary.

Written by: Mechelle Ritchie Foster