About Me

  Patricia Hammell Kashtock

Aka: Pat Kashtock. Mother of three, wife of one. BA in Social Work and Biblical Studies. Graduate work at Virginia Tech interrupted, then derailed by oldest child’s brain tumor...

My life has not followed the course I planned. But I am not complaining. Pain is to be expected in a world broken apart from its Creator.

The miracle resides in the ability to find joy when least expected...

 

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Windows to the Woman’s Soul (W2WSoul)
Hope's Home
A Redeemed Life
The Writing Life
Kendall Harmon Titus 1:9
A Mom's Life
Robin's Nesting Place
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Blessings,

Pat

For What It's Worth

Each life is a journey. The voices of many guides try to direct us, saying, “This is the path – walk in it!” Yet each one leads in a different direction.

I believe only one Voice can be true. That Voice will lead us in ways most unexpected, into worlds yet undiscovered. It will lead us up the hill, around the river and through the forest. And sometimes, it will lead without mercy.

Or so it seems.

I have made listening for that Voice and following it, my life’s quest. I will share some of what I have heard that Voice say with you. But I am not in the business of telling people how to think or what to believe. Each has to decide for himself. Only you can decide if you find the truth of the Voice in these words. And only you can decide how much it is worth to know the Voice, and follow.

But for me, it is worth the whole world.

And then some…

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« And the Snow Sang.... | Main | The Happy Cardinal »
Monday
May142012

Mother’s Day Revisited

I stood there absorbed by the crimson rose one of the church kids had given me. “What would you like to do for Mother’s Day,” my husband asked.

“I’d like to take the flower,” I said.

So we drove out to Woodbine. As we walked through the wrought iron gate and down the stone path, the deep azure of the sky enveloped me. The sun shone bright, yet a knifelike cold pierced my skin and lungs. 

When we reached the site, we found a blanket of buttercups and clusters of tiny blue flowers. A gift. Planted by the One who knew I would understand. Not everyone would know the name of the small blue flower. And no one else could know that buttercups always made her laugh. Those things along with the contrast of the sun's brilliance to the frigid air began to swirl around inside and form into the thoughts below. Someday I will write “Buttercup Laughter.” But for now, even these years later, I still cannot do it. 

Mother’s Day

Posies by a gravestone peeking from its side,

     Tiny dots of blue with yellow deep inside

Little band of color stands in shades of green

    Planted by a Hand that for now remains unseen.

 

And on this day the bright sun

        barely warms my heart

The bright sun that hangs in heaven….

        where You once hung suspended

And it could not warm Your heart

      The bright sun could not warm Your broken heart… © Copyright Glyn Baker and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

 

I stand here by the graveside, a mother lost in pain

yearning to see her child dance lightly once again.

Longings fill this place with empty solitude

where hope is whispered silently through periwinkle blue.

 

 “Forget-me-not,” the flowers whisper;

        as if I could forget

your love and lilting laugh

        and carefree dance

“Forget-me-not,” they whisper

        as a breeze strokes their blue heads

        And I think of another One

whose love I’ve known

 

“Remember Me,” You cry through flowers like the star

      that hung once in the night for another mother’s child

That child, You were also born to die too soon

      while a sword pierced her heart with an empty solitude.

 

“Forget-Me-not,” Your flowers whisper

        as if I could forget

Your love and joyful laugh

        and steady hands....

“Forget-Me-not,” You whisper

        And pain stabs my heart

To think I could forget the One

        Whose gentle love envelops me

 

And on this day the bright sun

        barely warms my heart

The bright sun that hangs in heaven….

      Where You once hung suspended

And it could not warm Your heart

      No, it could not warm Your heart

      The bright sun did not warm Your broken heart…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the lyrics version see Mother's Day

Jean Watson helped me hammer the poem into a format more suited to a song. Then she wrote music for it. To hear her sing the whole song you can go here.

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Reader Comments (2)

very beautiful, Pat. God knows what we need when we need it. Praise God!!

May 14, 2012 | Unregistered CommenterAudrey Renaud

Thank you so much, Audrey! It is very true - He does. And is tender enough to reach out to us like that.

May 14, 2012 | Registered Commenter[Pat Kashtock]

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