A Treasured Prayer for My Child

My son Ben and I spent a day in Grand Rapids last week while my husband was out of town for a conference. We began our adventure at the Gerald R. Ford Presidential Museum, a great way to close out our history studies this school year. As enjoyable as that was, the highlight of our trip was going “junking” all afternoon. We don’t have many good thrift stores here in northern Michigan, so having the opportunity to search GR’s multitude of resale shops is always fun. In the past, Ben has found Lego sets, Nerf guns, and even an RC helicopter.

Much to his disappointment, we came up empty that day. Well, mostly empty. I found a cute summer purse for a couple bucks. He found a few old Lego instruction booklets for a quarter apiece. At our second to last stop, Ben did his usual scan of the toy section, saw nothing of interest, and was ready to go. I said I wanted to look around for a few minutes and see if there was anything interesting.

As I walked along a row of shelves containing assorted picture frames, my eye landed on a vintage 1970s frame on the bottom shelf. It contained a single typewritten page titled “Prayer for My Children” and translated from Dutch to English by Dr. John Timmerman. I teared up as I read it. Dr. Timmerman was one of my mother’s professors at Calvin College back in the early 1950s, and I had met him a number of times when I was growing up as my dad was the resident auto mechanic for all the classic Calvin faculty.

Photo from the 1952 Calvin Prism

English Faculty--1953 Calvin Prism

The last time I saw Dr. Timmerman was at my dad’s retirement party in 1998. He came with fellow English professor emeritus Dr. Richard Tiemersma, who once, while waiting for Dad to finish changing the oil on his car, instructed me on the subject of divine right of kings in Shakespeare’s history plays. But that's another story...

Anyway, the words Dr. Timmerman translated are a treasure, and I had to have them. I did a quick search on my phone to see if this poem-prayer is out in cyberspace somewhere. It’s not.

I took the frame to the checkout counter with my unusual request: “I would like to buy this piece of paper, but I don’t want the frame.” The guy at the cash register chuckled, then proceeded to slide the back off the frame. Hidden behind the paper was a photo of a young man—probably his senior picture from high school, and judging by his hair style and the cut of his suit, mid to late 1970s. (I know this because it matched the style of my brothers’ high school photos—sorry y’all.)

Though I didn’t recognize the person in the photo, I couldn't help wondering…how many times had his parents prayed this prayer over him? Had Mom and Dad prayed this prayer over me and my siblings? And I got all choked up. The clerk probably thought I was nuts, and he graciously charged me 50 cents. I gave him a dollar and said to keep the change. Such a small price to pay for such priceless words.

Now I pray them over my own child. If you’re reading this, I hope you’ll pray them over yours.

“Prayer for My Children”

Translated by Dr. John Timmerman from an old Dutch tile

I place the names of

My children in Your hands

Engrave them thereon

With inextinguishable script

That nothing or no one

Can burn them out

Not even when Satan presently

Shall sift them as flour.

Hold my children tight

When I must let them go

And ever let Your strength

Stand over their weakness.

You know how measurelessly

The world shall hate them

When they do not join

In the order of the world.

I do not ask You to spare

My children all grief

But be ever attentive

When they are lonely and afraid.

For Thy Name’s sake preserve them

In your covenant

And never let them be estranged

From You, never, during their entire lives.

I place the names of

My children in Your hands. Amen.

A Few of My Favorite Things

I want to give a big thanks to the Breathe Writer's Conference for inviting me to share my thoughts on why writers need to include more poetry in our literary diet. You can check out my guest blog this week at http://breatheconference.com/home/featured-articles/tis-the-season-to-read-poetry.html.

Christmas is a great time to fall in love with poetry. Or if you're a poetry lover like me, it's a time to revisit old favorites. Here is a list of 25 of my favorite Christmas poems so far (and in no particular order):

John Donne, “Annunciation” and “Nativitie”

John Milton, “On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity”

George Herbert, “Christmas”

William Blake, “The Lamb”

Phillips Brooks, “The Voice of the Christ Child”

C. S. Lewis, “The Nativity”

T. S. Eliot, “Journey of the Magi” and “A Song for Simeon”

e.e. cummings, “little tree”

G. K. Chesterton, “A Christmas Carol” and “The Wise Men”

Luci Shaw:

    “Virgin” (in Writing the River)

    “Perfect Christmas Tree” (in Writing the River)

    “The Overshadow” (in Writing the River)

    “Some Christmas Stars” (in Postcard from the Shore)

    “Mary’s Song” (in Listen to the Green)

Madeleine L’Engle:

    “Tree at Christmas”

    “Song of Simeon”

    “Annunciation” & “After Annunciation”

    “Like Every Newborn”
    “The Risk of Birth, Christmas, 1973”

    “First Coming”

    “The Wise Men”

You'll notice my list is heavily weighted toward the Christmas poetry of Luci Shaw & Madeleine L'Engle. That's because (a) they are my poetry heroes, and (b) I believe these two, more than any other poets, understand and are able to convey the redemptive truth of Christmas as well as the poignance of the characters that make up the New Testament narratives. If you want to gorge yourself on nothing but their Christmas poems, I recommend their book WinterSong: Christmas Readings,

http://www.amazon.com/WinterSong-Christmas-Readings-Madeleine-LEngle/dp/1573833320/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1418662409&sr=1-1&keywords=luci+shaw+madeleine+l%27engle

Have a blessed Christmas, one and all, filled with the poetic whimsy of this beautiful season!

(Oh, and just in case you need some light-hearted silliness for Boxing Day…read “Santa andthe Reindeer” by Shel Silverstein.)

The Best Rejection Letter. Ever.

While I have submitted my poetry here and there over the years, nothing much ever came of it. Rejection letter after rejection letter. Disappointment. Discouragement. Admittedly, a bit of my inherited Dutch stubbornness to keep trying. 

Last summer I submitted some of my work to the Breathe Writer’s Conference and was awarded a scholarship, which gave my confidence a much-needed boost. After attending the conference in October and being so encouraged by fellow writers to continue submitting my work, I determined not to give up. So the first thing I did when I got home was to start sending in submissions again. I promptly received two more rejection letters. *sigh*

Then a friend messaged me a link to a call for submissions for a new poetry prize. (Thank you, Susie!) I selected my three best poems, composed a smashing cover letter, and sent my entry winging through cyberspace. And in all honesty, work and family life and holiday commitments have kept me so busy since then, I sort of forgot I’d sent it.

Until last evening when I received an email. What I thought was another blanket rejection notice turned out to be an early Christmas present. My heart swelled as I read the editor’s words:

“While you were not chosen our winner, we want you to know your work stood out to us in a positive way. We are unable to write a personal email to all of our submissions (we had over 350), so the fact you are receiving this note is important—we want you to know that we liked your work.”

They liked my work! Then came the best part:

“Your work was good and stood out from over 350 submissions, so please do not see this as a loss; it’s not. Please take this note not as a no, but a not yet….While you were not chosen, we know good things are headed your way with your writing.”

You’re probably thinking, Why is she so excited about a rejection letter? After all, they won’t be awarding me a shiny medal or a cash prize. Nor will they be publishing my work. To which I reply: Not. Yet.

This is the first time I received more than an impersonal form letter from a busy poetry journal editor. This was a personal communication, and it contained words of encouragement that my heart so needed to hear. Perhaps I should frame it, wrap it up in pretty paper with a fancy bow, then unwrap it on Christmas morning as a reminder: You’re a poet, Amy. Keep writing. Keep recording these words, images, prayers, feelings. Do your best work. Good things will come when the time is right.

Writing Hang-ups

Last weekend I attended a writer’s conference, and I came home completely energized, full of ideas, ready to write and submit my work for publication. There’s just one small complication: that’s all I want to do, but there are so many other things I must do. Like laundry. And dishes. And preparing meals for my family. Oh, and the small matter of these galleys that have been sitting on my desk for several days now and that I am supposed to be proofreading. Except the author attempted to use the plural noun “architects” as a verb (shudder) and did not know the difference between the noun insight and its verbal homonym incite (double shudder). And I know that’s why I do what I do, but right at this moment I don’t feel like it. I’m still back there with all my word people throwing around heady ideas like creating believable emotion in prose and writing theological memoir. I want to be writing my own stuff, not reading someone else's.

So I decided I’d write this blog post because, hey, at least I’m writing something. And  maybe…just maybe…spilling these thoughts onto a page will help me come down off the conference high long enough to actually get some work done.

Dear Dad...

It’s that time again, October, when all the trees are losing their leaves…and we remember the day when we lost you six years ago. Except we didn’t lose you. Not forever. You’re waiting for us to catch you up, I know. It’s just that the waiting on this end of eternity seems to take an eternity, and I  miss you—we miss you—and I wish I could call you up like I used to do just to hear your voice or ask you a simple question that I probably already knew the answer to but wanted to hear you say it, just to make sure I was getting it right. Because that’s the way I am, I need to know I’m right, and you always seemed to understand that even though I’m sure we knocked heads again and again because of it.

We now have an Amish store here in Tustin. You’d love it, Dad. Ben and I stopped there this morning on our way home from helping rake leaves at church. We bought a dozen donuts and thought of you as we ate some of them, because you would love their soft, doughy sweetness. You would love everything about this little store: the warm glowing gas lights suspended from the ceiling, the bulk foods and soup mixes, the bakery and shelves of candy, the rustic furniture and handmade items. It’s like all your favorite stores in Shipshewana under one roof. Most of all you’d love the people who own it. And just like you did with Mr. Hochstetler, the buggy maker in Indiana, you would get to know them and they would become your friends and you would greet them by name each time you’d come to visit us. 

Ben misses you. Some nights he still cries when he’s had a hard day and gets to thinking about Grandpa, wishing he could tell you all about it and hear you say, “Cheer up, things could be worse.” I think you’d be proud to see the young man he’s grown into. He loves Jesus, he loves people, and he has a compassionate heart. I’m eager to see where the Lord leads him in life. I hope God still lets you have little glimpses of our happiest moments here on earth, because I know you’d get as much joy out of seeing him nearly all grown up as you always got from spending time with him as a little boy. I’m so thankful he holds your memory close.

Today I just want you to know how much we all miss you and love you, Dad. Till we meet at Jesus’ feet…

Eating a Plum

Whenever she was sad to see something come to an end, my mom would say, "It's like eating a plum." Meaning the experience was so delicious, but it's gone in only one or two bites. The sweetness lingers after the fruit is gone, but the memory of the sweetness is what we hold onto.

It's hard to believe that a whole week has flown by since the Breathe Christian Writer's Conference at Cornerstone University. I'm back in my daily routine of teaching, reading, meal prep, laundry...but with a renewed energy to make time each day for writing. Last weekend blessed me in a big way--the speakers, the workshops, but mostly the people. I've never met such an encouraging bunch of wordies! This was my first time attending Breathe, and I'm already looking forward to next year's conference. I plan to make this a regular retreat, something I can look forward to all year.

I had the great privilege and honor of helping to open the conference by reading my poem "The Work of Our Hands." Thanks so much to all of you who gave me encouraging feedback on that. The workshops I attended were top-notch...and there were so many to choose from! I was particularly encouraged by Matt Landrum's excellent poetry workshops and how he demonstrated the importance of friendships for the writing life. Cynthia Beach's workshop "Creating Believable Emotion in Fiction and Nonfiction" applies as much to poetry as it does to prose. And Mike Wittmer's talk on Saturday morning was deeply meaningful as he pointed out that hope is one of the most important words for us as Christians and as writers. We need hope to survive. We need hope for the process of writing. And since we have to answer to God for every word we write, let's be sure to give our readers hope.

One of my goals for the weekend was to make connections with other writers, and I did. I even found someone willing to meet me halfway between Cadillac and Grand Rapids to have a mini writer's group. We hope to start in early November, and the thought of having that mutual encouragement and accountability keeps me writing.

Thanks, God, for working it out for me to attend Breathe so that I could catch my breath. Help me in turn to breathe out your words of hope and light in this dark world.

Memories of My Dad

Today would have been my dad’s 80^th birthday. This holiday weekend was always his weekend and will forever be linked with my memories of him. Were he still with us today, rest assured all his kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids would have gathered to honor him with plenty of food and chocolate cake.

Earlier this week, a friend of mine posted the following poem on her facebook page, and it reminded me so much of my dad. I absorbed the words, and they were like a warm massage for my heart that ached with missing Dad. And the words recalled to mind one of my favorite childhood memories of him.

NOT FORGOTTEN

I learned to ride
the two wheel bicycle
with my father.
He oiled the chain
clothes-pinned playing cards
to the spokes, put on the basket
to carry my lunch.
By his side, I learned balance
and took on speed
centered behind the wide
handlebars, my hands
on the white grips 
my feet pedaling.
One moment he was
holding me up
and the next moment
although I didn't know it
he had let go.
When I wobbled, suddenly
afraid, he yelled keep going—
keep going!
Beneath the trees in the driveway
the distance increasing between us
I eventually rode until he was out of sight.
I counted on him.


That he could hold me was a given
that he could release me was a gift.
(SHEILA PACKA in *Cloud Birds* © 2011, Wildwood River Press)

When I was five or six years old, Dad pulled out an old, bluish-green two-wheeler with coaster brakes that had been my brother’s bike. He dusted off the cobwebs, oiled the chain, bolted on training wheels, and taught me to ride it. I rode that bike up and down our driveway and out to his shop time and again that summer and the next. I was terrified, however, to give up my training wheels and would not let him remove them. One day when I rode out to the shop and asked him to check the air in one of my tires, Dad tricked me, saying he was busy right then but he’d call me on the intercom when it was ready. Awhile later, I walked back to the shop with Mom, hopped on my bike, and took off down the drive. I rode all the way down, turned around, and rode all the way back up to where my parents stood laughing in the doorway of one of the service bays. As it turned out, Dad had checked the air in my tires and also removed the training wheels without telling me. He was sure of my ability to ride even though I wasn’t.

I outgrew that old bike pretty quickly, and I really wanted a new one of my very own, not a hand-me-down. When May 1982 rolled around, I was 7 years old and praying for a new bike for my 8^th birthday in June. As it turned out, I wouldn’t have to wait that long. My dad surprised me on his birthday with a shiny new girl’s bike. It was creamy white with navy blue pinstripes, hand brakes, and three speeds. I didn’t know what to say at first, until I realized this bike wasn’t for Dad—it was for me! He gave me a birthday present on his birthday! And that’s just how my dad was.

I loved that bike. I even decorated it with crepe paper streamers and American flags to ride it in the Fourth of July parade that year. But what made it so special was the fact that Dad gave it to me on his birthday.

Happy birthday, Dad. We miss you. Love always, Amy Joy