Straight From The Hart

  SWEET EPHEMERA OF LIFE Memories, such sweet stuff.  Precious memories a lyricist once wrote. Memories influence our life in so many ways. Making us what we are today. Guiding our passions, enhancing our talents. My Grandma Dame kept a scrapbook. Not the fancy kind..... Just an old geography textbook where she pasted newpaper clippings she liked Over the original pages; Mostly poems, some from Grit magazine. Recipes she wanted to try, also from Grit. A picture of the Dionne quintuplets born in 1934. An old photograph purporting to show Jesus in the clouds. I loved that old scrapbook.  I nearly wore it out just looking at it. When I was in the third grade, I started my own scrapbook. As time went by, I threw the clippings into shoe boxes. Then I discovered manila folders.   And made files. And labelled them. And alphabetized them. Then I bought file cabinets for the files. But again I ran out of time and just threw the clippings into the file cabinet. Now I’m back

  IT’S BEEN ONE OF THOSE DAYS Lord, it’s been one of those days  The kind when it’s so hard to sing your praise When weariness o’ertakes you And friends seem to forsake you A day when you feel like life’s a maze And you wonder if you’ll ever make it through. Lord, it’s been one of those days again But I can see your footprints in the sand My strength is gone but you are carrying me So just one set of footprints I can see Your footprints making nail scars in the sand Remind me of  the nailprints in your hand. My friends have had a day of sadness, too They wonder how they’ll ever make it through With failing health, they tell me how they feel I tell them I will pray, they know I will. But words come hard, this intercessor’s prayer Depends on you, just knowing you are there To get us all through bad days when they come Reminding us we all will soon be home. Lord, we all need comfort in these days Lord, send your Paraclete, our spirits raise Remind us of the horror you lived through That d

The Clock of Time (Poem for the New Year) Written by Joan Rowden Hart  The clock of time is ticking as the New Year now awaits We stand behind the curtain, the old year’s getting late The footlights are just coming on as we step out on stage Life’s past script is behind us, we prepare to turn the page That reveals the new year’s stories. What will the future hold? The playwright hasn’t told us. He lets the book unfold; No good to try to read ahead, only He knows what is there; We take the parts assigned to us, only He knows what is fair. We only know that come what may, the assigned role must be played; It’s up to us to make it work, in this life there are no trades; And so we sing and dance and cry, each day brings something new; We do the best we can, because we know when day is through We once again will take the stage to take our final bow; Surrounded by the witnesses in clouds we see them now* The trees of the field will clap their hands**, we receive the golden crown And we follo

  When My Name’s In The Paper, What Then? Our calendars are full, appointments to keep We're too busy to eat, and there's no time to sleep We barely get to bed when we hear the alarm beep But when our name's in the paper, what then? Reunions and weddings and vacation plans We've gardens to harvest, green beans to be canned We’ll never get caught up with all life's demands But when our name’s in the paper, what then? There are bills to be paid and groceries to buy Meals to be planned for, we must make that pie With our busy lifestyles, we've just no time to die, But when our name's in the paper, what then? To do lists won't matter, many things left undone. We had time to do everything under the sun But there'll come a time when our life's race is run And our name's in the paper, what then? What then of the many opportunities we missed? What then of the prayers left unsaid on our list? What then when our souls fade away into mist? What then, bu

  JOY OF READING Written by Joan Rowden Hart I sit in my office and look at my treasure Stacked row upon row, the source of my pleasure There is wealth beyond measure everywhere that I look So many shelves, filled with book after book. So many words that tell so many stories So many volumes just full of God’s glory So many reminders of our history and then So many narratives of women and men Who have experienced life with all of its trials, And still write the words that will cause me to smile, Who have struggled with failure and rose up again And made me forget my own troubles and pain. So many thoughts, written with deep meditation Shared with those who will read with great contemplation Thoughts that I by myself could never create Are given to me in abundance so great Free for the taking, but not enough time To just sit and enjoy other’s thoughts so sublime. There’s so much to learn hidden deep in those tomes Of other men’s travels while we stay in our homes There is poetry and myst

  FIRST DAFFODIL BUD OF SPRING Midst broken twigs and dried up grass The browns and grays of winter A ray of sunshine caught my eye For right there in the center A sign of spring broke through the ground All covered by seasonal clutter A single bud of daffodil As bright as fresh churned butter Poking its head above the rest Of earth’s decaying matter Surveying its environment Of torn leaves and tatter As if to say it may be a while But my promise to you today Is simply this, the time will come When clouds no longer gray Will let the sunshine come right through Dispelling fears and doubt And faith that spring is coming That’s what hope is all about. Written by Joan Rowden Hart on 01.24.13 at 10:15 am

  The lyrics of an old gospel song kept running through my mind this week.  “Memory is one gift from God that death cannot destroy.”  On this weekend when the topics of both death and memory are so prominent in our minds, it seems appropriate that we have such a reminder - first of all that memory is indeed a gift from God, and secondly that while death cannot destroy it, there are other things that can temporarily cause its loss. The dreaded and dreadful condition we call Alzheimer’s disease robs our loved ones of their most precious memories. The secularization of our society is an even worse threat to the memories woven into the fabric of our nation because it could be prevented, and yet we as a people allow it to continue year after year. And then there is neglect, perhaps the most insidious pathway we can take that will lead us as a nation into a time of great memory loss as it pertains to our values and our morals.  I use the word  “insidious” because it means to proceed in a gra