Hymn of Gratitude

I first posted this poem over a year ago but I needed to revisit it and I thought I would share it again.  While many things have changed in the last year my need to stay in gratitude has not.  Hope you all are blessed by it. 

When I express my gratitude
to God, I find my attitude
transforms from gloomy doom
to sunny smiles.

In giving thanks, my focus changes
as gratitude . . . it rearranges
the way I think and feel and speak
and live my life.

Counting all the ways He blesses
deepens joy, and my heart presses
in to know Him and enjoy Him
as He is.

"All is grace", the writer pens
Each day, each hour, each breath He sends
His gifts of grace and bids me
open more to Him.

The Ancient Words declare the way
into His presence everyday
is opened up by giving thanks
and so I say . . .

For sun and moon and stars that twinkle
eyes that see and lines that wrinkle
aging faces, waterfalls and baby's breath,
I thank You, Lord.

For bone on bone in knee unbending
ears to hear the never-ending 
speech, heaven's telling of Your glory,
Father, thank You.

For hope that flutters in my chest
and tiny eggs in robin's nest
just waiting to burst forth 
and sing your praises.

For full salvation, "it is finished"
healing virtue, undiminished
by years long past and 
morning mercies, ever new.

For children home, and far away, 
I give you thanks, my God, today
my heart is full and overflows 
with gratitude.

Thank You, thank You, Holy Father
Holy Spirit, Jesus, Author
of salvation and the Finisher
of my faith.

Amen.

©Andrea D. Olsen - 9 July 2011

Inspired by the book "One Thousand Gifts" by Ann Voskamp.
Visit her website here  -  A Holy Experience

Source:  Image capture at http://www.aholyexperience.com/ 

Video trailer for Ann's book.

(The little bundle of pink joy at the beginning of the video is my granddaughter.)

I Am From . . .

I have been challenged by some dear cyber-friends to respond to their "I Am From" posts with one of my own.  Such a wonderful trip down memory lane and so surprised at some of the memories that surfaced.


I am from Melmac dishes and mismatched cutlery for everyday use, from rotary egg-beaters and meat-grinders and CorningWare coffee percolators.  I am from fancy China and silverware stored in the red velvet lined chest, gracing the dining room table at Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Sister Kari's 6th birthday

I am from window seats. From banisters and French doors and roll-top desks with claw feet and pigeonholes.  From a heritage home with wide front porch, stone steps and roll-up awnings.  From screen doors and clotheslines and bunk beds and cut-glass doorknobs filled with rainbows.  From rooms upstairs where the boarders lived and sandy basement that gave us the creeps.

Built in 1922 this is my childhood home as it looks today.  My parents were the last owners of the home before it was sold and turned into a funeral home . . . Clayton Funeral Directors, 582 Front Street, Quesnel, BC

I am from hollyhocks and cosmos and tulips that Mama dearly loved. 

Cosmos (photo source)

 From bamboo planted in cement ring to curtail its spread and cottonwood trees that dropped their fluffy white clouds all over the yard.  From the crab-apple tree that rained silky petals and then gave fruit for Mama's prized jelly.  From picking beans and dandelions and lilacs that grew down the lane.


I am from prayers at each meal and Sunday afternoon naps and Wednesday night prayer meeting. From sword drills and "Jesus Loves Me" and missionary stories of Sadhu Sundar Singh and Pandita Ramabai.  From DVBS and Sunday school picnics and Miss Riley and her handkerchief dollies in church.


I am from five children born to Ray Wallace and Agnes Grace in just four and a half years.  From big sister Kari Jane, younger brother Dallas Birk and the babies, twins Martha Lorraine and Mark Leroy.  I am from Old Spice and crew cuts.  From aprons and spaces between the front teeth.  I am from hand-me-down dresses and Singer sewing machines and scratching out the alphabet on each other's back with Kari at bedtime.  From soft-serve ice cream and gallon jugs of A&W root beer and the adult-sized three wheeler bike. From the line of kids marching behind Dad as he mowed the lawn.  

Ray Wallace and Agnes Grace, 3 April 1954

My Mama, Agnes Grace, with her brood.  I am on the left with the big cheesy smile.

I am from things my Mama said, like "fiddlesticks" and "horse feathers" and "j'entre dans le salle de classe" - the only French she remembered.  From father's "I'll give you something to cry about" and "this hurts me more than it does you".  From piano lessons taught by Dad's cousin Della and playing his favourite "Somewhere My Love".


I am from Christmas trees set up December 18th on Mama's birthday, from meticulously hung tinsel and a foil-wrapped cardboard star.  From breakfast before presents and old woollen work socks with Japanese oranges and nuts and hard candy.

I am from Quesnel, British Columbia and from two full blooded Norwegian grandfathers that I never met.  From grandmother's, Irma and Blanche that raised families mostly on their own.  From Anabaptist ancestors fleeing religious persecution in Switzerland and Germany, making their way to America in its infancy.  From school teachers, preachers, inventors and entrepreneurs, from farmers and loggers and WW2 veterans.  From family historians and writers and poets.  I am also from broken dreams, broken vows, broken homes.

 Fraternal grandfather Alfred Martinis 

Maternal grandfather, Lawrence Anton

Maternal grandmother Blanche

Fraternal grandmother Irma Irene

I am from city kids and country cousins spending summer vacation on Grandma Bjorklund's farm.  From riding the hay wagon, gathering blueberries in old gallon paint cans, and midnight runs to the outhouse.  From priming the pump and sulphur smelling water and chickens and cows and a horse named Prince.  From wringer washing machine and clamouring over who got to put the curlers in Grandma's hair.

Cousins Ron and Janet on the horse named Prince

I am from books and reading late into the night.  From weekly trips to the library with my sister for the unread Nancy Drew or Trixie Beldon titles. From Encyclopedia Britannica and Mario Lanza and Johnny Cash.  From playing Mousetrap and jacks and pick-up sticks.


I am from "toad in the hole", homemade bread and skim milk powder.  From "slumgullion" and "hardtack" and apple crisp, banana bread and chocolaty French cake.  From scalloped potatoes and raspberry jam and canned peaches.


I am from Martha Freelove, my great grandmother who with her husband and children left Arkansas for Canada in a covered wagon in 1916.  Who along the way went blind at the age of 35 and never saw the new country she was immigrating to, never saw her grandchildren or great grandchildren.

Great Grandmother Martha Freelove, centre circa 
1882, Arkansas.  I have the original of this photo.

Martha Freelove, Vancouver, BC 1960's

I am from photos old and letters kept and every birthday card from Great Aunt Nettie stashed away in my treasure box. From stick figure drawings saved by my Mama,  from newspaper clippings and certificates and memories triggered by sights and sounds and smells.

My great, great, great grandparents, Freelove and David Benjamin 

Grandmother Irma Irene, an accomplished horsewoman.

Great grandparents Wyatt Woodruff
and Laura Dorelia.

I am from "Amazing Grace" and whispered prayers and "This Little Light of Mine".  From "How Great Thou Art" and the Shepherd's psalm and John 3:16.  I am from He who forgives, heals and redeems, who crowns me with loving kindness and tender mercies and who has good plans for my life . . . plans for a future and a hope.


I am, Andrea Dawn.


If you would like to write your own "I Am From" story, you can find a template here.  It is a very helpful tool to get you started.  

Found in the Translation

Source: verycalm.blogspot.com via Andrea on Pinterest



Though silent . . . I can feel You near

I try to pray and feel the fear

that floodgates opened

never stop.

You read my tears

translate my groans

my words, quite simply

unnecessary.

But Your words are . . . I need them . . . now

I read them now . . . aloud

so faith that comes by hearing

has place to sink roots deep.

These words I read

"Be silent, all flesh,

before the LORD"

and so I stop.

I lay the Book across my chest

my prayer . . . Your words

go unexpressed

in forms I am familiar with,

but . . . I wait . . . I rest

My heart You see

my frame You know

and spirit words

they come and go in ways

not easily explained

in earthly terms.

I cannot say

what passed between us

I only know

that I've been seen

and heard and understood

And He is good

And all will be well.

© Andrea Dawn Olsen - 21 September 2011

Nothing Hidden

The white-hot sphere of blazing glory

edged ever closer to the horizon,

wringing every drop of warmth

from its golden rays.

I'd never seen it so demanding,

commanding me to look,

full on, face to face . . .

but I could not hold my gaze steady,

I had to look away.

The cloudless skies provided no veil

to filter it's penetrating beams.

Only at it's edges where its brightness shot out

like shards of glass,

could I allow a fleeting glance.

Words from the sacred pages

rise from my spirit and echo in my mind.

" . . . a tabernacle for the sun . . ."

". . . like a bridegroom coming out of his chamber . . ."

". . . rejoices like a strong man to run his race . . ."

". . . nothing hidden from its heat . . ."

Nothing hidden . . . woe is me!

But . . . wait, it can't or can it be

I lift my eyes,

take one last look.

The radiant orb is now blood-red

and I remember what He said . . .

"Though your sins be as scarlet,

they shall be as white as snow."

The Holy One,

the brightness of His glory,

bleeds atonement

and I am forgiven.

© Andrea Dawn Olsen - 28 August 2011



Paper Cuts

I pick it up, this Book of pages

as I read, my soul engages

with the One who wrote the words.

I cried to You, for help, O LORD

and this is what you bring, a sword . . .

cutting, discerning thoughts and intents

I read a prayer, a David psalm

and what he writes is healing balm,

ointment poured on open wounds.

The Ancient Words have done their work

and found the pain and fear that lurk

within my cold and lonely heart.

Spirit words, so old yet new

found me, showed me what to do

and now . . .  I kneel . . . and worship.

© Andrea Dawn Olsen - 15 August 2011     

   

                                                                                                    

Be Still

At the end of the land

where the sea and the sand

and the sky all come together

and speak of the One

who created all things

the mountains, the trees, the weather.

At the edge of the sea

You were calling to me

Your presence hung thick in the air

Just to be here with You

refreshes my soul,

my spirit, my heart is laid bare.

Not a word needed saying

I watched children playing

the sand curling up through their toes.

Do they sense it, too

this peace that I feel?

Most surely, they do, I suppose.

The tides coming in

and the waders begin

turning 'round and heading for shore

Your love, like the ocean

will follow them in

Gently knocking upon heart's door.

Quick the hour has sped

but my soul has been fed

with such beauty, ahh, what a thrill.

Sitting here in the sand

I obey Your command,

Just breathe in, breathe out, be still . . .

And know that

I am

God.

© Andrea Dawn Olsen - 30 July 2011

A Hymn of Gratitude

 

When I express my gratitude

to God, I find my attitude
transforms from gloomy doom
to sunny smiles.

In giving thanks, my focus changes
as gratitude . . . it rearranges
the way I think and feel and speak
and live my life.

Counting all the ways He blesses
deepens joy, and my heart presses
in to know Him and enjoy Him
as He is.

"All is grace", the writer pens
Each day, each hour, each breath He sends
His gifts of grace and bids me
open more to Him.

The Ancient Words declare the way
into His presence every day
is opened up by giving thanks
and so I say . . .

For sun and moon and stars that twinkle
Eyes that see and lines that wrinkle
aging faces, waterfalls, and baby's breath
I thank You, LORD.

For bone on bone in knee unbending
ears to hear the never-ending
speech, heavens telling of Your glory,
Father, thank You.

For hope that flutters in my chest
and tiny eggs in robin's nest
just waiting to burst forth and
sing Your praises.

For full salvation, "It is finished"
Healing virtue undiminished
by years long past and
morning mercies ever new.

For children home, and far away
I give You thanks, my God, today
my heart is full and overflows
with gratitude.

Thank You, thank You, Holy Father
Holy Spirit, Jesus, Author
of my life and the Finisher
of my faith.

Amen

© Andrea Dawn Olsen - 9 July 2011

Inspired by the book One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp. 
You can get to know her at http://www.aholyexperience.com/

Source:  Image capture at http://www.aholyexperience.com/

YouTube Video Trailer for Ann's book

(The little bundle of pink joy at the start of the video is my granddaughter.)

(What can I say . . . I am a proud grandmother!)