Category Archives: Poetry

Grammy’s Irises

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“Those who sow with tears
  will reap with songs of joy.
Those who go out weeping,
carrying seed to sow,
will return with songs of joy,
carrying sheaves with them” (Psalm 126:5-6 NIV).

As I read these verses a few days ago, I thought of a little poem I wrote just before Christmas. For two and a half years I had lived in a downstairs space in the home of a couple and served as a caregiver for the 90-year-old gentleman who dealt with Alzheimer’s. Their home was located in a peaceful setting where the beauty of nature and wildlife were right outside the door. I took thousands of photos in the time I lived there. In August, the gentleman passed away. As I prepared to move in January, I worked on a book of photos I had taken of some of the beauty of the property along with words of inspiration and encouragement for his widow. Some of the photos were of the beautiful irises that I could see from my window in the spring. I was told that they had been planted years ago by “Grammy,” the mother of the lady of the house. When we first had that conversation, I commented, “Here we are today enjoying beauty because of what someone planted a long time ago.” Those words were the seed embedded in my mind for what I knew would one day be a poem. I finally wrote it as I prepared my photo gift book.

“Grammy’s Irises”

With gentle hands she placed each bulb
Beneath the stubborn sod;
She watered them and tended them,
But left their growth to God.
In early spring the tender shoots
Pushed through the porous soil–
The beauty of the blossoms fair
Were fit for any royal.

Long years have passed but yet they bloom
When winter turns to spring–
Their graceful beauty on display,
Enjoyment still to bring
To younger generations who
Are following Grammy’s lead–
She taught that for the blooms to come,
You first must plant the seed.

So, too, in lives we plant the seeds
And water them with tears,
And tend them on our knees in prayer
Prevailing through the years;
By faith we trust the seeds will bloom
In each young girl and boy,
For those who sow in tears will reap
And gather blooms with joy.

–Rebecca D. Higgins

The View from Here

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by Rebecca D. Higgins

After the lockdowns of Covid, a very different work opportunity from what I had done in the past opened up as families chose to keep their elderly loved ones at home and needed help to care for them. It has been my privilege to provide dignity and compassionate care for a number of individuals suffering from dementia or Alzheimer’s, debilitative illnesses, and even a stroke survivor. Several I have had the honor to help “walk them home” and make their final days here on earth as comfortable as possible. Duane was one of those precious individuals who suffered from the effects of Alzheimer’s. I was amazed, however, at how insightful he sometimes was even then. He was a gentleman and the epitome of kindness. His love for the Lord shone through even to the very end.

Duane’s favorite place to be was sitting on the front porch, and I enjoyed many hours with him there. Sometimes he would nap a bit, and at other times he would look around with a smile and sense of wonder on his face as he took in the beauty of the varied colors of leaves, the butterflies and birds flitting by, the deer and turkeys that wandered across the yard, and the play of sunlight across the lawn as it filtered through the trees. “This is it!” he would declare as he waved his arms to take in the scene. “It’s beautiful! God did all this!” And I would agree! I often felt, however, as we sat on the porch that what Duane saw went beyond the yard to the beauty that is to come.

When we would make trips into town for various appointments, along the way Duane would frequently get confused as to where he was; but the minute we turned into the winding lane and he saw the house with the front porch through the trees, he had instant recognition. He was home!

On a rainy Sunday night in August 2024, as Duane was making his final journey, I believe he looked up and saw the Father come out onto the front porch of heaven to welcome him, and he had no question as to where he was! He was finally HOME!

I know that we use earthly metaphors to describe heaven because it goes beyond what our finite minds can begin to comprehend or imagine. I think that’s okay since Jesus himself used the metaphor of a house with many rooms, and somehow I think there just might be a front porch!

When Duane and I would sit on the front porch, his dog was also our companion. While I have several precious photos of Duane enjoying the view from here, out of respect for his privacy, I chose not to use one of them in this public forum. Instead, I snapped this photo of Duane’s dog sitting in his front porch chair the day after Duane was welcomed into his eternal home.

After Duane’s passing, I couldn’t help thinking about what he was experiencing and what he might tell those who mourned his absence. The following poem is the result:

The View from Here

If you could see what I see now,
You’d look upon His face;
You’d bow your knees in gratitude
For mercy and for grace;
You’d marvel at the beauty that
Is far beyond compare–
The Tree of Life, the crystal sea,
The saints all gathered there.
You’d stand with me and sing His praise
Forever without end
For Christ who gave His life to be
Our Savior and our Friend,
So whosoever will may come
By faith to enter in
The home prepared by God himself
Who’s cleansed us from all sin.
If I could make just one more wish,
I’d wipe away your tear
And bring you home to heaven’s porch
To see the view from here.
(RDH–August 23, 2024)

I Will Remember You

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I walk along the silent rows
Of markers gleaming white;
Memorial Day has come again
Where flags adorn each site.
But as I move among the graves,
A whisper seems to rise–
It stirs within my very soul–
I hear those silenced cries.

“Don’t see me as a marble slab
But stop and say my name;
Don’t let me be forgotten here
As years go by the same.
I lived, I loved, I breathed the air,
I stood up straight and tall–
And when my country needed me,
I answered to the call.
I’m not a name that’s etched in stone
That fades as time goes by;
Remember me–the person–who
Laid down my life to die
That freedom’s song may still be sung
And tyranny be stayed.
The cost was high, but well I knew
It truly must be paid.
Don’t pass me by with hurried feet
Without a thought or look,
But read my story etched in stone
Instead of in a book.
And as you pause and say my name,
Forgotten, I am not–
Oh, lift the torch of freedom high–
With precious blood ‘twas bought.”

I stop and place my hand upon
The stone that’s hard and cold
I speak the name aloud again
Of one—the brave, the bold.
Saluting then I make my pledge
Of what I choose to do:
“As long as my own breath remains,
I WILL REMEMBER YOU!”

© 2020 Rebecca D. Higgins

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Worthy Is the Lamb!

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by Rebecca D. Higgins

Not long ago while going through some old files from my Bible college days, I ran across a poem I wrote based on verses from the Book of Revelation. During this Passion Week as we focus on Christ’s death and resurrection, it’s fitting that we proclaim, “Worthy is the Lamb!”

Oh, come and gather ’round the throne,
You ransomed white-robed throng;
Come cast your crowns at Jesus’ feet
And sing redemption’s song.

Come, sing the song of Christ the Lamb
Who for our sins was slain,
Who bled and died on Calvary’s tree,
And yet who lives again.

He lives again–our glorious King–
And worthy is His name!
He is the First and yet the Last,
Forevermore the same.

So lift your hallelujahs high–
Forever let them ring–
For blessing, glory, pow’r, and strength
Belong unto the King.

Through washing in the Savior’s blood,
Your robes have been made white;
And now you stand before your Lord–
Your faith has turned to sight.

The battles now are over, and
The victor’s crown you’ve won;
Oh, praise your Savior, God, and King–
Redemption’s plan is done!

So praise the One upon the throne–
He is the great I AM–
Redemption’s song forever sing,
For worthy is the Lamb!

 

Dramatic Lighting on Christian Easter Cross As Storm Clouds Break

A Perfect Fit

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by Rebecca D. Higgins

The other day I ran across an old photo of my niece when she was little trying on a pair of my dad’s shoes. It made me think of a poem I wrote a long time ago back in the fall of 1985 when I was a student in college.

 

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A cobbler sat upon his bench,
And with the greatest care,
He fashioned shoes in all designs
His customers would wear.

Each day he labored at his craft
And worked with tireless zeal
To make each shoe a perfect fit
From tip of toe to heel.

One day a youth burst through the door
And jangled loud the bell;
He gazed about the cobbler’s shop
Then gave a hearty yell.

“Good sir,” he cried, “I want some shoes–
The largest in the land;
I want to be a leader strong
And many men command.

“I want to leave a mark in life–
A footprint all can see;
And then I’ll have a name renowned
And great prosperity.”

So saying, he tried on some shoes–
The biggest that were mates–
Those size fourteens engulfed his feet
That measured only eights!

“But, son, . . .” the cobbler interposed. . . .
But would he listen? –No!
He bought the shoes and put them on,
And then he turned to go.

And shuffling, though he tried to strut,
He left the cobbler’s place;
But e’er he went a block, he tripped–
Fell flat upon his face!

The cobbler’s bell rang once again–
A girl slipped through the door;
She tiptoed to the cobbler’s side
And watched him do his chore.

At last he saw her standing there
And in a gentle voice
Asked, “What, my dear, will be the shoes
That you will make your choice?”

“Oh, sir,” she whispered as she blushed
And painted red each cheek,
“I’m insignificant and shy
And really, oh, so weak.

“I want a tiny pair of shoes
As small as small can be–
For I would die if anyone
Should ever notice me.”

She searched until she found the pair
That suited what she’d said;
She squeezed and tugged and panted–
The cobbler shook his head.

At last the shoes were on–
She paid the cobbler’s fee;
The last I heard, she had gone lame
And lived in agony.

But finally to the cobbler’s shop
An old man made his way;
The shoes upon his tired feet
Had seen a better day.

He smiled as the cobbler’s bell
Jingled a merry note;
He paused before a wooden peg
To hang his hat and coat.

Then to the cobbler this he said,
“I’ve come today, good friend,
Because my poor old shoes have passed
Beyond all hopes to mend.

“Just make a pair for my two feet–
The style you may choose;
Just so they fit is all I ask
Of my much-needed shoes.”

The cobbler set to work at once–
In thought his brows were knit;
He measured, cut, and stitched and nailed–
He made a perfect fit.

The old man left and did his tasks,
And everyone could tell
He filled his shoes. –Within, he knew
The cobbler’d made them well.

O Cobbler mine, Your skill is great–
You’re gracious and You’re wise;
You are the One who made my feet–
You know their shape and size.

So make my shoes a perfect fit
According to Your plan,
And may I wear them faithfully
To serve my fellowman.

And may I never e’er forget
The lesson I’ve been shown,
That if I wear another’s shoes,
Then who will wear my own?