I thought of my mom last week as I realized it was her birthday. It’s now been over 15 years since she passed, on Good Friday in 2001. Third-grade school teacher, wife, mother of three, a dedicated believer in Jesus, and as spiffy as they come, she also wrote poetry for over 50 years. I think it’s pretty good poetry and so in remembrance of my mom, who prayed for me every day of my life, I want to share some of her work.
So this will be a little different devotional this week, but coming from my mother’s heart, I think there is a unique fragrance to much of what she wrote.
The Poetry of Bettie Grant
The Ego and I
Blessed the meek, so meek I must be
But unnatural is this fine humble me
How quickly I speak, when speech is not wise
How swiftly the sparks fly into my eyes
How briskly I rise to praise and attention
How anxious to jump into every contention
I gossip with all of my arteries tense
Afraid I will fail to get in my two-cents
I sneer at the champions running the race
But only because I must take second place
And if, by a fluke, I do capture the wreath
I smile from the heights at the peasants beneath
Oh, blessed the meek and meek I might be
If there was less I in poor me
The Lady is a Bargain
A warden, a censor
A cookie dispenser
A temperature taker
A Christmas gift maker
A chauffeur that goes for
The children I sew for
An efficient executive
Work days consecutive
A nurse, a protector
Scrub maid, inspector
An artist, producer
An on-call seducer
A giver of life
A helper, a neighbor
A man takes a wife
And a lot of cheap labor
Alone
This is the winter of my heart
Bare of love
Chilled by indifference
Snowed in with loneliness
Even friendship
Is like the winter sun
Welcome
But seldom warm enough
To thaw
The winter of my heart
Warning
If you want to serve as God’s garden
You might as well understand now
You will never know planting or harvest
Until you have suffered the plow
Ingratitude
How patiently I pray
Of pain
Or gain
Or peace
Or some increase
Yet, when the Lord
Hears with love
And fills my cup
In haste, perhaps
A single prayer arises
“Oh, thank you Lord” I say
Then busy with the world
Go on my way
Traveler
He is efficient, organized
His schedule does not slip
He gets from here to there on time
But misses the whole trip
Now I Know
My family brushes their teeth with feeling
They spray the paste from floor to ceiling
It dots the walls, the window screen
With tattle tale pink or chlorophyll green
When mopping up this flagrant waste
I find out why they call it paste
Old
I am gray
Like the day
Not a tempest
Not a storm
Just a drizzle