To My Children
by Sheila Petre
Little Miss Barefoot, running in December,
House warm, heart warm, if you only knew
How the very God of Love is brooding over you.
Free, you race in His embrace,
Eating richly of His grace,
Every thought before His face,
Whose Word is bread and ember.
Small booted Mister, with your lip all busted,
Whose belief in Ever Good has tipped to Sometimes Doubt,
How the very God of Love has hedged you round about.
I see your future fill with fears
As screams dissolve to puzzled tears,
And all that seems as darkness nears:
His Word can still be trusted.
Sheila is a Pennsylvania housewife who shares love, laughter and the hope of the resurrection with her welder husband, Michael, and their nine children born from 2007 through 2020. She welcomes your reasons for the hope found within you, at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy