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Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch

 

 

 

 

Spring comes not quickly, yet neither does she crouch in the shadows of Winter ready to pounce, for she is gentle.

No, her arrival is subtle, sweet, and most of all, beautiful.

She dances above the tree tops, twirling and spinning under the guise of March winds.

Her step is delicate and spontaneous, even hesitant, as she pivots her way along the sky, covering the earth with her sweet, moist breath.

She comes in the sunshine of April with her intoxicating perfume hanging - floating in the air.

Her days are pink - she blushes - laughs in the brooks and streams, just newly awakened.

Then, she is crowned in the flowers of May - her coronation and greatest glory. Lady Spring, how lovely you are!

Now, sweet as she is, she slips by, with only a whisper, and introduces her sister - Summer..

 


 
Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch

The earth exhales in gratitude at the hope of Winter’s end; flowers in bloom herald the arrival of Spring.

Youth rejoices as the air warms with the scent of daffodils, and glorious tulips side-by-side like lovers stand. 

Birds trill their joyous song, hungry mouths stretched toward the sky, as Robin and Jay and Sparrow, renew the promise of the season with new life.

Those of us who remember yesterday and yesterday and yesterday more, stand and stretch and warm our bones beneath Spring’s rejuvenating rays,

And once again our hearts lift up in thankful prayer, for another Spring is ours.


 
Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch

 

Excerpt from Son of My Soul - The Adoption of Christopher - Saga Books

Chapter Fifteen

Your First Easter

 

I had planned on Easter baskets and bunnies.

God had another plan.

Easter Sunday dawned pink, and blue, and yellow. Glorious sunshine streamed through the window to my right. I stretched, trying to relieve cramped muscles, which had been restricted throughout the long, seemingly endless night.

I gazed through foggy, smudged plastic at the bright sunlight, just six feet away. I parted the curtain and gazed out of the window. It was going to be a beautiful Easter Sunday, the kind you pray for: warm and bright with iris and daffodil-scented air.

I imagined my friends and neighbors preparing for the day. Easter hats, bright dresses, and new suits, bought for the special Easter services, would soon adorn Mother and Father, Daughter and Son. Multicolored eggs, hidden throughout sun-lit lawns, nestled beneath bush or tree, in anticipation of the eager searching of little girls in starched dresses, and little boys in blue suits. Scrambling upon newly sprung lawns in the quest of brightly colored treasures, young voices would cry out in triumph, as one jeweled egg after another made its way into colorfully woven, Easter baskets. It was the kind of day I had planned for you, on this, your first Easter.

I turned and looked down upon your sleeping face. Such a beautiful, sweet face with its chubby baby cheeks, downy skin and clear-cut brows. I pressed my lips to your forehead and felt a thrill run through my heart. No fever!

My mind traveled back to the Friday morning before. Good Friday began just before dawn for us. I awoke to hear a strange noise coming from your room: a kind of barking noise, mixed with attempts at crying. I rushed in to find you struggling for breath, your lips outlined in blue. "Mark!" I cried, rousing your father from a deep sleep. He stumbled in confused, but not too muddled to take immediate action. Throwing on a pair of sweats, he wrapped you in a quilt, and rushed you to the deck outside, where a cold pre-dawn breeze might bring you some relief.

The frigid air seemed to help your breathing. Your daddy kept you there, until I could scramble into some clothes. We then rushed you to the emergency room, still wrapped in the quilt, the windows of the van down, so that the cold air would continue to help you breathe.

They told us that it was the croup, implying that you might not survive. I remember grabbing the intern’s tie and pulling his face down to mine: "What do you mean IF he makes it?" I cried. Surely, this was some kind of wicked nightmare and I would awaken soon. You were not going to be taken from us! Not you! Not my son!

Thus began the ordeal. You were taken to the contagious ward and placed within a tent-enclosed crib in which medicated mist was pumped. I crawled in with you and held you. I could feel your little body, burning with fever, trembling in between spasms of breathing. I ached watching you! I was reminded of my last moments with my mother, the grandmother you had never known. I had watched her as she lay dying, fighting for breath, just like you were doing now…watched as her chest heaved with the effort to breath. The memory terrified me! Certainly, a rib cage would break under such effort! Surely, a small child could not survive such suffering! I stroked your forehead and murmured words of comfort throughout your struggle, as I continued to hold you within the circle of my arms. You didn’t cry. I don’t think you had the strength. I cried for you. continued  http://www.debrashiveleywelch.net/easter.htm


 
Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch

Excerpt from Son of My Soul - The Adoption of Christopher

 

Chapter Twenty Two
Goodbye, Da


He lay back wearily upon pillows piled high,
His once bright eyes dull with pain.
A weak smile pulled at his lips as shaking hand
Cleaved through once abundant hair,
Now thinned by toxic treatments.

"Now listen to me, Dotter.
There's things ya be needin' ta know,
About where yer people come from –  
And land so green, it would tear yer heart.
Dotter, stop yer cryin'! We must be partin' soon.
And if ya be wantin' to remember me - I can tell ya the way.

So hush. Hush. Hush.

Dotter, remember your roots!
And every year - be wearin' the green!
Wear it with pride, girl - yer head held high
For it's poets ya come from,
Aye - and great men and women too,
Who would not be held down!

And don't ye be, girl. Don't ye be.”

 

Dotter

 
Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch

The Resurrection

The sun has not yet risen,
The night is very still.
A woman kneels silently praying
Beside a hewn out hill.

Soldiers stand in anxious attendance
Around the silent grave,
Guarding the body of the man
Who sleeps within the cave.

The soldiers are all frightened,
As the night slowly drifts away,
And the rose of dawn now heralds
The coming of the third day.

The memory of the words:
“Be it done according to Thy will”
Echoes along the hillsides
As the scriptures are fulfilled.

All is quiet.

The heavens part in fury,
And thunder fills the sky!
The soldiers fall upon the ground,
Covering their frightened eyes.

Only the woman sees the angel
With flaming hair and sword,
Streak the sky and part the stone
That seals the tomb of the Lord.

He comes forth in shining glory;
His face as bright as day,
Conquering death and sin –
His gown is of Heaven’s rays.

The woman utters a startled cry
And falls upon her knees.
Her face is full of radiance
As she gazes with ecstasy,

Upon the Conqueror of Death,
This Jesus, King and Lord!
The Son of man and of God.
The Savior of the world!


All is quiet.


 

 

 
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