Hands

The lady standing there was praying.

She was dressed nicely, looked upper middle class.

Her hands were close together, each index finger touching her lips.

In her eyes was a pleading so desperate.

A wish so real. A hope so far.

In her view was a statue of Brahma, 

Gold 

With four heads.

In the air was the smell of incense and the chants of request.

Why, though, talk to an image made with hands?

Can a Holy thing dwell in something man-made?

Would a spirit incarnate in something unable to move?

If a god were truly good, wouldn’t he wish to be something mobile? 

Someone whose hands could touch the soul and give comfort so desperately needed?

She was a beautiful woman, who will be in my memory. 

The one standing in my view, reaching out her heart to something that wasn’t there.

And now, my prayer to my God, the One who made the person who made the image,

Lord Jesus, show her Your hands.

Written in March 29, 2000, after I visited Erawan Shrine in Bangkok, Thailand.

Erawan Shrine in Bangkok, Thailand. (2000)

The Road Less Traveled

Sometimes treasures are found in the rereading of our history. I came across one treasure the other day in this poem I wrote below in 2007. For background, it is an overview of my years waiting for a husband and hopefully a family of my very own and how God did not let me wait idle! He definitely kept my feet moving.

Nearly three years after this was written, I got married, and nearly two years after that, our daughter was born. Although I reference many places, I decided to just include two photographs of the girls I mention by name in this poem. My prayer is this blesses you in some way today. --Cassy

__________

The road less traveled

Is the one I find myself on

Here a little

There a little

Rounding the corner to find …

My destiny?

My purpose in God’s hands

I look there and see a little bit of Asia

Of Cambodia and her religious ruins and killing fields

Of Viet Nam and leftovers of a war my dad fought

Of Laos and her beautiful land

And of Thailand where I first heard my missionary call

I see a little bit of Europe

Of Romania and her “Asta Este”*

Of Romanian students trying so hard to grow up

In a world they know little about

Of Gypsies

And their flamboyant colors and naughtiness

All exaggerated in the lens of my camera

Gifts

Given

Gifts

Received

Miora’s eyes

And Sorina’s hot pink flower

In her hair

Complimenting the stare

Now immortalized in pixels on a print

In a frame on my wall

The road less traveled

I have been on since my life

Was yielded into His hands

At the age of 23

And there, in the midst of His creases and scars

Lies a map of His drawing

Of my journey with a Savior who spoils me

In taking me to places I never

Would have imagined

I’d travel.

 (Written 11-18-07)

*Asta Este means “It is what it is.” It is basically the Romanian version of the French saying “C’est la vie” or the American saying “That’s Life.”

Sorina (Onesti, Romania, in July 2005)

Miora (Onesti, Romania, in July 2005)