to Candy Skidmore Wilson
This morning I stood at the doorway
Of the room where I slept as a child;
'Twas much smaller than I remember,
Strange how childhood memories beguile.
The room was empty, the walls were bare,
Near the closet boards still creak and moan;
Fresh, green smells slip through open windows
Where once delicate curtains had blown.
A midmorning ray of warm sunlight
Touches someone small kneeling to pray;
I know that little one, that child's me,
I remember how I felt that day.
The thing I loved more than anything
Had been taken away suddenly;
So I folded my hands, bowed my head,
Whispering, "Jesus, please come help me."
A child's comfortable being humble--
Like Jesus when He faced Calvary;
When I couldn't see what I used to,
I went home to find the child in me.
By Caryl Ramsdale
Copyright©1999-2004
'tears in a bottle collection'
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