Poem God’s Child

Every moment of our day, beginning with each day’s sunrise (yes, Child, even the dreamtime is of use for conscious evolution), offers hidden nuggets of gold and precious gemstones for the taking.  Precious bits of information  useful for growing closer to the God of Our Realization, the God of Our Heart.  Such gifts are never withheld for bestowal is the Great Law of Creation.  Sadly, most people do not see them, do not expect them, do not want them.

These gifts are associated with specific events of your life–and there are too many to count.  For me, such gifts are given whenever I come across a child or adult with cerebral palsy or some other neuromuscular disease.

Whenever, these precious events come across my event horizon, the first feeling I have is that I wish I could heal as Jesus healed–healing predicated upon knowing that to heal was a good thing for each.  My heart just breaks for each dear soul.  It is the same when I come across grannies who worked hard all their lives and can hardly find money to buy necessities.  They break my heart too.

And, as I look back upon my life, I thank the young lady who showed me “how to break a human heart” so to feel the real pain of a life without any divinity therein. Pain is never fun, but it is the primary way to find your God–if, you keep persisting.

And at these moments of my day, I think I understand, at least a little, how Jesus must have felt during his ministry.  And then I realize, that our inner hearts are always pure and full of love for all–only, our human conditioning brings us into the forest of errors.

So tonight, I share a poem with you concerning the above.  And for each of you who sheds a tear of kindness and hope, I ask that a thousand tears of joy and power be given to each.

15 November 2010

God’s Child-Kiev, Ukraine

Sipping, strong black tea,
sweetened with honey’s gift,
I gazed onto the street.

Beyond the fountain spray,
sparkling gems of rainbow hue,
came a small child,
her wee hands held firm,
father and mother at her side,
a difficult birth, cerebral palsy had she.

Halting for a rest,
father lifted his darling blonde,
onto the worn and wooden bench,
sitting close,
his arm he placed around her side,
to keep her safe and balanced straight.

Who would dare to claim
that human love in not innate?
A blasphemer, an infidel,
an unholy one.

And her mother sat close, aglow with love..

The tears of Angels never lie,
when shall, come we, to see,
that each of us are,
as this little girl,
incomplete and lost
without each others care?

Blessings to all.  Michael

 

 

 

 

 

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