Pastor’s Pondering 01/06/2021

Oh, sweet Jesus,
Thank you for the owls.
In particular the one who hooted at me
From her perch high in hidden pines
While I labored in the field.
Oh, I know,
She hooted not to me,
But to some unknown friend
In the woods across the fence,
But I heard her,
And her voice spoke to me.
She reminded me
That these woods are not mine,
As is my hammer, or my spade.
They are mine as is my wife,
Mine to love, mine to serve,
Mine to sing to in the twilight of the day.
She reminded me that others
Have loved these woods as well.
Chickasaw families lived here,
Ate the wild pecan and persimmon.
And slaves hid here, trembling,
Yearning for the freedom of the birds.
Young men came and hunted turkey,
Girls came and picked the berries,
Gathered paw paws.
And her ancestors sang to them all,
One by one,
And watched them come and go.
So sweet Jesus, bless the owl
And give her room to fly, meadows to hunt,
A tree safe for nesting,
Time to raise her young,
So that who follow
May hear her song
And understand.

George R. Pasley

January 06, 2021

Martin, TN

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