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Five Minute Fridays #Hands

It's Five Minute Friday with Lisa Jo Baker
the word prompt is ... Hands

I wrote this poem quite a while ago and thought I'd fish it out for today....I wrote it as a poem for my oldest little girl...

http://lisajobaker.com

Her Hands were always warm, fingers long
Her nails always pretty, lady like
Her Hands wore green gritty garden gloves and pushed her damp hair from her head in sun bright mornings
Her Hands pressed flour and shortening, molding biscuits
Her hands made crazy birthday cakes sometimes electric colored and three tier towers. ridiculous but fun....
Her hands always brushed my hair, gentle..never hurried
Her hands always picked up all our toys...never complaining of the mess
These hands are my mama's
Hands that made me know love, made me know that love is always doing, always creating, always making...and most of all that love tries to be FUN. 

His Hands gripped golf clubs and tried to explain the proper swing to two little girls that couldn't ever get it quite right
His hands gripped the steering wheel with one wrist glinting gold in the sun as the miles rolled on and our car whisked down the road
His one hand was always offered to the backseat girls for a quick squeeze during road trips, three squeezes like a morris code of I Love You
His hands spread out maps, atlases and pointed to breathtaking locales...asking us where we wanted to go and dreaming of one day
His hands weighted down with collegiate Webster's dictionary adding vocabulary to our dinner time while we wolfed down biscuits he pointed out words we should know...
These are my dad's hands
Hands that made me know love meant sitting beside him on his old navy blue lazy boy and watching sleepy golf, his hands made me know that love never quits providing ...that love is simple as a sleepy saturday morning beside your dad or a bottled coke strolling around Grand Piano while he peruses over one day purchases 

Her hands were willow thin, and long
We held them under the covers under our royal purple quilt
Long after dark, when crickets cried and the moon beamed silver
We whispered long into the night and giggled
Her hands helped me stack pillows for forts
Her hands tagged me "it" in fast freeze tag dashes
Her hands sometimes balled up and hit me hard as we settled our arguments quickly "sister style"
Her hands held mine as we walked down the beach, sea foam kissing our toes...
These are my sister's hands....
Hands that made me know that love is always beside you, that differences can be put aside, that the love of the one you share your childhood with is the longest love you'll know the one that walks the trail of life the longest with....

Her hands passed me my first school notes...check yes and no notes (only the yes and no's in questions were "Do you like to read?")
Her hand written notes scrawled neon ink Love into my elementary walls...my silence, my shy
Those notes brought me slowly out of my shell
Her hands still send me handwritten letters through the mail...all these years letter...always commemorating holidays, anniversaries, birthdays...just life...
These are my dear friend's hands...hand's that show me that love is faithful and always full of faith, that love keeps sending even when I'm slow to reply...that love reaches out...that love endures

His hands strummed strings as music leaked out ...steady and beautifully raw
His hands cast lines and always pulled up green brown scales...sometimes sixty in one humid May morning...always helping me pull mine off the line
His hands diced and chopped and made some of the best dishes we've ever eaten together
His hands slid a band on mine and promised forever one July afternoon...
His hands were the first to cradle You....
These are my husband's hands, your daddy's hands..
His hands show me that love works hard, love does practical labor for anyone who needs, love always has a willing hand  

Your hands were balled up first and your cry was loud and strong
Your hands grew tan like your daddy's and always holding books like mine
Your hands work hard and literally Never.ever. grow tired. at your occupation that is play....
You hands will spend hours in detailed concentration on watercolors dripping down pages and coloring pencil creations
Your hands were my first baby hands to hold
Your hands have grown willow like and long like my sister's and sometimes when we snuggle on the couch I have dejavu of holding her ands and laughing silly late at  night...
You are my daughter and I have always loved the way your hands feel when tucked into mine
Holding your hands always bring my heart the widest smiles...
I promise to always hold your hand when you let me and even when you don't...my hands still hold your heart....

His hands folded stars like intricate galactic origami and then set them on fire bright... billions of miles between them tracing patterns of bears and dippers and warriors...
His hands swirled steams over meadows and formed me and you out of dust....formed us in the womb black secret where only He could see all the good He was making....
His hands made love real and forever known as they pulled a cross down a dusty blood filled road
His hands stretched wide and rough as they received the iron blows, the pain, and the punishment...
His hands willingly did what no one else could ever do....
And as those spikes drove bone deep and pinned His hands...His wrists to splintered boards they broke the chains off of my hands...off of the wrist's of all of man's hands...forever..... 
These are God's hands...hands that made us, hands that shaped us, hands that hold us, hands that can Save us...hands that remake us....Hands that one day will wipe the tears shimmering real in our eyes ....Hands that take hold of our weak hands and grip them strong...Hands that promise us a real forever 

Dear daughter, please don't ever stop holding His hands....

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Morning

Five Minute Fridays
Morning

Morning seems sacred to me.  Having nocturnal children kind of robs me of the mornings I like to enjoy in silence and quiet thought.
For years I would get up at least two hours before anyone so I could just be by myself and be quiet.
My parents are early morning people that like to eat full breakfasts and watch the sunrise on the porch. There's something exciting about watching the day open its' eye lids with the first glints of sun playing on the horizon edge.  Pale blues and periwinkles rouse us out of pitch black and many times morning rises in strength with extravagant colors.  It signals something new.  A new twenty four hours.  A new chance. Kind of like a new little slice of life.  We are mesmerized at first at the idea of new.  It's beautiful, holy, and hopeful.
Morning breaks the night.
I love that Cat Steven's hymn Morning has Broken.  I've always thought the words were so beautiful.
Especially the last phrase, "God&…