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Mae was the kid on the playground who was picked on incessantly. She got teased because she wasn’t very pretty. She was teased because she was shy. Sticks and stones will break your bones; words will break your heart. I remember her saying that one time. . I also remember the day when all the other kids cornered Mae and began yelling at her and throwing rocks. I sometimes wonder which hurt more. . By the time Mae entered high school, she couldn’t even go to the store alone. She was afraid of everyone—always thinking that they were staring at her. If she walked by a group of people who were laughing, she assumed they were laughing at her. Meeting new people was difficult. Mae didn’t talk much. . At home, Mae spent most of the time in her room, immersed in her books and her writing. The time she spent with the rest of her family always ended in conflict. Usually it was her fault. Her mother called her “prickly”. I think she was just hurting and didn’t know how to tell anyone. She shut people out because she was afraid of them. She even shut me out. . The poetry that Mae wrote was dark. It was depressing. It was about the hopelessness of life and the welcomeness of death. I guess this should have been a sign that things were not all right with Mae, but she only showed her writing to a few people, and those few people never took it too seriously. . But I’ll never forget the day when Mae left some of her poems on the kitchen table by accident. Her mother found them. A group of us had gotten together and Mae called home for something or another. Her mom had read the poems as she was cleaning up the table and was really upset. I think they scared her. Mae got off the phone crying. . It had been building up for a while and I think one day Mae had just decided that enough was enough. No one was home that day. I’m not sure where everyone was, but the house was empty when Mae went downstairs to the kitchen. She was 17 at the time. She pulled open her mother’s knife drawer and pulled out the sharpest looking one she could find. . A few seconds later, her mother came home. . “Honey? I’m home!” She called as she opened the front door. . Mae quickly put the knife back in the drawer. . . And then, at 18, Mae found something that changed her life. She found Jesus. . . I’ve come a long way since then. I think that this is especially seen through my writing. Whenever my writing teacher refers to me as “the inspirational poet”, I always go home and chuckle over it with my mother. We both still remember the day she found my poetry on the kitchen table. . I’ve gone from being quiet and shy to being quite talkative. I’ve gone from being afraid to go to the store by myself to going to…well…Europe by myself. I love people and I love to meet new friends. God’s been good. And I love to tell Him so. . I’ll never forget the day in my room when I finally met Him. I mean for real. It was that instant where I was absolutely sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that He exists and loves me. I had been crying, saying, “God, if you’re there, I need to know.” And all of a sudden I could just feel Him in the room. And all of the childhood stories about Jesus dying on the cross for my sins suddenly became so much more than just stories. . So I surrendered it all—the things I’ve done wrong, the loneliness and heartache, the insecurities—and my writing. . I don’t tell you this to preach at you. I tell you this because this is what inspires me when I write. I have so much to be grateful for. Everything that I write comes out of a heart that has been dramatically changed. And I can’t help but write poems of praise and worship and thanks. . I don’t have a poem from “before” to show you. I threw them all out long ago. But all of the poetry that I have written since tells, in some way, part of my story. . By: Mary-Ann Wiersma ‘Tis hard to live in heaven’s glow When standing here on earth below And staring up towards a sky That is by worries clouded so. We shake our heads and wonder why We’re forced to in such torment lie. Our hearts so frail are breaking and Too easily our spirits die. If only we could understand That Perfect Love holds out His hand, Then surely every trouble here Would ease its burdensome demand. Heaven’s glow would hold us near And from our cheeks each falling tear Without a doubt would disappear, Without a doubt would disappear. In The Garden By: Mary-Ann Wiersma Around the garden, emitting soft scents is, covered in ivy, a white picket fence. I open the gate when new dawns the day and kneel by the fountain in stillness to pray. Caressed by the breeze, both I and the willow reach out to heaven— green grass becomes hallowed. While bluebirds and larks sing jubilant songs my soul, now renewed, rests where it belongs. Simple Things By: Mary-Ann Wiersma Lord, let my heart love the simple things For You, a simple One, are found in these: The soft autumn breeze as it blows through the trees And loosens the clasp of the red and gold leaves; Crystallized flakes that stoop to kiss rooftops And cover the world with silk, white and soft; In spring, the unfolding of things newly born; The sunrise embracing the cool of the morn; Paths through the forest; dew on a flower; The waves as they rush to the shore with such power; The bluebird’s sweet song as it takes to its wing. Lord, let my heart love these simple things. Swiftly You Fade By: Mary-Ann Wiersma Life so quickly moves on by— A breath of air or whispered sigh. A wave, it laps the sandy beach Then fleetingly is out of reach. The winds of time blow steadily And disappear too readily. Spring’s sweet bloom soon shall sleep, Her lashes dark upon her cheek. Our time on earth shall disappear As eternity draws near. Each breath we take, each tear we cry Will pass away, will fade, will die. The mortal things of present life Shall be exchanged for heaven’s light. But O how wondrous it shall be To dwell with Christ eternally. Oh, Be Slow! By: Mary-Ann Wiersma Time passes— Oh, be slow! It seems just a year ago when I, on mother’s lap, rocked to sleep, would feel peace. It seems just a year since I would dream of being many things— all great and all big. And now, O Lord, it is You who holds me and rocks me to sleep and Your dreams which guide me to be great things. Time passes— Oh, be slow! That I, from Your arms, would never go. |