Certain I can’t carry another sadness, I step outside and let the shine of the mid-morning sun stroke my cheek like a lover. And the air has a strange bright citrus tang. I inhale it again and again. Whatever it means to be alive, it has something to do with this— scent of leaf and spruce and shadow. The astonishing warmth of a late October day. The weight of loving another, that weight without which I would be nothing. ~Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer “Whatever It Means”from The Wonderment: Poems
Night and day seize the day, also the night — a handful of water to grasp. The moon shines off the mountain snow where grizzlies look for a place for the winter’s sleep and birth. I just ate the year’s last tomato in the year’s fatal whirl. This is mid-October, apple time. I picked them for years. One Mcintosh yielded sixty bushels.
Fifty years later we hold each other looking out the windows at birds, making dinner, a life to live day after day, a life of dogs and children and the far wide country out by rivers, rumpled by mountains. So far the days keep coming. Seize the day gently as if you loved her. ~Jim Harrison, from “Carpe Diem” from Dead Man’s Float
What prayer or magic spell or luck leaves us breathless, thunder struck just from looking in each other’s eyes across the breakfast table? Surprise of love comes as a kind of Divine Grace, as if I’d never seen your face before and now am stunned that you adore the likes of me; whatever for I do not know but now you’re stuck and seem enamored of my face, its every ruck and deep crevasse your sheer delight; it defies all reason. Yet this spell causes us to rise and with no word we tenderly embrace. The sweetest feelings rush to fill the space as if God came in through an open door and we are nothing like we were before. ~Red Hawk “The Transformation” from #45 – Fall 2014 Tribute to Poets of Faith
Over forty-five years later, the days keep coming, a life lived together day after day after day.
I try not to take a single one for granted, each morning a gift to be seized gently, embraced with reverent gratitude.
There is so much to cling to, as if this were the only day, the only night, knowing it can never come again.
There is so much that has passed, like a blink – we wonder where time disappears to, where it hides after it disappears over the horizon.
There is so much to remember and never forget. There is so much yet to come that is unknowable.
So I seize each day, oh so gently, like a lover.
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Though Satan breaks our dark glass into shards Each shard still shines with Christ’s reflected light, It glances from the eyes, kindles the words Of all his unknown saints. The dark is bright With quiet lives and steady lights undimmed, The witness of the ones we shunned and shamed. Plain in our sight and far beyond our seeing He weaves them with us in the web of being They stand beside us even as we grieve, The lone and left behind whom no one claimed, Unnumbered multitudes, he lifts above The shadow of the gibbet and the grave, To triumph where all saints are known and named; The gathered glories of His wounded love. ~Malcolm Guite “All Saints’ Day”
The ordinary saints, the ones we know, Our too-familiar family and friends, When shall we see them? Who can truly show Whilst still rough-hewn, the God who shapes our ends? Who will unveil the presence, glimpse the gold That is and always was our common ground, Stretch out a finger, feel, along the fold To find the flaw, to touch and search that wound From which the light we never noticed fell Into our lives? Remember how we turned To look at them, and they looked back? That full- -eyed love unselved us, and we turned around, Unready for the wrench and reach of grace. But one day we will see them face to face. ~Malcom Guite “Ordinary Saints”
As grains of sand, as stars, as drops of dew, Numbered and treasured by the Almighty Hand, The Saints triumphant throng that holy land Where all things and Jerusalem are new.
We know not half they sing or half they do, But this we know, they rest and understand; While like a conflagration freshly fanned, Their love glows upward, outward, through and through.
Lo! like a stream of incense launched on flame Fresh Saints stream up from death to life above, To shine among those others and rejoice.
What matters tribulation whence they came? All love, and only love, can find a voice Where God makes glad His Saints, for God is Love. ~Christina Rossetti “As Grains of Sand“
At almost four in the afternoon, the wind picks up and sifts through the golden woods.
The tree trunks bronze and redden, branches on fire in the heavy sky that flickers
with the disappearing sun. I wonder what I owe the fading day, why I keep
my place at this dark desk by the window measuring the force of the wind, gauging
how long a certain cloud will hold that pink edge that even now has slipped into gray?
Quickly the lights are appearing, a lamp in every window and nests of stars
We are created to reflect the Light sent from above, whether we are the smallest dewdrop, a grain of sand on an infinite beach, or the first rung on a ladder set for heaven.
We are here today due to sacrifices of ordinary saints who came before: the parents who stayed up all night with our high fever measles, the grandparents who nurtured us when our parents were too weary, the church members who prayed over us when we went astray.
We are who we are today because of people who invested in our surviving, who bore arms in foreign lands far from home, who strived to keep water and air clean, who grew good food not knowing who would benefit.
We are gifted from the reach of common grace that emanates from common people; grace such as this wrenches us away from caring only for ourselves and thrusts us into the lives of others.
We are all created in the image of a very personal God who knows our very folds and inner and outer flaws, but loves us nonetheless, reminding us to sacrifice self for the sake of the other, to reflect His Light no matter where He sends us.
We are unselved by the saints today: loved for who we are yet created to love those we’ll never know.
Lyrics: All around us and within us And yet it’s only at times we notice As real as rain, and soft as stardust We know deep down, what nobody told us. Chorus: Can’t you feel it ever closer We breathe it in and we then we exhale We touch both sides and now eternal Standing closer to the veil
Now is just a, moving image Not a ribbon, a start and end There is a bird, a hidden singer That calls and listens, and calls again
Centered down and moving outward Sometimes almost, to sweet to bare There are endless ways to reach home Just keep walking and I’ll meet you there
Standing closer to the veil There’s a blurring of the borders And I swear that I heard voices But every act of, simple kindness Calls the kingdom down and all around us
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
It takes a peculiar vision to be able to detect Precisely where
The field grasses brushed by blowing Stars and the odor of spring In the breath of sweet clover buds And the star-mingled calls of the toads In the threading grasses and the paws Of the clover brushing through the field Of stars and the star-shaped crickets In the ears of the sweet grasses And the tail of the night flicking Through the calls of the clover and the spring Stars slinking past the eyes of midnight And the hour of the field mouse passing Through the claws of the stars and the brushing Haunches of the weeds and starry grasses Threading through the eyes of the mouse And the buds of the stars calling With the sweet breath of the field
Leave a door open long enough, a cat will enter. Leave food, it will stay. Soon, on cold nights, you’ll be saying “Excuse me” if you want to get out of your chair. But one thing you’ll never hear from a cat is “Excuse me.” Nor Einstein’s famous theorem. Nor “The quality of mercy is not strained.” In the dictionary of Cat, mercy is missing. In this world where much is missing, a cat fills only a cat-sized hole. Yet your whole body turns toward it again and again because it is there. ~Jane Hirshfield “A Small-Sized Mystery” from Come, Thief
(from the Barnstorming archives)
Chores at our farm are rarely routine since our batch of four male kittens were born 6 months ago. They were delivered unceremoniously in the corner of one of the horse stalls by their young mother whose spontaneous adoption we accepted a mere four weeks before, not realizing we were accepting five kitties, not just one.
They were born under a Haflinger horse’s nose, and amazingly survived the ordeal and managed to stay safe until the next day when we came in to clean and discovered them nicely warmed near a nice fresh pile of poop. What a birthing spot this mama had chosen. Thankfully Haflingers are tolerant about sharing their space as long as you don’t ask for a share of their food too…
We moved them and mama to a safer spot in the barn, away from big Haflinger feet, and they thrived, getting more adventuresome by the week, until they are now in full adolescent glory, mock fighting with each other, scrambling up and down the hay bales, using the shavings as their personal litter box, doing rodent patrol, and most of all, strolling along the shelves that line the stalls, breathing in the Haflinger smell, and rubbing their fur up against Haflinger noses through the wire. They are best of friends with these ponies in the light of day, as after all they were born right in a Haflinger bed.
But at night it’s another story. Each evening as I come out to do chores after returning home from work, it is pitch dark and the Haflingers, out in their winter paddocks, must walk with me one by one back to their box stalls for the night. Only this is now far more of an adventure thanks to four cats who glory in stealth attacks in the dark, like mountain lions in the shadows, waiting for their prey to pass by.
These four rascals are two tabbies, one black and one gray, all four perfectly suited to be camouflaged in the northwest dim misty fall evenings along a barely lit pathway between paddocks and barn. They flatten themselves tight on the ground, just inches from where our feet will pass, and suddenly, they spring into the air as we approach, just looking for a reaction from either the horse or myself. It never fails to unnerve me, as I’m always anticipating and fearing the horse’s response to a surprise cat attack.
Interestingly, the Haflingers, used to kitten antics all night long in the barn, are completely bored by the whole show, but when the tension from me as I tighten on the lead rope comes through to them, their head goes up and they sense there must be something to fear. Then the dancing on the lead rope begins, only because I’m the one with the fear transmitted like an electric current to the Haflinger. We do this four times along the path to the barn as four kittens lay in wait, one after another, just to torment me. By the end of bringing in eight horses, I’m done in by my own case of nerves.
You’d think I’d learn to stop fearing, and start laughing at these pranksters. They are hilarious in their hiding places, their attempts to “guard” the barn door from intruders, their occasional miscalculations that land them right in front of a hoof about to hit the ground. Why I haven’t had at least one squished kitten by now is beyond my comprehension.
Yet they survive to torment me and delight me yet another night. I cuddle them after the horses are all put away, flopping them on their backs in my arms, and tickling their tummies and scolding them for their contribution to my increasingly gray hair.
I’m a slow learner. These are like so many of my little daily fears, which seem to hide, blended in to the surroundings of my daily life, ready to spring at me without warning, looking like much bigger scarier things than they really are. I’m a highly skilled catastrophizer in the best of circumstances, and if I have a kitten-sized worry, it becomes a mountain lion-sized melodrama in no time. Only because I allow it to become so.
Stepping back, taking a deep breath, if I learn to laugh at the small stuff, then it won’t become a “cat”astrophe, now will it? If I can grab those fears, turn them over on their back and tickle their tummies until they purr, then I’m the one enjoying a good time.
I’ll try that the next time I feel that old familiar sensation of “what if?” making my muscles tense and my step quicken. I just might tolerate that walk in the dark a little better, whether it is the scary plane flight, the worry over a loved one’s health, the state of the economy, why there are ongoing wars causing civilian deaths, or the uncertainty of what tomorrow might bring.
I’ll know that behind that mountain lion is a soft loving purring fur ball, granting me relief from the routine, for which I’m extremely grateful. Life is always an adventure, even if it is just a stroll down a barn lane in the dark wondering what might come at me next on the path.
photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Though he was ill and in pain, in disobedience to the instruction he would have received if he had asked, the old man got up from his bed, dressed, and went to the barn. The bare branches of winter had emerged through the last leaf-colors of fall, the loveliest of all, browns and yellows delicate and nameless in the gray light and the sifting rain. He put feed in the troughs for eighteen ewe lambs, sent the dog for them, and she brought them. They came eager to their feed, and he who felt their hunger was by their feeding eased. From no place in the time of present places, within no boundary nameable in human thought, they had gathered once again, the shepherd, his sheep, and his dog with all the known and the unknown round about to the heavens’ limit. Was this his stubbornness or bravado? No. Only an ordinary act of profoundest intimacy in a day that might have been better. Still the world persisted in its beauty, he in his gratitude, and for this he had most earnestly prayed. ~Wendell Berry “XI”
He (the professor) asked what I made of the other students (at Oxford) so I told him. They were okay, but they were all very similar… they’d never failed at anything or been nobodies, and they thought they would always win. But this isn’t most people’s experience of life.
He asked me what could be done about it. I told him the answer was to send them all out for a year to do some dead-end job like working in a chicken processing plant or spreading muck with a tractor. It would do more good than a gap year in Peru.
For over forty years, I have spent about an hour a day shoveling manure out of our horse stalls and I’m a better person for it.
Wheeled to a mountainous pile in our barnyard, this daily collection of manure happily composts year round, becoming rich fertilizer in a matter of months through a crucible-like heating process of organic chemistry, bacteria and earthworms. Nothing mankind has achieved quite matches the drama of useless and basically disgusting stuff transforming into the essential elements needed for productive growth and survival.
Our government certainly hasn’t discovered the secret. This is a metaphor I can <ahem> happily muck about in.
I’m in awe, every day, at being part of this process — in many ways a far more tangible improvement to the world than anything else I manage to accomplish every day. The horses, major contributors that they are, act underwhelmed by my enthusiasm. I guess some miracles are relative, depending on one’s perspective, but if the horses understood that the grass they contentedly eat in the pasture, or the hay they munch on during the winter months, was grown thanks to their carefully recycled waste products, they might be more impressed.
Their nonchalance about the daily mucking routine is understandable. If they are outside, they probably don’t notice their beds are clean when they return to the stalls at night. If they are inside during the heavy rain days, they feel duty-bound to be in my face as I move about their stall, toting my pitchfork and pushing a wheelbarrow. I’m a source of constant amusement as they nose my jacket pockets for treats that I never carry, as they beg for scratches on their unreachable itchy spots, and as they attempt to overturn an almost full load, just to see balls of manure roll to all corners of the stall like breaking a rack of billiard balls in a game of pool.
Good thing I’m a patient person always seeking an object lesson in whatever I see or do ~ mucking out stalls every day helps me tolerate the proverbial muck I encounter in the news. And spending an hour a day getting dirty in the real stuff somehow makes the virtual manure less noxious.
Indeed, everyone should be mucking out, especially during election season, as I think the world would generally be a better place.
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
I shall open my eyes and ears. Once every day I shall simply stare at a tree, a flower, a cloud, or a person. I shall not then be concerned at all to ask what they arebut simply be glad that they are. I shall joyfully allow them the mystery of what C.S. Lewis callstheir “divine, magical, terrifying and ecstatic” existence. ~Clyde Kilby in “Amazed in the Ordinary”
Our goal should be to live life in radical amazement. ….get up in the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. Everything is phenomenal; everything is incredible; never treat life casually. To be spiritual is to be amazed.
An open heart is alive to wonder, to the sheer marvel of “isness.” It is remarkable that the world is, that we are here, that we can experience it. This world is not ordinary. Indeed, what is remarkable is that it could ever look ordinary to us. An open heart knows “radical amazement.” An open heart and gratitude go together. We can feel this in our bodies. In the moments in my life when I have been most grateful, I have felt a swelling, almost a bursting in my chest. ~Marcus Borg from The Heart of Christianity
photo by Nicole Moorephoto by Nicole Moorephoto by Nicole Moorephoto by Nicole Moore
Much of the time I sleep-walk through each day, oblivious, as if in dense fog with unseeing wide-open eyes.
Especially if I’m rushing from here to there, I sense time slowing: I stumble through the days, the path appears indiscernible, my future uncertain, my purpose elusive.
How to stay awake and aware of the radical amazement of each moment given to me?
When I’m simply glad, everything becomes more vivid — the sounds of geese flying overhead, the smell of the farm, the layers of a foggy landscape, the taste of an autumn apple right from the tree, the string of fog-drop pearls on a spider web, the necessity and intensity of every breath, my purpose to be witness.
So wake me to be amazed anew -please- to see all that is around me. I want to chew on it again and again, simply savoring and simply glad.
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Starting here, what do you want to remember? How sunlight creeps along a shining floor? What scent of old wood hovers, what softened sound from outside fills the air?
Will you ever bring a better gift for the world than the breathing respect that you carry wherever you go right now? Are you waiting for time to show you some better thoughts?
When you turn around, starting here, lift this new glimpse that you found; carry into evening all that you want from this day. This interval you spent reading or hearing this, keep it for life –
What can anyone give you greater than now, starting here, right in this room, when you turn around? ~William Stafford, “You Reading This, Be Ready” from Ask Me
Now after nearly seventeen years of daily writing here in this spot:
I have come to know you who I will never meet face to face in this life but who share with me: your love of the land, the clouds, the light, your families, your vocations and gifts, your hopes and dreams, and most of all — our Lord and Creator.
What do I want to remember about today? I treasure your encouragement as it finds its way here to light the gray and dusty corners of my life: a kind word, a silent tear, a gentle smile, a shared prayer.
What do I want you to remember about having visited here? I want you to feel the nurture of hope in these words, sensing the warmth of the sun on your face from these photos, to almost feel you are here, or as close as possible.
Mostly, I want you to know each morning, I invite you to walk with me as a fellow pilgrim.
Carry this with you, pass on its message to others. You never know where it might end up.
lyrics: Even before we call on Your name To ask You, O God, When we seek for the words to glorify You, You hear our prayer; Unceasing love, O unceasing love, Surpassing all we know. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. Even with darkness sealing us in, We breathe Your name, And through all the days that follow so fast, We trust in You; Endless Your grace, O endless Your grace, Beyond all mortal dream. Both now and forever, And unto ages and ages, Amen.
Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all. ~Stanley Horowitz, a poem in Readers’ Digest Nov. 1983
WinterWinter
L’Inverno (Winter) Opus 8, No. 4, in F minor
I. Allegro non molto– Frozen and trembling in the icy snow, In the severe blast of the horrible wind, As we run, we constantly stamp our feet, And our teeth chatter in the cold. II. Largo– To spend happy and quiet days near the fire, While, outside, the rain soaks hundreds. III. Allegro– We walk on the ice with slow steps, And tread carefully, for fear of falling. Symphony, If we go quickly, we slip and fall to the ground. Again we run on the ice, Until it cracks and opens. We hear, from closed doors, Sirocco, Boreas, and all the winds in battle. This is winter, but it brings joy. ~Vivaldi (Winter poem)
SpringSpringSpringSpring
La Primavera (Spring) Opus 8, No. 1, in E Major
I. Allegro– Festive Spring has arrived, The birds salute it with their happy song. And the brooks, caressed by little Zephyrs, Flow with a sweet murmur. The sky is covered with a black mantle, And thunder, and lightning, announce a storm. When they are silent, the birds Return to sing their lovely song. II. Largo e pianissimo sempre– And in the meadow, rich with flowers, To the sweet murmur of leaves and plants, The goatherd sleeps, with his faithful dog at his side. III. Danza pastorale. Allegro– To the festive sound of pastoral bagpipes, Dance nymphs and shepherds, At Spring’s brilliant appearance. ~Vivaldi (Spring poem)
SummerSummerSummerSummer
L’Estate (Summer) Opus 8, No. 2, in G minor
I. Allegro non molto– Under the heat of the burning summer sun, Languish man and flock; the pine is parched. The cuckoo finds its voice, and suddenly, The turtledove and goldfinch sing. A gentle breeze blows, But suddenly, the north wind appears. The shepherd weeps because, overhead, Lies the fierce storm, and his destiny. II. Adagio; Presto– His tired limbs are deprived of rest By his fear of lightning and fierce thunder, And by furious swarms of flies and hornets. III. Presto– Alas, how just are his fears, Thunder and lightening fill the Heavens, and the hail Slices the tops of the corn and other grain. ~Vivaldi (Summer poem)
AutumnAutumnAutumnAutumnAutumnAutumn
L’Autunno (Autumn) Opus 8, No. 3, in F Major
I. Allegro– The peasants celebrate with dance and song, The joy of a rich harvest. And, full of Bacchus’s liquor, They finish their celebration with sleep. II. Adagio molto– Each peasant ceases his dance and song. The mild air gives pleasure, And the season invites many To enjoy a sweet slumber. III. Allegro– The hunters, at the break of dawn, go to the hunt. With horns, guns, and dogs they are off, The beast flees, and they follow its trail. Already fearful and exhausted by the great noise, Of guns and dogs, and wounded, The exhausted beast tries to flee, but dies. ~Vivaldi (Autumn poem)
I walk this farm lane to stand at the same spot countless times through the year, as witness to the changing palette around me.
The Artist lovingly chooses His color and technique with a gentle touch for each season.
So too, He paints my life with richness and variety: from the austere lines in winter, to a green emergence in spring, a summer of sweet fruitfulness and a mosaic crescendo in autumn.
The Artist’s signature can be spotted on each masterpiece, gracing the transforming canvas of each of our lives.
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
The way the trees empty themselves of leaves, let drop their ponderous fruit, the way the turtle abandons the sun-warmed log, the way even the late-blooming aster succumbs to the power of frost—
this is not a new story. Still, on this morning, the hollowness of the season startles, filling the rooms of your house, filling the world with impossible light, improbable hope.
And so, what else can you do but let yourself be broken and emptied? What else is there but waiting in the autumn sun? ~Carolyn Locke “What Else?” from The Place We Become
So this is how life goes:
we are sowed, set down roots, bud and grow and flower and bloom and fruit and flourish,
then dry and change and wither and empty and break away to be carried off beyond this air and water and soil.
We thrive where we are planted, do what we could with a little nurture, then transcend the here and now.
So shall we plant the next generation in healthy soil. May we weed and water and feed as needed. May we never seek to overshadow the sun but step aside so its light fully shines on whoever comes next.
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
After Van Gogh Things are growing strange these days, like Van Gogh’s yellow trees. Oh, do not be surprised by these yellow immensities, how out of proportion things in the picture seem. What you see in a way makes sense: the enormous, barren trees eclipsing the unimportant buildings at Arles station, the people all small, shadow-like, cast to the side. Perhaps Van Gogh should have left us out entirely, but then who would be left to blame for the strange blurring of the seasons in the forefront, the way summer bleeds into autumn, the forests burning deep into the winter, those winters where the snow piled so high, we were all nearly buried alive. Soon we’ll vanish, and no picture will even exist—unless, unless someone will answer (who will dare to answer), where in the world is spring? ~Jodi Hollander “Avenue of Plane Trees”
Who might dare to answer: where in the world is spring?
Who can know with any certainty? Sometimes it feels like time skips forward and a whole season is left behind.
The signs of the seasons might blur so there is no telling whether it is fall or spring without a calendar.
Are those trees just leafing out or simply trying to shed? Is the sunset’s golden glow from an early October light or April?
I can’t feel the movement of the earth under my feet. It needs to slow its spin on its axis and lengthen its orbital oval trip around the sun so I have more minutes in the day and more weeks in a year.
But, of course, that would make a huge mess of things. It is a good thing I’m not the design engineer.
It is as it is, and meant to be this way.
Though it may be blurry to me, it is clear and good and intentional to God. So He dares to answer where in the world is spring? Only He knows precisely where we are in the heavens…
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
I am a dry man whose thirst is praise of clouds, and whose mind is something of a cup. My sweetness is to wake in the night after days of dry heat, hearing the rain. ~Wendell Berry from “Water”
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so that I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky— feeling my clothes about me, the weight of my body in my shoes, the rim of my hat, air passing in and out at my nose—and decide to dream no more. ~William Carlos Williams “Thursday” from Sour Grapes
Open the window, and let the air Freshly blow upon face and hair, And fill the room, as it fills the night, With the breath of the rain’s sweet might.
Not a blink shall burn to-night In my chamber, of sordid light; Nought will I have, not a window-pane, ‘Twixt me and the air and the great good rain, Which ever shall sing me sharp lullabies; And God’s own darkness shall close mine eyes; And I will sleep, with all things blest, In the pure earth-shadow of natural rest. ~James Henry Leigh Hunt from “A Night-Rain in Summer”
We are still waiting for a few late-summer rainy days; each year they are a blissful reminder of God’s intent to refresh and replenish us when we are at our driest, when we are short on sleep and hope and dreams.
How sweet to fall asleep listening in the dark to the patter of raindrops after weeks of drought, waking to damp air, raindrop jewelry, and petrichor.
Perhaps I’ll remember this longing of mine while I grumble and slosh around in the fortieth day of rain this winter.
When will I be satisfied there is just enough but not too much? When will all my dreams seem as real as pulse and breath?
In the meantime, God — let it rain – preferably as I sleep.
Lyrics:
I know your life On earth was troubled And only you could know the pain You weren’t afraid to face the devil You were no stranger to the rain
Go rest high on that mountain Now your work on earth is done Go to heaven a-shoutin’ Love for the Father and the Son
Oh, how we cried the day you left us We gathered ’round your grave to grieve Wish I could see the angels faces When they hear your sweet voice sing
Go to heaven a-shoutin’ Love for the Father and the Son
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
