When a Stranger Speaks Your Name

I’ll rest in this a while
Although I’m not sure what this is
A stranger passing spoke my name
Without ever saying a word

I find myself unable to move
Carrying a weight of a land that I never knew was home
My heartbeat is this rhythm
The beat of the rain on the roof over my head

There is a love here that took me away
A longing that aches for a return that is on its way
Could you ever know it?
Wake up and hear this song

These words slap you across the face
Yet gently tuck you into bed
Somewhere safe to lay your head
As you belong here

A welcoming with open arms
An unexpected arrival
A pasture to lay down in
Sectioned off fields of fairness

Floating through every step
As if a ghost lives inside of me
Maybe it’s time to start listening
When strangers call my name

Whispers of warmth tracing across the cracks in this cobblestone heart
Hearing angels pulling at the seams
Take off your coat and feel the mist
Be ready to experience a homecoming

You don’t have to know where you are
In order to know that this foreign land is your home
Your entire life you have been on holiday
Let the prodigal return

Ireland waited for you
Embraced you in her loving arms
Not ready to let you go
Hear her in the whispers of strangers

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Maybe a Story Will Do

“Father, will you carry me?” asked the little boy, as they walked through the forest.  His father picked him up and placed him high up on his shoulders.  The little boy always felt like he was flying when his father carried him like this.
“Father, why are the trees so tall?” the little boy inquired.  He was baffled at how, though his father seemed so very tall, there was something that grew even higher.
“They’re trying to reach the sky,” was his father’s response.
“But why?  Why do they want to reach the sky?”  The little boy knew that the trees had roots, he had seen them.  He had learned how the trees get all their food and water from the soil beneath them.  “Isn’t it harder for them to stay alive, if they grow so high?  Shouldn’t they want to stay near the ground where all their food is?”
“Let me tell you a story, maybe then you can understand.”  And his father began speak in rhythm with his steps.

“Long ago, there was a young seed floating on the wind.  He met some fog, and they became friends.  Together the wind blew them along to the forest.  The seed landed and was planted firmly in the soil.  Still the fog remained, waiting for her new friend to sprout.

“Some months passed, and some leaves began to sprout.  The fog was so excited, for her friend was returning.  ‘Hello, my misty, foggy friend,’ said the seed, as he stretched his leaves up.  ‘I missed you a lot.  I saw you in my dreams, as I drank in the moisture from the ground.’

“‘I missed you too, seed.  Soon you will be a tree.  Can I call you Joshua?  I think that’s a kind of tree.  I’m sure it’s not the kind you will be, but I like it all the same,’ said the fog.

“‘Why yes, I like the name Joshua.  But only if I can call you Misty.’  And so the two grew and played together.

“A few years passed, and Joshua grew into a mighty Redwood.  He knew he loved Misty, and Misty loved him.  ‘Misty, I love you,’ he said to her.

“‘I know you love me, Joshua.  I love you too, but you know that you’re a tree and I am a fog,’ she told him.  They promised to stay together as long as they could.

“One day, a giant wind came, and Joshua’s leaves began to tremble.  His roots grew stronger into those of the trees around him.  But Misty had nothing holding her down, she began to rise.  ‘Don’t leave me Misty!’  He called after her.

“‘Joshua, I think I am becoming a cloud!  Look to the sky and you’ll find me!’  And she was gone.

“And so, from that day on, Joshua reached and reached for her.  And the trees around him did the same, hoping that someday he may bring his unlikely love, Misty back to him.”

The little boy loved his father’s stories.  He knew they might not be true, but they always kept him hoping.  His father put him back on the the ground and together they walked along.  His father knew that a story would always be good enough for his son, because imagination is what kept his world together.