This is my late father-in-law's home in Hindsville, Arkansas
The house is no longer there.
I'm posting the following poem in honor of my dear sister
in Christ and my mentor, Anniebelle Hayes. Anniebelle
died last week at the age of 93. The last few years she
was confined to home and about the last six months she
drifted in and out of a coma. It was a blessing that God
called her home.
Yet, you Lord are our Father. We are the clay, you are the
potter; we are the work of your hand. (Isaiah 64:8
THIS HOUSE IS NOT ME
God made my house,
He formed it from the clay,
But this house is not me,
It was just a place for me to stay.
God said I need shelter
From the storms this life would bring,
So he built an earthly house
And gave it a voice to sing.
He gave my house two arms,
To hug those I loved so dear
And he gave my house two hands,
To touch and wipe away each tear.
He put windows in my house,
Two eyes, so I could see,
Each and every loved one,
That came face to face with me.
He gave my house two legs
And made them strong, so I could go,
To life's mountain peak,
Or walk the valleys low.
He gave my house a heart to love
And gave my house a mind.
But he did not make my house immortal,
Or promise it would not wear out in time.
The legs began to falter.
The voice no longer sang,
The eyes begin to dim a bit.
The house infirm became.
God came to remind me,
In this house I need not stay,
For this house is not me,
It's just a bit of clay.
So I've left this house behind me,
With its aches and its decay
And I've gone to seek a house immortal,
In the land of endless day.
Freda Fullerton
May 31, 2011
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