Invitation of Restoration for Mothers of Aborted Infants

Take My hand,
The very same hand
That in infancy
Grasped My Mother’s finger,
Hugged her about the neck.

Look into My Eyes,
The very eyes
That held My Mother’s gaze.

Let me take you
To your child,
Never forgotten,
Buried in secret mourning,
No day without pain.

Your little one has a heart of love,
A soul of patience
A spirit of forbearance,
And one solitary prayer.

Playing on the lap of Our Father,
Whispering the heart’s desire
Into Abba’s listening ear,
Full of Love’s expectation,
Your babe smiles eternally
And waits for thee.

Take My hand,
The very same hand
That in infancy
Grasped My Mother’s finger,
Hugged her about the neck.
Now is a time to embrace
The gift I give you in Love.

©2012 Joann Nelander

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Child of the Cross

Mother Mary,
Witness of the Passion,
Suffering witness,
Living the Passion,
As your Jesus
Hung on the Cross.

Pray, Mary.
Pray, My Mother,
Pray for me,
Who am so scattered,
Distracted and disengaged.

Pray every moment
Of my life here on earth,
That I be prepared for suffering,
That I be prepared for eternity.
That I find my Life
In the dying of Your Son,
My Lord.

Hold my hand, O Mother,
Every moment of everyday.
Pray for my yesterdays,
My today, and tomorrows.
Guide my feet to follow
In His steps.

As forbidden fruit
Appeals in its many disguises,
And occasions of evil spring-up,
Pull me out of harm’s way.
Steer me true, O Mother,

As my heart yearns for eternity
Let my glory be
As that of Jesus,
The Cross, the Crucifixion,
And the Dying.

May I live now,
Dying to Sin.
Witnessing at your side,
As Jesus beholds you.
He pronounces me your child.

I am a child
Of the Cross of Christ,
Which came to be
To ransom men.
I behold you, Mother Mary,
And you meet your Son in me.

© 2013 Joann Nelander
All rights reserved

Weaned Child

I am the weaned child,
Upon Your knee.
Forgetful of time,
I curl Your hair about my fingers,
And tug at Your heartstrings.

My toys, the shiny objects of yesterday,
Lie by the stairs,
By which I began my ascent to You.

Comfort me.
Cuddle me.
Tickle me.

You spend Your universe,
As You had always planned,
Delighting one so small,
The least of the Children of Man.

© 2012 Joann Nelander

My Body – My Choice…?

Via Physicians for Life

My Body – My Choice…?

The preborn child has her own space capsule – the Amniotic Sac…

She has her own lifeline – the Umbilical Cord, and…

She has her own Nourishment and Excretory System – the Placenta.

These all belong to the child herself and not to her mother.

All these organs and systems developed from the child’s own original fertilized cell.

What about your child’s Choice to Live?

 

What choice actually means.

This small plastic fetus interjects reality into the conversation on Life vs. Choice to Kill, in a time in which we have to show people the cost of abstracted arguments hiding behind “privacy” and “choice”.

O Holy Child,
Born to die,
You were born in Bethlehem
City of Promise,
But conceived in Nazareth,
Crossroad of sinners,
Now graced
By the Holy.

Cell upon cell,
Grace upon grace,
The Virgin’s
“Fiat”
Alleluia!

Copyright Joann Nelander 2012

All rights reserved

Weaned Child

I am the weaned child,
Upon Your knee.
Forgetful of time,
I curl Your hair about my fingers,
And tug at Your heartstrings.

My toys, the shiny objects of yesterday,
Lie by the stairs,
By which I began my ascent to You.

Comfort me.
Cuddle me.
Tickle me.

You spend Your universe,
As You had always planned,
Delighting one so small,
The least of the Children of Man.

© 2012 Joann Nelander

Weaned Child

I am the weaned child,
Upon Your knee.
Forgetful of time,
I curl Your hair about my fingers,
And tug at Your heartstrings.

My toys, the shiny objects of yesterday,
Lie by the stairs,
By which I began my ascent to You.

Comfort me.
Cuddle me.
Tickle me.

You spend Your universe,
As You had always planned,
Delighting one so small,
The least of the Children of Man.

© 2012 Joann Nelander

Flower Child

Flower Child

Image

Weaned Child

I am the weaned child,
Upon Your knee.
Forgetful of time,
I curl Your hair about my fingers,
And tug at Your heartstrings.

My toys, the shiny objects of yesterday,
Lie by the stairs,
By which I began my ascent to You.

Comfort me.
Cuddle me.
Tickle me.

You spend Your universe,
As You had always planned,
Delighting one so small,
The least of the Children of Man.

© 2012 Joann Nelander

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