The last black-eyed pea hadn’t even gotten cold on my plate when my brain switched gears to my to-do list. Several of my to-do’s were obvious — the new appliance on my kitchen floor that needed a storage spot, the storage spots that were in non-functional disorder, notes that needed writing, gift books I could hardly wait to begin, my deluxe gift of colored pencils that were gleaming with sharp points and calling me, a pile of clothes I promised myself to alter the first of the year and assignments of writing that needed immediate attention.

As my mind began chasing order amid the chaos of growing flurry, I began lecturing myself about the new beginning of 2018 — how it was a new chapter — untarnished — waiting to be filled with God’s peace and joy. His promises were unchanging and His supplies were without end. Whose voice would I follow? Agitation? Frustration?

No. I refocused and began making a mental list of priorities as I dug through a stack of books searching for a notepad. My rough draft of a mid-2017 poem I had written was my answer to my momentary “melt down.”

Run, little child; running is fun,

days of innocence, childhood begun.

Is there a Voice calling to me?

I hear it not. I’m only three.

Teens learn to run just like their peers,

running for laughter, running from tears.

No time to listen, be quiet or still;

got to keep running, chasing the thrills.

The running continues through long life on earth;

there’s family, fun and acres of work. 

My running is easy as good health allows

And thoughts for the future, O never, not now!

Then comes the day my running is slow;

time and rushed years have taken their toll.

The Voice I ignored — could it be He?

The One who’s been calling, “Child, run to me.”

Letters to Camille Anding can be sent to P.O. Box 551, Brookhaven, MS, 39602, or e-mailed to camille@datalane.net.