Hope for the Gutsy Girl

Author: Chara Donahue

Years ago, I attended a ministry boot camp with Darrin Patrick as the keynote speaker. He shared a personal prayer he often prayed with his son. I did not have a son at the time, but the power of it struck me. I stored it away in the pathways of the brain, just in case. When the Lord did bless us with a son, I pulled it up, painted it on various things, and now I pray it with him nightly:

“God, make him a man with thick skin and a soft heart.  Make him a man who is tough and tender.  Make him tough so he can handle life.  Make him tender so he can love people. God, make him a man.”

I have long wanted to write something comparable for my girls. I finally did. I've toyed around with different versions and prayed them over my little women. They tell me this is the one they love:

“Jesus, I ask you to make my girl gutsy and gentle.
Gutsy, so she can bring justice to a fallen world.
Gentle, so she can give mercy to the fallen.
Gutsy, because she knows you have her back.
Gentle, because she knows you have her heart.
Gutsy, to stand against what the world tells her she needs to be, and
Gentle, so she can be at peace with who you say she is.
Lord, make my girl gutsy and gentle, so that she can be before all things godly.”

Hope for Laundry

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Author: Chara Donahue

If we can make laundry poetic it makes it better, right? Well, here's hoping. ;)

Ballade of Bleached Blemishes

I cannot face it. I will not look. Let it be.
I will not take the bait or tease the hook. The stress,
it mounts thinly—layer by layer—I will flee.
No, I will fight. I fold the shirt. I hang the dress.
My swallowed room, my bed, I stand to repossess.
I make stack after stack out of the disarray.
Sorting away the mending and the stained. The mess,
it stalks like a predator coming for its prey.
It piles up, slowly builds; crags and peaks I see.
I push it aside, close the door to convalesce.
The ebb and flow of forsaken fabric debris
sucks me in and pulls me under. Nevertheless,
I take action.  This constant strain I must address.
It is proof we live, and have dear offspring at play.
The grime is washed away the fun can stay. The mess,
it stalks like a predator coming for its prey.
Chores will always be, but from dread I can be free.
The issue is not pants and matchless socks.  What? Yes
the real disorder reigns painfully within me.
Tinges of depravity venture to possess.
Striking at identity, tempting to transgress.
But Christ I see, paid the price that was mine to pay.
Meeting in the scandal of grace, He wiped the mess.
No longer stalked by a predator as weak prey.
Conquered cliffs of clothes won’t justify. I confess
fabric softened lies have provoked my peace to fray.
A redemptive act, this purgation of the mess.
When the predator comes round, I begin to pray.

Originally published at One Anchored Voice on July 8th, 2015.