Why I Believe in God | A poem

"Always say your prayers before bed."

Your words are nailed to the bedposts of my mind

so large that I can’t go to sleep unless a prayer has been said

and I get it. 

I know what you were trying to do 

when you raised me to say my prayers,

but that still doesn’t really mean 

that I get it.

Out-loud, in my head, even the ones that are left unsaid

just make me feel more alone instead.

You told me praying should be like a telephone call,

a dialogue between two friends. 

But the one I’m talking to doesn’t respond

and I think the phone I’m using is dead.

Day after day I try again

and it forces me to ask the question: 

Is anybody even there to answer, 

or do I just have bad reception? 

You told me that faith is like a little seed,

as if it could be held between my fingers.

But a seed can’t grow unless it’s buried

and lost till nothing lingers. 

But is it really that simple? 

Can it really be done? 

Because an invisible God is a lot harder to see

than the burning rays of the rising sun. 

If it’s against the rules to produce evidence, 

how can I find proof of God’s true presence? 

He’s here, He’s there, He’s everywhere,

but nowhere too - how does that make sense? 

So where is God? 

I ask myself the soul-searching question 

as I walk along a mountain creek. 

O’er rocks and moss, ‘neath lush green treetops- 

all evidence of what I seek. 

“But it’s not enough,” I tell myself,

as the thought makes reason stare.

“The world is just a rock in space, 

it doesn’t prove that God is there!”

But then I heard a splashing sound

not far from where I stood. 

A frantic, tiny, splish-splash, splashing

from somewhere in the woods. 

I turned to find it, scanned the water, 

up and down the brooklet-by

until I saw it - a hummingbird, 

trapped within the moss o’er nigh.

Struggling for life, this tiny creature 

must have fallen from its tree,

then in the bog, became entangled, 

till it was found by me. 

I leapt across the rocks and branches

to aid in this bird’s rescue 

with sticks and twigs, Swiss-army scissors, 

anything I could think to do. 

Fending off ants from her eyes

I shielded her from pain, 

till her wings and feet were finally free

from that sticky, mossy chain. 

And then, with her little chest heaving, 

eyes shut tight and feathers drenched,

I placed her there right next to me, 

and we sat upon a bench. 

In this moment of charity 

I gazed upon my newest friend,

and then some words from my upbringing,

as if from a seed, began to stem: 

“Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing?”

(Hardly a penny’s worth to bother!)

“Yet not one of them shall fall

to the ground without your Father.

The very hairs of your head are numbered,

so please, try not to fear, 

for the value that I’ve placed on you

was worth the life of My Most Dear.”

The word of God had come to me

as if from a long, forgotten talk

that I had had with my own father,

while out upon an evening walk. 

Now with an understanding heart, 

I turned back toward the feathered critter 

and began to speak with tender words,

no longer sore or bitter: 

“It seems to me that Someone knew

that you were out here in the pond -  

Who heard your silent birdie prayers, 

and wanted to respond.

I had come out here to look for God,” 

I said, “but how can it be true?

That instead of coming down to me,

He brought me to you.” 

And with that my little friend

ruffled up her velvet plumage. 

With wings that were now finally dry, 

she took off into the foliage.  

And with a sense of clarity

I pondered on my question.

"Is it true? Is this my answer? 

Did I finally find reception?" 

Well I don’t know yet if it’s true,

if I’ve a Father up in Heaven. 

But I hope I do, and that at least

helps me to be driven. 

Pushed forward by the words you nailed

upon my mind’s bed frame, 

encouragement every day to call

upon the Holy Name.

And the more I hope, the more I believe

that He really might be there,

and I remember the hummingbird

caught in the mossy snare.

If God can answer her little prayer,

why not mine as well? 

Even if it’s with a total stranger

picking me up when I fell. 

Like the seed that’s been pounded beneath the darkness, 

I’ve no idea if the sun is real. 

But with relentless energy I want to know,

to see, to hear, to feel. 

So I push and claw, I cry and gnaw 

my way out from beneath the soil

with nothing more than a little hope 

that light and life are beyond the toil. 

And every once in a while I catch a glimpse

of the rays of shining light

peeking through the dark debris

of my pathetic, mortal plight. 

Little miracles, here and there,

evidence of God’s Word -

like the day I was His instrument

to save His hummingbird.

Not Everything Happens for a Reason | A poem

Not everything happens for a reason.

Sure, I believe that some things do. 

The creation of the world, the changing of the seasons, 

and yes, the fall, and reclamation, too. 

Or when, by an act of faith, we invites God’s hand into our lives

to push us, prod us, expand our minds, 

to perform what we might call ‘miracles.’

Those, I believe, happen for a reason. 

But when a drunk driver slams into a family of six, 

or when tyrants torture and murder the innocent;

when you’re hated and bullied just for being 

faithful, faithless, or just plain different. 

When the one that you love leaves you

for the love of someone you thought a friend, 

or when you’re laid off from a job

whose industry has finally reached its end.

Evil, heartbreak, and just plain accidents 

are rampant in mortality.

Not because they’re ordained by God, 

but because, in His wisdom, He allows them to be. 

And forgive the expression, 

but we can no longer pretend -

There is wisdom in the bumper sticker 

“Sometimes shit happens.” 

And no, it didn’t happen for a reason, 

and it wasn’t the will of God - 

but by his will these monstrosities 

that have developed as deformities 

in human nature will one day all be gone.

God knew that it would happen, 

and so He sent His Son, 

Who saw the unfairness, felt the scorn, 

rejection, heartbreak since the day He was born

till the day he died and uttered, “it is done.”

So you see, Christ happened for a reason. 

He’s the one who makes it right - 

He helps us heal, to grow, from all this poison

and upon the darkness shed some light. 

All things may not happen “for a reason,”

but this much I can say is true: 

that all things can be turned for good

if that’s what we allow Christ to do. 

Turn | A poem about repentance

I love the Fall.

Not just because that’s when my birthday is,

but because, like many,

I like to watch the leaves change color, 

Colliding with the unseen breeze

as they tumble softly toward the ground.

I love tromping through the gutter

And going out of my way to step 

on exceptionally crunchy looking leaves.

I love it when the earth grows colder,

giving half the world a chip from its shoulder -

just brisk enough to give us a preview,

like a prophecy of future promises

of snowfall, fireplaces, and movie marathons

when it will be too cold to go outside;

it's an appetizer of things to come,

a fiery, biting, refreshing teaser.

The Fall, remember, is the very thing

that carries coziness in its wings.

It reminds us how to stoke the fire,

and appreciate its toasty glow.

For months now we've complained of heat,

But soon we will complain of snow.

So relish this short reprieve, 

and bask in the refreshing air;

for the winter's not quite as forgiving

with its icy, frigid snare.

The Fall is the season of instruction,

to appreciate what was always there. 

It warns us with its morning frost 

that soon the air will be too cold to breathe, 

so we should enjoy what’s left of the sun,

and love what’s left of the leaves. 

But most of all, I love the Fall

because it’s nature’s annual reminding time

that in order to be born again,

first, you have to die.

You see, most people fear change,

but in the same breath,

can’t help but admit

what they really fear is death. 

They fear it so much that they sell their souls away.

Not to the mast of Davy Jones, 

but to their skin,

stretched tight across their bones.

We feel the pull of mortality, 

everyday so urgently

that we fill it up with more distractions 

that numb the guilt. We justify our actions

with nicer phones, nicer cars, 

and all that bull crap in a jar 

that every ad insists we are

or someday have to be.

And then once we have it all, 

we toss a photo on our wall

so that everyone else on our so-called 

“Friend list” are all convinced 

that WE FINALLY MADE IT!

We’re happy.

But at the end of the day, 

we’re only another day older.

And just like the leaves decaying in the gutter,

we change, we fall, and then we flutter

until we can’t do so much as muster

a smile for the selfie or the shutter. 

So what happened to Fall?

What happened to death being beautiful?

It sounds a bit macabre, I know, 

But to fall is progress, it's permission to grow -

The earth has fallen so many times 

that you and I would have to live and die 

63 million more lifetimes 

just to know the age of snow.

Did you know that as many times you fall,

There is some part of you that is put to death?

You see, Nephi taught that every gift

God gave to us in this mortal rift

is a type of the mission of the Son of God. 

And since his very first gift was this earthen shelf,

He carved within it His mirrored self,

which shouldn’t strike us as too very odd.

So do you see it? You don't have to look far

to find that broken things are stronger once they're on the mend.

So in a galaxy made of 100 billion stars 

and 100,000 light-years end to end, 

it’s about time we stopped dressing our scars 

in a made up world of “play pretend”.

This ancient earth beneath our feet 

and the sun out in the ether

have been fastened, joined, remarkably,

invisibly as if with a tether,

for one and a half trillion days,

in a gravitational waltz, together

And all of this as if to say, 

“See? Death doesn’t last forever.”

The Son of God forsook his throne 

for a time to come down to His own, 

to suffer, bleed, and live as man, 

and then to die - that was the Plan. 

But like the Earth when its axis turns, 

and one side freezes while the other burns, 

there is a time between the seasons 

which was given to us for several reasons -

Not the least of which is just to show 

that Fall makes room for Spring to grow.

We live, we die, we live, we die,

But the only true death is to never try.

And like the blossoms in the trees,

which are pollinated by the bees,

New life will come, afresh and new -

that’s what the Savior did for you. 

Because the Savior took our sin, 

and felt our pain - without and within - 

we don’t have to wait till the end of years

before we get to dry our tears.

Again the Lord is a master teacher, 

and, with science, taught the Plan’s best feature:

like the planet earth on which we’re born, 

we all must choose, from sin be torn,

Winning, failing, but turning constantly;

And when we fall, have hope in spring.

The Fall, remember, is the very thing

from which we were meant to be redeemed.

So that’s why I like when the seasons change

and the days become a little shorter.

As the earth keeps turning, so should we,

and try to act a little older.

Let yourself fall, let yourself die,

there's no need to be afraid.

Because every time you're born again

is part of the reason you were made.

Repentance isn’t pain and anguish

(unless you try to fight it)

When written in another language,

T-U-R-N’s how you would write it.

And if you have to turn ten million times

before perfect you can be,

You’re no worse off than the earth,

Turning back to the Sun constantly.

That, I think, is why I love the Fall.

- Taylor Yorgason