Dried out bits of playdough,
Wasted crusts of bread;
The trails of rubble that fill my days
Can be Your tools instead;
Using them to teach me,
To guide me, build me up,
Refuse in the eyes of most,
You use them to explain Your love.
The little hands that left them
Are not unlike my own;
Through their lives, I see that I
Am not much different, though I’m grown.

Imperfect and undisciplined, but valued all the same,
Their work of the day,
Serious or play
Carries on, while their messes remain.
As they learn and grow,
The disasters decrease,
Their skills more refined,
Their cleanup more complete,
Their work more neat,
And yet there still will be
Little trails of rubble.

The little lives that left them,
More important than the mess;
Tolerance and patience
Will help me make the best
Of useless frustration,
Taking note of the situation,
Directing and guiding them on.

ADW