A WORD FROM MOM . . . . . . .

Yes, I'm his mother and so proud of him! Gentry is grown now, is serving the Lord with all of his heart, has a home of his own, is blessed in the career path he is walking in right now, and has a tremendous heart of God's love. You would not have to be around him very long to understand that he knows in whom he has believed and is not ashamed of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The following poem he wrote in high school. He wrote it in about 20 minutes, with no forethought. Toward the end of English class one day, the teacher just instructed the students to write a poem about anything they wanted to. This poem flowed out of his spirit non-stop, through his fingertips, pen and onto paper. When he brought it home a few days later, he handed it to me non-chalantly and said, "Mom, thought you might like this." Needless to say, Mom loved it! Gentry made many mission trips with his Grandpa and Grandma to Mexico. When he got his driver's license, he drove for his Grandpa many times. So, the poem is an expression of his heart, full of God's love, from the things which he has experienced.

AND NOW, "THE BORDER" . . . . . . .

The long hot bridge
which is traveled by so many,
The hard walk for some,
the short ride for many.

In the middle there is only
a small line to divide
where the countries collide.
Whether at peace or at war,
the bridge must abide.

The man selling cigarettes in the street,
the woman begging with her baby in the heat,
it is not the way of pride,
it is just the way to survive.

For the tourist it is a place to see,
for those who live there it is a place of disease.
From the chug hole in the street,
to the void in their life that is just too deep,
the people under the oppression
live on in daily depression.

As the little American boy mosies off to school,
the little Mexican girl stands in the field by the mule,
wanting just as much to learn,
but knowing deep within it is just a yearn.

The little blackheaded boy plays in the sand,
as the little whiteheaded boy plays with his toys so grand.
And when the knee is cut,
there is no way to bandage it up,
except for the mother's love like for a young pup.

There is no clean water to drink,
just the water at his little feet.
Even though the water sometimes may stink,
it may be all there is to drink.

As he gets down on his hands and knees,
he sees his reflection with a strained ease.
While the American children are playing with glee,
he drinks the water his body desperately needs.

The Border I am speaking of is not The Border the tourists see,
The Border I am speaking of is The Border I have seen.

The camps of refugees,
the camps that reek of disease.
The camps that are there to stay,
the people who have no other way.
The camps that are full of pain,
the camps where there is no gain.

The camps that are full of one room huts,
the dogs that are pure bred muts,
who roam the streets with the children covered in smut.

The unbearable heat,
that makes the baby lose its sleep.
The unfaltering sun,
that beats down on each and everyone.

The mother who stands in the sun for hours,
to receive a handout of flour.
She will be the last one to devour,
the food she prepared for her family in the following hours.

For these people my heart aches.
To the little boy who takes
his drink from the water the sun has baked.

For these people my heart aches.
For the woman with her baby in the heat,
my heart is pierced too deep.

For these people my heart aches.
To the man who sells cigarettes in the street
I feel such defeat.

For these people my heart aches.
And every time I see them it takes
a piece of me that can never be replaced.