Writing to engage the mind and stir the heart.
What Is a Belly-Button For?
I’ve got a belly-button.
I don’t know what it’s for.
It looks a little bit like
the lock on our front door.
I tried a lot of keys out.
None of them seemed to fit,
but I giggled and I wiggled
cause they tickled quite a bit.
I’m made so very special.
Mom says it’s God’s design.
I don’t know what some parts are for
but I like them still just fine.
I have two little pinky toes.
There’s one on both my feet.
They help me count higher than ten
and they do look kind of neat.
When Grandma tries to tickle them,
I laugh and run away,
or I wiggle and I giggle
as close to her I stay.
I’ve got so many pieces.
I don’t know what they do.
I think God made a puzzle.
Did He make you that way too?
My tongue can make strange faces
or taste an ice-cream cone.
My ears are made just perfect
for when Grandma’s on the phone.
But what good’s a belly-button?
That’s what I want to see,
and I giggle and I wiggle
as I try another key.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
From the Laughter & Tears Album
Used by Permission
I’ve got a belly-button.
I don’t know what it’s for.
It looks a little bit like
the lock on our front door.
I tried a lot of keys out.
None of them seemed to fit,
but I giggled and I wiggled
cause they tickled quite a bit.
I’m made so very special.
Mom says it’s God’s design.
I don’t know what some parts are for
but I like them still just fine.
I have two little pinky toes.
There’s one on both my feet.
They help me count higher than ten
and they do look kind of neat.
When Grandma tries to tickle them,
I laugh and run away,
or I wiggle and I giggle
as close to her I stay.
I’ve got so many pieces.
I don’t know what they do.
I think God made a puzzle.
Did He make you that way too?
My tongue can make strange faces
or taste an ice-cream cone.
My ears are made just perfect
for when Grandma’s on the phone.
But what good’s a belly-button?
That’s what I want to see,
and I giggle and I wiggle
as I try another key.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
From the Laughter & Tears Album
Used by Permission
A Tornado Lives at Our House
There lives a small tornado by the highway on the hill
and blows through our house ten dozen times a day.
It will sit right through a story if you turn the pages fast,
but if too slow, it’ll spin itself away.
You can pick up toys and papers, and books and this and that’s;
have the whole house looking neat as a pin,
when like a spinning dervish, the tornado will blow through
and howl with glee o’er a contest you can’t win.
You can scrub around the high-chair,
where things are sticking to the floor.
You can wash the peas and gravy off the wall.
You can sit down for a cup of tea on a quiet afternoon,
but the tornado will in that moment call.
You can sterilize the bottle, but it’ll suck things off the floor.
You can sweep and mop and vacuum day and night.
But the tornado will get the best of you. You might as well give in
and just love the little whirlwind spinning bright.
Ah, Love – yes that’s the secret, though something’s sticking to your shoes
and chocolate pudding kisses leave their mark.
And you’ve read the story a dozen times, but the whirlwind asks again,
on its endless race from sunrise until dark.
A tornado lives at our house, and blows through so very oft’
and we don’t know how we lived before it came.
We give hugs when we can catch it; read stories o’er and o’er,
and delight to hear the little whirlwind’s name.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
From the Laughter & Tears Album
Used by Permission
There lives a small tornado by the highway on the hill
and blows through our house ten dozen times a day.
It will sit right through a story if you turn the pages fast,
but if too slow, it’ll spin itself away.
You can pick up toys and papers, and books and this and that’s;
have the whole house looking neat as a pin,
when like a spinning dervish, the tornado will blow through
and howl with glee o’er a contest you can’t win.
You can scrub around the high-chair,
where things are sticking to the floor.
You can wash the peas and gravy off the wall.
You can sit down for a cup of tea on a quiet afternoon,
but the tornado will in that moment call.
You can sterilize the bottle, but it’ll suck things off the floor.
You can sweep and mop and vacuum day and night.
But the tornado will get the best of you. You might as well give in
and just love the little whirlwind spinning bright.
Ah, Love – yes that’s the secret, though something’s sticking to your shoes
and chocolate pudding kisses leave their mark.
And you’ve read the story a dozen times, but the whirlwind asks again,
on its endless race from sunrise until dark.
A tornado lives at our house, and blows through so very oft’
and we don’t know how we lived before it came.
We give hugs when we can catch it; read stories o’er and o’er,
and delight to hear the little whirlwind’s name.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
From the Laughter & Tears Album
Used by Permission
Princess Grace and the Invisible Elephant Shoes
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
went those dainty princess feet.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
and they rarely missed a beat.
THUMPTY - THUMP - THUMP – THUMP!
as they ran across the floor.
THUMPTY – THUMP – THUMP – “WHOAAAAA!”
greeting Daddy at the door.
And Grandpa’s feet, four times as big
were only half as loud.
And Princess Grace would giggle,
spinning lightly as a cloud.
And if you checked her thumpers
they were soft and pink and small.
And she could dance so daintily,
the envy of them all.
But THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
She could out-thump men’s big feet.
And they’d stare at her with wonder
as she smiled, small and sweet.
Till finally they all agreed
it was magic of a kind.
Must be those elephant shoes she wore,
the big invisible kind.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
b_caustin@everus.ca
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
went those dainty princess feet.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
and they rarely missed a beat.
THUMPTY - THUMP - THUMP – THUMP!
as they ran across the floor.
THUMPTY – THUMP – THUMP – “WHOAAAAA!”
greeting Daddy at the door.
And Grandpa’s feet, four times as big
were only half as loud.
And Princess Grace would giggle,
spinning lightly as a cloud.
And if you checked her thumpers
they were soft and pink and small.
And she could dance so daintily,
the envy of them all.
But THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
She could out-thump men’s big feet.
And they’d stare at her with wonder
as she smiled, small and sweet.
Till finally they all agreed
it was magic of a kind.
Must be those elephant shoes she wore,
the big invisible kind.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
b_caustin@everus.ca
Little Fingers
Little fingers dance across the old piano keys,
A din so dreadful, joyful, that Grandpa’s on his knees
and begging them for mercy, though they gleefully shout “NO!”
We’s making moosic bootiful, Gwampa, Don’tcha know?”
Toys are scattered through the house, in front of every door.
Suspicious smells perfume the air. The laundry’s on the floor.
And Grandpa pours a cup of tea but someone wants a hug.
There’s a tickle fight and a wrestling match ‘tween toys spread on the rug
And the tea grows cold. Grandpa’s tired when it’s time to say goodbye.
But it ALMOST looks – though I could be wrong – a tear in Grandpa’s eye?
Hugs are oh so special. Shhhhh – Don’t let Grandpa know
that you’ve figured out his secret, the thing the makes him glow,
is the hug that comes from a little one, oft with a sticky kiss.
Cold tea and a house that’s in a mess, but joy he would not miss.
And the piano’s sitting silent now. The toys are put away.
Grandpa sinks into the rocking chair. They’ll be back another day.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
b_caustin@everus.ca
Little fingers dance across the old piano keys,
A din so dreadful, joyful, that Grandpa’s on his knees
and begging them for mercy, though they gleefully shout “NO!”
We’s making moosic bootiful, Gwampa, Don’tcha know?”
Toys are scattered through the house, in front of every door.
Suspicious smells perfume the air. The laundry’s on the floor.
And Grandpa pours a cup of tea but someone wants a hug.
There’s a tickle fight and a wrestling match ‘tween toys spread on the rug
And the tea grows cold. Grandpa’s tired when it’s time to say goodbye.
But it ALMOST looks – though I could be wrong – a tear in Grandpa’s eye?
Hugs are oh so special. Shhhhh – Don’t let Grandpa know
that you’ve figured out his secret, the thing the makes him glow,
is the hug that comes from a little one, oft with a sticky kiss.
Cold tea and a house that’s in a mess, but joy he would not miss.
And the piano’s sitting silent now. The toys are put away.
Grandpa sinks into the rocking chair. They’ll be back another day.
Copyright Brian C. Austin
b_caustin@everus.ca
A Good and Perfect Gift
Delight or despair?
A call from the hospital.
Too early – and yet. . .
Hope and fear.
The anniversary of a birth
followed so shortly by a death.
God is the author of life
and for this child we have prayed
But. . .
God measures life against eternity.
Not so far-sighted – my perspective,
knowing God does not always answer
as I wish.
Fears – yet trust.
Trust – yet fears.
Bleeding.
The stuff of life draining away,
but a heartbeat steady and strong.
A tiny cry,
piercing, sharp,
different from any newborn I have heard,
yet alive, vigorous, protesting.
So tiny, this little life,
so vulnerable.
High-tech nursery,
artificial womb,
pinnacle of human skill
yet so much less
than womb designed by God.
Compassionate, professional care
for child and mother.
A little one squirming,
arms and legs rarely still,
tubes and wires attached.
Vulnerable
yet overflowing with life.
Arms that ache to hold
Cameras clicking, clicking,
trying to catch the magic
of each moment.
Needles, tubes, sensors,
wires and leads.
A mother rejoicing to hold
for the first time.
Triumphs, setbacks,
weariness, celebration.
And still the cameras click.
Fears – yet trust.
Trust – yet fears.
For this child we still pray.
Paige Ruth – a joyful name.
Young Assistant – Blessed Helper,
Companion – Faithful.
A Messenger of Hope.
Each day a little stronger
and hands that long to touch, to hold.
Fears – yet trust.
Trust – yet fears.
For this child we will pray
for God is the author of life,
the giver of every good and perfect gift.
Is there any gift more perfect
than a newborn babe?
Hope – in a broken world.
Joy – in a hospital’s corridors.
Love – in a young mother’s eyes
arms
heart.
And the father
with stilted words
says with body language
what lips and tongue cannot express.
Love – surrounding a little one,
cherishing her,
pouring life into her.
Not just from mother’s breast,
though very much from there.
Joy – in every motion,
every rise and fall of tiny chest,
curl of fingers,
stretching toes.
So much life
in such a tiny bundle.
And this story
though a million times told
is still so new, so fresh,
so brimming with life and promise.
And under all, God’s hand,
holding, protecting, loving.
The Creator Himself
intimately involved.
He knows her name,
watches each rise and fall of her chest,
each beat of her heart;
Wove her in her mother’s womb,
knit her together,
fearfully and wonderfully;
Loves her with the same fierce love
that chose a cross
rather then letting his people perish.
Fears – yet trust.
Trust – yet fears.
But GOD. . .
. . .
and that is enough.
Copyright Brian Austin
b_caustin@everus.ca
Delight or despair?
A call from the hospital.
Too early – and yet. . .
Hope and fear.
The anniversary of a birth
followed so shortly by a death.
God is the author of life
and for this child we have prayed
But. . .
God measures life against eternity.
Not so far-sighted – my perspective,
knowing God does not always answer
as I wish.
Fears – yet trust.
Trust – yet fears.
Bleeding.
The stuff of life draining away,
but a heartbeat steady and strong.
A tiny cry,
piercing, sharp,
different from any newborn I have heard,
yet alive, vigorous, protesting.
So tiny, this little life,
so vulnerable.
High-tech nursery,
artificial womb,
pinnacle of human skill
yet so much less
than womb designed by God.
Compassionate, professional care
for child and mother.
A little one squirming,
arms and legs rarely still,
tubes and wires attached.
Vulnerable
yet overflowing with life.
Arms that ache to hold
Cameras clicking, clicking,
trying to catch the magic
of each moment.
Needles, tubes, sensors,
wires and leads.
A mother rejoicing to hold
for the first time.
Triumphs, setbacks,
weariness, celebration.
And still the cameras click.
Fears – yet trust.
Trust – yet fears.
For this child we still pray.
Paige Ruth – a joyful name.
Young Assistant – Blessed Helper,
Companion – Faithful.
A Messenger of Hope.
Each day a little stronger
and hands that long to touch, to hold.
Fears – yet trust.
Trust – yet fears.
For this child we will pray
for God is the author of life,
the giver of every good and perfect gift.
Is there any gift more perfect
than a newborn babe?
Hope – in a broken world.
Joy – in a hospital’s corridors.
Love – in a young mother’s eyes
arms
heart.
And the father
with stilted words
says with body language
what lips and tongue cannot express.
Love – surrounding a little one,
cherishing her,
pouring life into her.
Not just from mother’s breast,
though very much from there.
Joy – in every motion,
every rise and fall of tiny chest,
curl of fingers,
stretching toes.
So much life
in such a tiny bundle.
And this story
though a million times told
is still so new, so fresh,
so brimming with life and promise.
And under all, God’s hand,
holding, protecting, loving.
The Creator Himself
intimately involved.
He knows her name,
watches each rise and fall of her chest,
each beat of her heart;
Wove her in her mother’s womb,
knit her together,
fearfully and wonderfully;
Loves her with the same fierce love
that chose a cross
rather then letting his people perish.
Fears – yet trust.
Trust – yet fears.
But GOD. . .
. . .
and that is enough.
Copyright Brian Austin
b_caustin@everus.ca
Mommy and Daddy are just
a LITTLE bit thrilled.
Can you tell?
a LITTLE bit thrilled.
Can you tell?
Grandpa could soak up
quite a bit of this.
quite a bit of this.
Grandma gets a turn now and then too, if Grandpa isn't hogging Paige all the time.
The Waiting Game
Nine Months Old
Celebrating her first Christmas
Thriving and Beautiful
Celebrating her first Christmas
Thriving and Beautiful
Comments are Welcome
Your Contact Information is invited, but optional
Your Contact Information is invited, but optional
The voice of Zander Rusnak
recorded before his 4th Birthday
The voice of Brian C. Austin
and Zander Rusnak
Photographs Copyright Alanna Rusnak
used by Permission
used by Permission
Joining Grandma in celebrating the best part of growing old.
