A Thanksgiving Prayer

A Thanksgiving Prayer

Thank you God for being with me through the years. 

Thank you for showing me how to face my fears. 

When life felt heavy, you strengthened me

It is only in you that I am truly free. 

I remember the days when I felt empty inside. 

You met every need, your love never denied. 

You guarded my steps from temptations snare. 

My God, my anchor, my solace, my prayer. 

Oh merciful Father who reigns from on high

Thank you for your faithfulness when I failed you in days gone by. 

Thank you for your patience when I wandered astray. 

Thank you for hearing each whispered word  that I prayed.  

I look out at this vast nation and sometimes sigh. 

So many don't know you and I can't fanthom why. 

But such mysteries are not for men to figure out. 

Thank you for your presence  and removing my doubt. 

When I ponder your grace and the love you bestow.

That my plans and dreams are held in eternity's glow. 

I fall on my face so thankful to know

My God, who leads me in paths unfor own. 

Thank you for being my ever constant provider. 

Thank you for making my load so much lighter. 

Thank you for family and friends you've allowed me to know

For the comfort and companionship they gently bestow.

Oh God Thank you for keeping my path straight. 

For shaping my heart and guiding my fate. 

Thank you for all you have done and will continue to do

And as time passes may my life always reflect you.

©2025 Sandra C. Johnson

This poem was adapted into a song and can be viewed on my YouTube channel here:

https://youtu.be/Iam6eaCfjvg?si=WosSsqpsF96gbb-6

At Mount Sinai

There are many parallels today to Israel’s journey out of Egypt.

I can only imagine what they must have felt as they departed. Perhaps the closest comparison for us is the relief of finally leaving a job we dreaded, or moving away from a place we couldn’t wait to escape. Yet even in those moments, we don’t fully know where we’re going or how difficult the road ahead may be. Israel didn’t know either, as their travels would soon reveal. God delivered them from Pharaoh one final time at the Red Sea, performing a mighty miracle. They rejoiced, just as we do when God moves powerfully in our lives—whether through miracles, revival, or a retreat that rekindles our excitement for Him. But eventually, we return to everyday life and its pressures.

When the Israelites reached Mt. Sinai, Moses went up the mountain and remained there for forty days. The people lost hope, lost faith, and urged Aaron to make a golden calf. I imagine they were eager to reach the promised land. What was taking Moses so long? Were they stuck here? Their conversations must have gone on and on.

And what about us? We all have our own Mt. Sinai moments—times when we don’t hear from God, when prayers seem unanswered, when we ask for purpose and guidance and things seem to get worse instead of better. Hard circumstances can overwhelm us. It can feel like a giant foot is pressing us into the ground. Many of us have been there.

In those seasons, it’s easy to lose touch with God. We may turn to others for the love, acceptance, and spiritual support we crave. But if that person fails us or leaves, we crumble. I believe something like this may have driven Israel to pressure Aaron into making the golden calf. They wanted something they could see, something tangible to cling to. And when Moses finally came down the mountain, he found them in idolatry. We know the rest of the story.

All of us stop at Mt. Sinai at some point in our Christian walk. We all face times of testing. But Jesus is about to come down the hill as well. This present wilderness will not last forever. One day we will cross the Jordan. That is the struggle—and the hope—we share. The beautiful part is that we’re in this together, encouraging and praying for one another until that day.

These were the thoughts on my heart as I wrote the following poem.

At Mount Sinai

It was a place where holy knowledge reached a few,  

Who carried it to others, teaching what to do.  

A place of isolation, far from all the rest;  

Where hunger often met them, and faith was put to test.  

Mount Sinai held both blessing and deep sorrow,  

For they stood suspended between past and tomorrow.  

Leaving what had been to reach what lay ahead,  

Unaware the present trials would shape their hearts instead.  

No, we never seem to linger in that place—  

Where every path is closed except to seek God’s face.  

Look anywhere else and disaster’s sure to strike;  

It’s inevitable when we refuse to walk in Jesus’ light.  

And yet, Sinai can become a sacred place;  

God is ever-present to the ones who seek His face.  

He is the Provider—yes, the only One;  

In the desert, look around: luxuries, there are none.  

We mustn’t lose heart while Moses climbs the hill;  

Just wait on God and keep your spirit still.  

This is the hardest struggle we must overcome—  

To work with faith and patience until the task is done.  

It’s easy in the land of milk and honey to stand strong,  

And in times of revival when God’s goodness feels lifelong;  

But the test comes when you’re at the mountain all alone—  

Trusting in the Lord’s provision, not the comforts you have known.  

So when you’re trapped between the future and the past,  

Feeling purposeless, your fading zeal slipping fast;  

Remember: God provides—so lift your prayers once more,  

For in His time, He’ll guide you safely to Jordan’s shore.  

Then you will cross at last to the other side.  

It was at Sinai you surrendered fear and pride.  

And in that day, you’ll understand and you’ll rejoice 

Entering the promised land by heeding God’s voice.  

© 1996 Sandra C. Johnson 

This poem was adapted into a song and can be viewed on my YouTube channel here:

https://youtu.be/fgeYTpetuWA?si=TGHhk_m1CdKuVVJO

In the Palm of His hand

In the Palm of His Hand

He holds me in the palm His hand,  

That is how I learn to stand.  

I know Him, for He lifted me there,  

And now I speak with Him in prayer.  

He holds me firm, He will not let go—  

Not for the good works I may show.  

But because He is God, who chose to love,  

And keeps me near by grace from above.  

I choose to follow, to love Him today,  

Grateful He holds me each time I pray.  

By His pure mercy I’ve come to know  

The Lord of heaven, in whom I grow.  

He could release me, let me fall,  

If I declared I don't need Him at all.  

And yes, I’ve tried to run away,  

To walk alone, to seek my own way.  

In tears and sorrow, He let me roam,  

Lost and wandering, far from home.  

Yet love compelled Him to lift me again,  

From mire and dirt, forgiving my sin.  

He draws all people, longing they see  

In the palm of His hand, they're meant to be. 

Humbly yielding, carried through  

In every trial, in all that they do.  

It’s not our will, nor our design,  

But His great love for all mankind.  

All things unfold beneath His reign,  

He holds our lives, our joy, our pain.  

Yes, we are safe in the palm of His hand,  

By His grace alone we’re able to stand.  

So thankful I rest, upheld by His care—  

My God, my Creator, is present everywhere.

©1998 Sandra C. Johnson

This poem has been set to music, found here. 

https://youtu.be/DXKZmwWQ5Fg?si=A0XXG3XwfNYMR15x

The Quarry

 The Quarry

It’s at the quarry where God’s work begins—  

He prepares our hearts and changes us within.  

We feel the pain as each rough edge falls,  

He quarries our souls, leading us to the cross.

The quarry is where we all reside,  

Our spirits refined, our flesh denied. 

So one day we’ll be living stones,  

In His house, where we’ll be home.

Many arrive unprepared for the test,  

Hoping somehow they’ll be spared the unrest.  

And they flinch when the chisel draws near,  

Exposing their hearts and long-hidden fear.

Some stones are cast aside for a time,  

Worn by arrogance, pride, and grime.  

Restoration takes longer for these,  

But in His mercy, they too find peace.

At the quarry, His work begins in us all,  

Shaping us into living stones who answer His call.  

A day will come when His house is restored,  

And living stones worship Jesus, their Lord.

Not all choose the quarry’s way—  

Some reject salvation and go astray,  

Resting in the work of their own hands,  

Following the flawed precepts of man.

And we at the quarry look out and see  

Those who seem happy, thriving, and free.  

We question God and wonder inside:  

Should we, like them, just run and hide?

But it’s in the quarry that God’s plan unfolds,  

While outside, the self-made grow cold.  

They are the straw, the stubble, the dust—  

Destined to crumble, due to whom they trust. 

Yes, the quarry is painful for now,  

But one day, before His throne, we’ll bow.  

The glory we’ll share—beyond imagination—  

Standing in awe of His holy creation.

So even when you look out and see  

Those lost in sin and debauchery,  

Gaining the world, blessed beyond measure—  

Their souls are lost in worldly pleasure.

But you—His living stones, being formed—  

From heaven above, you were reborn.  

And in time, you’ll stand grand and tall,  

As His church shines bright before all.

© 2025 Sandra C. Johnson

This poem has been set to music found here:

https://youtu.be/VJ0rD7noMgQ?si=Wxjq98GP947z9A7I

The Sea of Hate

Each evening as I prepare dinner, the news plays in the background.  

Sometimes it’s a headline, sometimes just a passing phrase—  but something stirs within me.  

A switch flips, and I find myself contemplating:  

What might God think of our current political climate?  

The poem below is one such reflection—  born from those quiet moments of spiritual pondering.

The Sea of Hate

They are lost in a sea of Trump disdain.

To them, his every move is flawed and profane.

They call him a tyrant, a king in disguise. 

A racist, a hater–truth clouded by lies.

But lost in their own sea of spite and blame.

They point at others, yet play the same game.  

Never owning the wrongs they have done,  

Their hatred exposed in the light of the sun.

When they don't agree with the results of an election,

They riot and burn buildings as an act of rejection. 

Yet they call us MAGA extremist and unkind,  

Blind to the grace that we strive to find. 

But what do we do when we’re let down?  

Do we sulk and rage, wear anger’s crown?  

Or do we pray for those cast aside,  

And love the forgotten with arms open wide? 

Yes, we have values that we make clear. 

We stand for God– the right to life we hold dear. 

We defend the right to bear arms and protect,  

Because our neighbors come first and deserve respect. 

And if your lifestyle differs from our creed,  

We don’t attack or force you to heed.  

We don’t block roads or shout you down,  

We believe all should live free, and never be bound. 

Yet they say we lack compassion and grace,  

While we hold prayer vigils and truth we embrace.

We pray for an end of violence, vengeance, disdain.

For healing and forgiveness, not more pain. 

So for Rosie, Schumer, and AOC,  

I lift a prayer, not hostility.  

They are lost in a sea of hate.

But Jesus alone will alter their fate. 

© 2025 Sandra C. Johnson

 

I am Not Deaf

 I am not Deaf

I am not deaf, though some claim that I am.

I hear every prayer uttered by man.

Though at times it may feel as though I'm not there,

I am the God of Heaven and Earth– I am everywhere.

I am not deaf to the cries that I hear.

Nor deaf to the weight of man's fears.

I am not deaf to the pain that I see.

I hold it all in my hand in my sovereignty.

I sometimes say no when men seek my face.

I intervene with love, truth and grace. 

But my no's are all a part of my plan.

To intervene and help you to understand.

I have things to show you when I say no.

And trials designed to help you grow.

So when you cried and asked me to intervene,

My silence was never to be harsh or mean.

You cannot see the Heavenly Realm,

The battles where I stand at the helm.

I am aware that you've asked me before,

But my answers I gave, you simply ignored.

Ask me again– but know that I hear.

As I teach you to let go of your fear.

I could make it so easy, but what would you learn?

Sanctification often comes with a burn. 

And usually, my child, that's what it is. 

As my refining fire gently persists. 

Hold fast to me through every trial, 

I will steady your path and walk every mile. 

It's because I love you as I train you to be,

Someone who will minister before me.

As you come to learn of my ways,

And rest in my presence all of your days.

©2025 Sandra C. Johnson

This poem has been set to music found here:

https://youtu.be/SzDhpJVZLYQ?si=6wtoExKZUEB4E6fM

Reproductive Health or Reproductive Harm?

In recent years, the term reproductive health has been increasingly used as a euphemism for one thing: abortion.

It’s a curious choice of words. Reproduction implies the creation of life—bringing something into being. Abortion, by contrast, is a procedure that ends that process. It’s not reproductive; it’s anti-reproductive.

True reproductive health should refer to supporting a pregnant mother through childbirth, not terminating a pregnancy. Yet the language has been twisted to obscure the reality.

The roots of abortion in America are darker than many realize. Margaret Sanger, the founder of Planned Parenthood, held deeply racist views. Unlike today’s climate, where accusations of racism are often thrown around carelessly, Sanger’s agenda was deliberate: placing clinics in low-income, predominantly Black neighborhoods. Her legacy is documented in sources like this USA Today column (https://www.usatoday.com/story/opinion/2020/07/23/racism-eugenics-margaret-sanger-deserves-no-honors-column/5480192002/) which outlines her ties to eugenics and racial targeting.

Some fact-checkers now try to downplay this history, arguing that Planned Parenthood today is different. But history matters. The era in which Sanger operated was rife with racism, and there is ample evidence that her motivations were not purely about women’s health. Even today, whistleblowers like Abby Johnson—once a director at Planned Parenthood—have faced backlash for exposing what goes on behind closed doors.

Many people I speak with who support abortion believe it’s primarily used in cases where the mother’s life is at risk. They argue that the pro-life movement ignores these women. But the data tells a different story: fewer than 20% of abortions are performed due to serious health risks. The vast majority—over 80%—are not medically necessary.

Those who advocate for abortion often muddy the waters, using compassionate language to mask a procedure that ends a life. It’s a chilling reality, and one that deserves honest reflection.

Yesterday, I saw a post by Abby Johnson that struck a chord:  

“Healthcare heals. Abortion kills.”  

That simple truth inspired everything I’ve written here.

---

Reproductive Health

We call it reproductive healthcare. 

It is supposed to cure, not lay bare. 

Instead of being the place we go to heal 

It misinforms, destroys, and kills. 

We call it reproductive health but that is a lie. 

As the silent screams pierce the sky. 

A world veiled by abortion's curse. 

A name rebranded, an image reversed. 

The title covers the truth. 

So they can re-educate our youth.. 

So these precious young women won’t see.

A child deprived of it's destiny. 

They changed the name to mask the pain,  

To lure the crowd, to shift the blame.  

From “pro-choice” to a softer phrase,  

A cloak to blind, a term to praise. 

They call it reproductive health but the only thing that's true. 

Is they deny reproduction to a child in the womb 

And who knows how many generations have been affected. 

By a procedure that has left them unprotected. 

Abortion was the first term which made it all clear

Kill the future generation before they get here.

Place clinics in neighborhoods of low income and poverty. 

Remove the riff raff from our society. 

They call it healthcare– doesn't that sound grand?

A right for all women right where they stand. 

But healthcare heals, it doesn’t deceive;  

It doesn’t teach young moms to grieve.  

Healthcare should be where hope is found,  

Where cures and comfort do abound.  

Not a place where our bodies are mutilated. 

Genders changed or whatever is contemplated. 

They call it reproductive health but we know that is not true. 

Stop and ponder the life growing inside of you. 

That child, that gift, that sacred plan—  

A life ordained by God’s own hand. 

Children are a gift from God, made in His image. 

We don't get to choose life or death without limit. 

Each embryo worth saving, not for promise or perfection,  

But because it bears His image, cradled in eternal affection.

©2025 Sandra C. Johnson

Now the word of the Lord came to me, saying,

5 

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,

And before you were born I consecrated you;

I have appointed you as a prophet to the nations.”

Jeremiah 1:4-5