The Besterfields, A Chistmas Poem.

I am so thankful for my niche of bests. I love them more than all the rest.
I treasure them more than their weight in gold. Will store them deep in my heart, even until I am old.
The rules for them are not the same, as any other same old name.
They root in cupboards, never knock on doors.
They love like mothers, and pray like warriors with swords.
They know the secrets that no one else knows, because their walls are tall and closed.
But not the walls around their hearts, no bricks were built up from the start.
Instead of walls, they have strong rivers. Love that flows from cheerful givers.
Giving, even though they need, and thinking not, nor taking heed.
But giving from the one that gives, who strengthens lives, who answers needs.
The one that gave his very Son, through the womb of one like them.
And so this Christmas grateful heart, concludes an unravelling thought in part.
Part for my bests who I love most, and my Father, His sent Son, and the Christmas Spirit- the Holy Ghost.