Importance Of The Five Food Groups

In my alcohol-and-testesterone-fueled youth, I was fond of saying that the Five Basic Food Groups were beer, pizza, beer, pizza, and...wait for it...beer.

Fast forward to now, and that's about all I can tolerate (alcohol and pancreatic cancer don't mix, but light beer is the only thing that stops the dry heaves, and lets me eat).

I suppose the moral of all this is that God is listening, and enjoys a good laugh.

But I have not tired of pizza, nor of beer.

I mean, who could?

God has thrown me for a loop,

and has, smiling, made it clear

that for me the five food groups:

beer, pizza, beer, pizza and beer.

Such a joke which I had told

when I was strong and I was young,

proud within the rugger-fold

where defiant songs are doing.

I guess the Lord had listened in,

and rubbed His hands in holy glee,

deciding humour was a win

for the clownish likes of me.

I did not put up a fight,

for, by Jove, the Godhead's right!

And since the Five Minute Friday writing prompt this week is 'purpose'...

Sometimes I feel so hopeless,

and it is then I wish

for a senseless porpoise,

a really dumbass fish,

but there is practicality

(for I am no fool),

and in my yard would have to be

a real big swimming pool

where the witless beast could swim,

then offer me advice

on how to turn each loss to win

(now wouldn't that be nice!),

just like thay book I gave my wife,

Rick Warren's "Porpoise-Driven Life".

It took five minutes to write, and I sure figure it shows.

In the absence of music (Blogger won't let me link a video on my phone), here are a couple of things pictures of Sylvia, my blog's public face, on an ice-cream run.

 

You Get Discouraged

It's been a rough week, and not to admit to being sometimes discouraged is to give that discouragement a hidden power.

 

There's so much I still want to do,

to hear and feel and see,

but now the worst is coming true,

and there's no escape for me.

There's too much puke and too much. pain,

and I see what now betides;

growths in limbs and lungs and brain,

and my left foot only slides.

Somewhere there was a place for me,

a future and bright shining hope

but faded now's the victory

and above me swings the rope,

noose fashioned by the devil's hand

through years I did not understand.

Now, dear fortunate (?) reader, you get a SECOND sonnet, based upon Five Minute Friday's word prompt for the week, 'rescue'.

It seems to me the movie biz,

if it wants profits big and bold,

should recognize that rescue is

the greatest story ever told.

Gandhi saved a nation;

Maria saved the Captain's heart

from lonely self-immolation

(and tipped the Nazis' apple cart!).

Luke saved that far-off Galaxy

even as Darth Vader's son,

and it really seems to me

John Wayne saved almost everyone.

Wide-eyed surprise this shouldn't bring

for we're rescued by a murdered King.

The 'rescue' poem took ten minutes to write, but since I'm waiting on a phone with Mongo-sized fingers at 3AM, I hope you'll give me a pass on the 'five minute' bit. Also, the phone's fond of quietly changing my words when I'm not looking. Glories of the Modern Age, yeah?

In the absence of music (Blogger won't let me link a video on my phone), here are a couple of things pictures of Sylvia, my blog's public face, on an ice-cream run.

 

Of Frying Pans And Fires

So I had a miraculous healing from a wild sudden illness, with a sustained fever of 107...but the cancer is still here.

Wassup with THAT?

I am tempted to irritation (to put it mildly), but unfortunately I'm a Christian, and there is Scriptural precedent to which I must pay heed...

Lord, I know that I've been graced

with healing, but I can hardly understand

why it seems I have been placed

from fire back to frying pan.

You saved me from that raging fever,

107 should have done me in,

and have no doubt, I'm a believer,

but confidence is getting thin.

And then You say You are my Simon,

the Cyrene to help bear my cross,

the strong and proud Judean lion,

broke to burden, bear my loss

and help me with the fatal load

on the Dolorosa Road.

In the absence of music (Blogger won't let me link a video on my phone), here are a couple of things pictures of Sylvia, my blog's public face, on an ice-cream run.

 

Yeah, But It's Not Really Me

It's getting just a bit easier to blog using the phone. Either I'm getting smarter or the phone's decided to stoop to my level.

Life, however, is not easier...these tumours hurt, and there's a new one of the chest-wall variety. So much for the summer beach bod.

And that doesn't include the tennis-ball sized lump in my navel. Loose shirts, now.

And yet...

Some, looking at me, say it's time

to lean into a morphine haze,

embrace a gentle and sublime

way to pass these pain-wracked days.

I might partake of smooth-jazz tunes,

doze through a DVD,

but suggesting this assumes

that I'm no longer me.

For good or ill, I'm bred to fight

and in my life stand taller

when on the other side of night,

for me, there lies Valhalla,

where, as holder of the secret knows,

the fight goes on, and strong mead flows.

In the absence of music (Blogger won't let me link a video on my phone), here are a couple of things pictures of Sylvia, my blog's public face, on an ice-cream run.

 

Gone and Back Again

Oh my, oh my, oh my, oh dear,

my hard drive went away,

and I was therefore filled with fear

that I could not post today.

But Barbie to the rescue came

with a Smart Phone just for me,

so I'm still in the blogging game,

not vanished mystery.

One day computer will return,

but it will take some time,

and this is tech I need to learn...

and it's on Barbie's dime!

I have no complaints at all,

except these keys are REALLY SMALL!

Music by Daniel Boone, 'Beautiful Sunday'.

The video may not load from the phone...

The Thing God Can't Do

 OK, how could God be lonely? He's got everything, right?

Except...us.

He doesn't have us...we have to give ourselves to Him freely. Otherwise we're puppets.

And it's not OK when we don't give ourselves. He's hurt.

Witness the Garden of Gethsemane...Jesus asked His three closest friends to watch with Him while He prayed...and they fell asleep.

They say that God has got it all,

but as Christ neared His mortal end,

He felt the desperate need to call

upon the love of His best friends.

He went with Peter, John and James,

that while He prayed, watch they might keep;

when he returned, He called their names,

and found they'd fallen fast asleep.

He woke them, and then asked again,

that they might help Him through His trial,

but they couldn't understand His pain,

His sweat of blood, and all the while

He took the cup that would not pass,

they dozed upon the dewy grass.

So there you go. You have a power God doesn't have...the choice to give yourself to Him...

...or not.

What will you do?

This became important to me lately, because while I received a healing from a lethal and sudden illness, the healing didn't apply to cancer...on that front, things are worse.

And God said, "Cancer is your Calvary. The healing...it was Me, being your Simon of Cyrene."

There was a wistfulness in His tone, a hesitancy.

As if He thought that I might respond in anger, and cast Him aside, in anger and disappointment.

I had the power, in that moment, to break His heart, and there was nothing He could do about it.

I didn't, but that's a story for another time.

Music from Joan Osborne, with One Of Us. (Please click here if your device doesn't display the video.)

Thanks to Carol Ashby, Blessed Are The Pure Of Heart is back on Kindle, and will be available in paperback soon.

Friends are everything. I couldn't have done it.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links.

The Unexpected God

 Yes, since the sustained 107 fever thing, I talk with God. Didn't used to, but now He just walks in, makes Himself at home, and we have these conversations.

And they don't always go the way I think they'll go.

Recently, I was thinking how grateful I am for this second chance, to not be the 'old me'.

And God said, "I like the old you."

Huh?

The day before yesterday, the cancer pain's back, especially the metastasis in my right femur, and I'm saying - out loud - "Pain is just weakness being forced from the body."

God blew a Bronx cheer, and then said, "Pain can be a warning, and it's always a byproduct. it's just pain, and being proud of how much you can tolerate is infantile...something like being proud of the smelliest bowel movement."

Oh-kay.

I don't think God likes pain. Recently I was watching the Hillsong Channel, and a preacher said that "Great things are birthed in pain." Behind me I heard a Bronx cheer (God does seem to like those).

I guess maybe He's seen more than enough hurt, and so I don't use my old favourite expressions, like "Blood makes the grass grow green."

Offending the Almighty's a bad idea.

The point of this is that in the past, I really didn't believe people talked to God. I thought they were having conversations in their own heads, perhaps informed by the Almighty, but that's as far as it went.

To be honest, I didn't really pay attention to what they said, tuning them out after "God said to me..."

No more.

Aside from the reality of His Voice (He's got a distinct Chicago accent, in case you were wondering), the deciding 'reality check' for me is that He flat out contradicts things that I say, and for a long time held dear ("Pain is merely weakness being forced from the body.")

A God who backed up my prejudices would be fun, be would also be a little-'g' god.

This dude is willing to fight me (like it's a contest, right?)...He's my Big G God.

Some folks said they talk to God,

and I thought, well, maybe true,

but it sounds to me, like, really odd;

hope I don't cross paths with you.

And then I faced my quiet death,

and I saw the Other Side;

my lungs were filled with Holy Breath,

and I learned how to abide

with a God who talked a lot,

'bout life and death and love and pain,

some things He said, well, I forgot,

but it seems enough remain

that the God I knew and formally respected,

has become Lord of the Unexpected.

The only song I could think of that was about talking is Toby Keith's I Wanna Talk About Me, so here goes. I rather doubt the video could be made in today's cultural climate, which makes it either more worth watching or a good reason to turn my metaphorical picture to the wall. (If your device doesn't play the video, please click here.)

Thanks to Carol Ashby, Blessed Are The Pure Of Heart is back on Kindle, and will be available in paperback soon.

Friends are everything. I couldn't have done it.

Below are my recent releases on Kindle -please excuse their presence in the body of the blog. I haven't the energy to get them up as 'buttons' in the sidebar. You can click on the covers to go to the Amazon links.