The Year Ahead

From what I have seen on social media, it's Goodbye, 2021, And Good Riddance.

So sad, for there WAS good in the year to which agendas blinded so many...and so many others felt powerless against a rising tide of hate, lies, and pride.

But the thing is, we're not irrelevant. We can set an example, and although we may never see it's effect in this world, we can know that we're being faithful to God in our every ordinary moments.

That's both enough, and required.

 We curse the year that's left behind

and fear what lies ahead,

and thus we wander, oh, so blind

to grace that we ain't dead,

for here we still have hope to alter

all of that which pricks, besieges,

if we let not courage falter

in temptation to what eases

grave concern and itching fear

that we might just be reduced

in the misty coming year,

and in this may be seduced

to the thought that what we bring

won't amount to anything.

Let's just have some musical fun with Yellow Submarine.

Sylvia puts intolerance and anger FAR below ice cream.

 

The Sunny Side Of Life

Cancer ate my breakfast,
and I've got a hunch

that 'fore ending of this test

it's gonna eat my lunch,

but nonetheless I'm in a place

some think I can't afford,

grateful for the love and grace

I'm getting from the Lord.

Sure, dude I am ailing,

and I can't hardly talk,

and my legs are failing

when I try to walk

but my faith gives me the chance,

before my God, to sing and dance.

Here's my favourite Christmas carol, Better Days, from the Goo Goo Dolls.

Sylvia's up for singing and dancing, but first things first.

Ice cream!

 

Belle And The Gemenids

I love meteor showers, and so, I think, would Service Dog Belle (who looks exactly like a seventy-pound German Shepherd puppy), if they didn't happen IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, DAD!

Thus, the Gemenids, in the wee hours of December 14.

 "The Gemenids are in the sky,

it's 4am, Belle, let's go see!"

The dog gave me the evil eye

and said, "Dad, are you KIDDING me?

Just to the porch if you insist,

we'll wait for one, and no more, please,

for, dear Dad, if you resist

I'm going to have to bite your knees."

And so we saw a meteor

trace bright in the empyrean,

then I was pushed back through the door

(Belle don't say what she don't mean).

"Let's get Mom, Belle, yeah, what say?"

"Do you, Dad, want to die today?"

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is ANNOUNCE. Ok, let's see...

Tell the world about His birth,

about His death and rising,

announce the Gospel to the Earth,

though some may be despising

your faith and all the joy withal,

claim it's a false construction,

and force your back up to the wall

and plan on your destruction.

But silence is not fitting here,

not even in the grimmest hour;

sing your praises strong and clear,

and know you need not cower

because the Lord for Whom you fight

brings dawn that ends the pagan night.

Five minutes on the nose. But whose nose?

Music from Oliver, with Good Morning Starshine. If you miss the Sixties, they're baaaack.

Sylvia prefers ice cream by day to shooting stars by night (but she and I once DID see a daytime meteor!).

 

Some Day You De Windshield, Some Day You De Bug

A sad week, with Megan The Tank (a huge Aussie) slipping away. As I write this, with her next to me, and her canine friends next to her (she's not in pain), I think back to other, brighter days, and the dichotomy of life.

Yeah, some days you live the dream,

and some days you need a hug.

Some days you're the windscreen,

and some days you're the bug.

Some days you will run the table,

Vegas king or queen,

and some days you are just not able,

and Greyhound is your limousine.

Some days Fortune's daughters

will bless you with their smiles,

and some days in dark waters

hide hungry crocodiles,

but every day you walk this Earth

God's with you as He was from birth.

The quote 'some day you de windshield, some day you de bug' comes from Johnson Beharry, a Grenadian soldier in the British Army who won the Victoria Cross in al-Amarah, Iraq, in 2004, extricating the Warrior armoured personnel carrier that he drove from an ambush, thus saving the crew... after being shot in the head. Against the odds, Beharry survived.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is BEHOLD. Don't like to hold bees, but OK.

Behold the birthing of the Christ

in a stable dark and drear,

Heaven's palace sacrificed

so that Almighty might come near

the people wallowing in sin,

turning from the holy path,

and the only way to win

was to give the world a bath

of innocent and spotless blood,

a ransom paid without regret,

while angels' tears the world did flood

that the murder might beget

another chance for fallen Man

to escape the frying pan.

LESS than five minutes, and whaddya expect? Shakespeare?

Sylvia's sad, too, but still enjoys her ice cream. There may be a lesson there.

 Music from The Sandpipers, with 'Come Saturday Morning'.

Of Wives And Nicknames

Cancer's bad, and the best antidote is humour...in this case, thinking up nicknames for my dear wife.

 I shall now sing a hosanna

to celebrate my marriage luck,

for I am wed to Hambone Hannah,

Reigning Queen Of The Taco Truck.

She's faithful, kind, and gentle,

and cuts the fire-logs;

her faith is fundamental,

and she shares tacos with the dogs,

for they are her chosen fare

(she eats them by the bag),

and when you see her you will stare

for they do not make her figure sag,

so as a nickname, this one's fitter

than her previous, which was Critter.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is EXPECTATION.

I know what I now must face,

a fell dark expectation,

but I live in a state of grace,

and my heart holds elation

arising not from deep within,

but coming from above,

from the God who is my kin

and when push comes to shove

will be there to take my side

when life just gets too hard,

and I'll confront what will betide

with my Bodyguard

who at my final earthly breath

will take me home, defeating death.

Between five and six minutes. But better finished than not.

Music from Wall Of Voodoo, with 'Mexican Radio'.

Sylvia would rather have ice cream than tacos.

 

Not In Shame

On this Thanksgiving Day, I'm grateful for the end of pride.

I've had several bad falls lately, causing concussions, and now, while walking the dogs, I wear a hard hat. It looks dorky, but believe me, TBI is dorkier still.

If the poem seems familiar, it's because I wrote it as a comment for last week's Five Minute Friday home page, with the prompt HIDE.

It does say all I need to say.

Infirmity is something that

I would prefer to hide,

but now I wear a hard hat

when I walk outside.

My cancer'd leg will let me down,

so I won't be fussing;

even though I look the clown,

it's better than concussion,

and so I'd like to say to you

that there's no need for shame

in doing what you have to do,

just treat it as a game,

and go on with your head held high,

and bid your prickly pride goodbye.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is NOURISH. Alrighty then.

Each little congregation

is in a constant lurch,

so go ye, take your station,

and nourish your small church.

Take up a chosen ministry,

or go where you are sent

to serve, on Earth, Eternity,

and live the sacrament

of being hands and heart of Christ,

of spreading the good news;

some see it as sacrifice,

but you won't sing the blues,

for you'll see God's smiling face

when you're cheerful in your place.

Five minutes, plus a few seconds.

Music from Brewer and Shipley, with One Toke Over The Line.

Sylvia doesn't care if I look dorky. First things first, like ice cream.

 

In Praise Of Cows

We have cows. Not our own, mind; our home is on the open range, and cows regularly drift through to munch on the sage, and on the desert willow that Barb is trying to keep alive.

They play with the dogs, and will sometimes peer in through the windows.

And last winter, I slipped on a patch of ice, and couldn't get up. A cow ambled over to offer a horn, and pulled me to my feet.

I like cows.

I wandered, lonely as a cow

far from the madding herd,

banished, for I would not bow

to that which they preferred.

They got themselves in such a state

when I forswore my cud,

and chose, instead to liberate

the rancher's case of Bud.

What followed, to them, was more crass

in what was now evoked,

my saying, 'staid of eating grass

that it should perforce be smoked,

but my case was truly torn

by my tooting my own horn.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is HIDE. Ok.

Cancer came and done for me,

there ain't no place to hide,

and it is no mystery

that it's kicking my backside.

The metastasis that's in my leg's

now clear unto the eye,

and it's tempting, yeah, to wail and beg,

"Lord, please don't let me die!"

But death has got to come to all,

and that's the Gospel truth.

Maybe Eve done tripped the Fall,

but that ain't no excuse

for whinin' like a hungry pup

when it's time to cowboy up.

Five minutes flat. Yee-ha.

For music, here's 'Deep In The Heart Of Texas'. Yeah, I'm in New Mexico. Close enough.

Sylvia appreciates cows, for they are the source of ice cream.

 

Veterans' Day At The Wall

 As you walk on down the slope

past reflected years,

can you feel the once-bright hope

and hear the fallen tears?

Look behind each graven name;

please give them this small grace.

Lit by an eternal flame,

you will behold a face

whose eyes will dare to hold your gaze,

so dare not look away

and listen as the dead man says,

"Will you, on this sacred day

honour we who gave our all

to earn our place upon the Wall?"

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is WANDER. Well, ok. Same theme.

As you walk through quiet gloaming,

can you hear the distant thunder,

and see all the ghosts a-roaming,

but where is it they wander?

Do they go to milkshake bars,

where lettermen would come together,

or glide among the souped-up cars,

a poison to dear mother?

Do they visit high-school fields

where they found early glory

before the war would come and steal

the ending to their story?

Just know the shades you walk among

had loved their lives, and they were young.

Five minutes, and I wouldn't change a word.

Music from the soundtrack to We Were Soldiers... the haunting Scots ballad 'Sgt. McKenzie'.

Sylvia just appreciates her ice cream.

 

Skating Through It

One of the hardest things about keeping one's chin up on the cancer road is the need to be not just active, but proactive about morale. It's so easy to fall into despair.

Especially now. My 'good hours' in the day are measured in minutes, and the rest of the time is spent trying to skate through the pain. I can't focus on a movie, and it's getting hard to read... just getting to the next moment, until fatigue overwhelms, is everything.

I'm not saying this to garner sympathy. It's simply true, and I have to work at planning ahead to use the hours I have in a productive manner.

It's no longer working upon aeroplanes, or even writing (there are novels that are finished, but I lack the energy to bring them to the light of day, and writing sonnets, always a challenge, is now very much an uphill climb).

So now it's custom gunstocks, made with hand tools, care, and, yes, love. Red oak (cheap!), laminated, and stained to taste with wine, then treated and polished with tung oil.

There is something almost mystical in listening to the wood, learning how it wants to be shaped. Grain is a language, and texture is poetry, far deeper than I can hope to write.

Or maybe it's all hokum, make-work for my End Of Days, but I don't think so.

Care about wood, you care about trees, and you care about Creation. And yes, I do see the irony of showing a love for Creation by working on weapons.

Works for me, and it had better. I'm running on empty.

 It can be tough when chips are down

to find a middle path ahead

between the moper and the clown,

the vivid and the dead.

You can fix eyes on the Hereafter,

but only for so long,

and then must find your love and laughter

in this life's ongoing song,

so take each given hour

and drink down every drop,

for when you're in the Looming Tower

time won't slow, nor stop

for you to find new ways of feeling

about the fate with which you're dealing.

The Looming Tower is a Qu'ranic reference (4:78); "Death will find you, even in the looming (or lofty) tower."

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is PRAYER. So...

I may still be living,

longing for the air up there,

taking what God's giving,

living on a prayer.

I am daily praying,

for strength and hope and healing,

but, well, this might be saying,

or even more, revealing

the things that give me animation,

that sparkle in my soul,

and though I offer protestation

I know it makes me whole,

this life to which I yearn and cling,

to see grace that the morning brings.

There, five minutes (and it shows), but I also worked in last week's prompt, MORNING, so there!

Music from Kool And The Gang, with 'Celebration', through this link.

Let's celebrate with Sylvia, and ice cream.

 

 

Victory By Night

Nights can be hard, but Satan can't win if we call for help. 

In this dark and blood-dimmed night

the devil comes to call,

and with ember'd finger writes

these words upon my wall,

"You are failure, you are fraud,

a loser fit to beat the band;

where, now, is your precious God,

to stop the running sand?

You write of faith but not of truth

that's in my sight fulfilled,

and your dying's living proof

that those who hope are killed..."

These words his last, for in the East

rises the Son, to slay the beast.

Appropriately, the Five Minute Friday prompt for this week is MORNING. Here goeth nothin...

Although I know it's evening

that I am moving toward,

I still can't help believing

that it's the Morning of the World.

Metastasis is in my leg,

makes me shuffle feet,

but for healing I won't beg

because my life's so sweet.

Breath comes hard, I won't deny,

but air is cool and clean,

and if it's what it means to die,

then death's not cold and mean,

but a warm breeze from an open door

scented by what was loved before.

Five minutes! SnOoPyDaNcE!

And..

Barb's reply to the first poem and inclusive of the Five minute word.

Devil you may speak of flesh

As much as you desire

But in the end eternity

Is in the Savior's realm

For He is more

Then the Morning Star

you once were

and Hell is built 

For the likes of your

Prideful Lust 

and followers thus.

Ladron the Chief Service Dog has developed a liking for classic Westerns, especially Tales Of The Wells Fargo, so here's a link to 'Wells Fargo Wagon' from The Music Man.

Dogs are smart; they always know when they need a hand, even if it's just to hold the ice cream.

 

Dying Day

Do you ever think about the day you'll die?

I tend not to, but with tumours growing hideously now, and the metastasis in my leg making me unsteady on my feet (and causing bad falls), I guess I have to think about it.

In my own way.

A day of scarlet thunder

tearing through the sky.

A day of awe and wonder,

the day I am to die.

Should I treat this with respect,

or take it as a joke?

I don't know what I might expect

so I'll pour a rum-and-coke

and then light up a big cigar,

dropping ashes on the floor,

and sit where the wild things are,

my eyes upon the door,

with my Tommy 'cross my knees

to ensure the Reaper does say 'please'.

I'm so grateful to all of you who visit and comment. You make this life worthwhile.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is STILL. Kind of appropriate.

Perhaps it may not be a crime

against God's Holy Will,

that with all my heart I wish my time

would just stop, and stand still.

Sometimes I hate the run of days

that hurt worse than before,

and while I know that I must praise

I see that open door

behind which I believe and know

that paradise awaits,

but I do not yet want to go

through those Pearly Gates,

for even now, with this much pain,

I love this life, and would remain.

OK, five minutes thirty seconds...on my phone. I'll take it!

Music via link from the Marshall Tucker Band, with 'Heard It In A Love Song'. Why not?

From Sylvia's point of view, love songs should be written about ice cream.

 

Scrambled Eggs

And so, two falls this week and two concussions. Please forgive me, I am not at my best, though Barbie says I am more softly spoken and co-operative. I will try to visit as many of your postings as I am able. Words are with difficulty coming, and so I again ask your pardon.

Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall,

not a smart thing to do,

and Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,

and that good egg was through.

Myself, I had a fall last week,

then concussed a second time

which makes it painful now to seek

the words to build this rhyme,

but pain, I guess, is part of life

and part of ministry,

and though it cuts just like a knife,

the only tragedy

would be to serve that pain's dark ends

and turn away from you, my friends.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is TREASURE. I will need more than five minutes, but here goes.

Cancer's hard and hurts a lot,

and I can't call this pleasure,

but what God gave and what I've got

is a priceless kind of treasure,

the kind that makes you come awake

to see the sun rise every day

because you know tumours can take

you in death, so far away.

I know full value now, at last

of the small joys brought by life

and these will make my heart stand fast

through the dismal aching strife

because I know each blessing laid

on my heart's how Heaven's made.

 Sylvia's still enjoying that ice cream, and listening to The Killers, with 'Human'.

Are we human, or are we Dancer?

Don't know about you, but I know about ME.

 

Little Things Mean A Lot

 The world is kind of closing in. Can't get down to the workshop now; it hurts my leg too much to walk there.

And how can I have a metastasis in my femur, if I have to look up how to spell the word? That just seems WRONG, somehow, yeah?

But I'm short on breath, too. There are a couple of new chest tumours, visible through the ribs... I'm giving them names, now. These are Scooby Doo and Scrappy Doo.

But I am doing what I can, some custom woodwork for Barbie. It's not a lot.

But I have to believe it's worthwhile, for the alternative is abject despair.

I think I've learned to be content

in the Dying Biz;

nothing is important,

or every small thing is.

If we're bound for endless void

what does it matter how we go?

But this thought leaves me quite annoyed,

for in my heart and soul I know

that we are placed here for a reason,

then destined for a better place,

and in this, our earthly season

should be a channel of God's grace

in every little thing we do,

for thus are world and we made new.

The Five Minute Friday prompt for this week is 'complete'. Here goes.

Complete does not describe my days

for there's so much I can't do,

but if I look ahead a ways,

I find complete is really true

in that I have done all I could,

and for the rest there is tomorrow,

or perhaps my word-choice should

be that I'll manage if I borrow

a bit of energy and strength

from the God that pulls the strings,

and I know that at this length

my hope is tied to lesser things

like walking and taking next breath

to put in off, again, my death.

And that's five minutes for a sonnet. On a smartphone. SnOoPyDaNnCe!

You might be expecting a link to the old standard, 'Little Things Mean A Lot' here, but I REALLY don't like that song, so here are the Stones, with 'You Can't Always Get What You Want' instead.

Does look like Sylvia got what she wanted, eh?

 

A Song For The Morning

Now, Barb is not a morning person. At. All.

So, recently I woke her with this song...and she smiled.

Wakey, wakey, Jesus Time,
Doo dah, Doo dah,

He will tell you, "You are mine!",

that's what He's gonna say.

He'll guard you all the night,

and walk with you all day.

  is your bestest friend

in each and every way.

One of the most miraculous things I have learned from cancer is this:

If you can't be happy with multiple malignancies, you just can't be happy, period.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is NEED, so here goes...

People say I need a healing,

that I don't deserve to die,

but I have a funny feeling

that no one's asking Why,

because it's an important question,

goes right back to Calvary,

and if I give Ol' God suggestion,

He might turn it back to me,

and say, "You want to be reborn?

A simulacrum of My Son?

If you're sincere, you will be torn,

and in this you'll have just begun

to know the price My dear Lamb paid

when on the rough Cross He was laid."

And that sonnet did take five minutes...on a phone.

 

The Rainbow At The End Of Time

You realize, ere the end, that good and bad in life are merely acts in a play, and that they have no weight, not measured against God's love.

We are truly His children, and the role you play in a game of Cops And Robbers gives Him naught but amusement.

 

In facing down the worst of days,

I know now that the honour’s mine

to greet the good and bad with praise,

the rainbow at the end of time.

Dreadful things? They did betide,

side by side with beauty bare,

and now I find no need to hide

from truth’s clean and bracing air

that sweeps around my hilltop place

to clear emotion’s clouds away

and show, at last, with smiling grace

that we’ve been actors in a play

that ends now as the curtain falls,

leaving only foot-light calls.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is 'care', so...

Oh, dear God, please have a care;

I'm asking this because

I feel as though I'm made of air,

and not the man I was

when you set me to this task

(time passed has been so long!).

All you had to do was ask,

and I thought I was strong.

But cancer's road to Calvary,

is rocky, and uphill,

and, dear Lord, it frightens me

that even with the firmest will

exhaustion now cannot be stayed,

and on my knees, I ask your aid.

OK, six minutes, but on a phone...give me a pass?

Still on the phone and can't directly post a video, but I can give you the YouTube link to the Alan Parsons Project's lovely 'Closer To Heaven'. I hope you'll listen, and enjoy.

And,  as always, a couple of pictures of Sylvia, my blog's public face, on an ice-cream run.

 

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.