Faith On A Really Hard Day

 

Today was rough, as in I don't know how to keep going. Things are narrowing, with fewer options for coping.

And now it simply falls away,

the world that I thought I could make,

the world of love and work and play;

God, is this some big mistake?

Did You spin the roulette wheel,

putting all my chips on Red

when fate went in for the steal

to put the ball on black instead?

I trust Your love and love Your grace,

and wish I could be more like You,

but have You turned away Your face 

for want of better things to do?

I'll take this place that You've prepared,

but You should know, I'm really scared.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is REWIND.

I gots to rewind that scene

and let it play out once again,

'cause it really was so keen

and cool and, too, it had some brain

and made me think 'bout what it meant,

what the actors tried to say,

for that is the pure true intent

of a real good teleplay,

and maybe if we could do that,

rewind some real weird-ass days,

we would find we could knock flat

the walls of life's meander-maze

and make sense of the path we've trod 

on the way to finding God.

Three minutes thirty seconds. Cool.

Syl is scared, too. She doesn't like mazes. She got caught in one, a maze of chaparral and mesquite, at night. We found her by her whimpering, and the glow of her eyes in the torch's beam.

WWJD About The Chosen? (Tell His Story)

 And so we have four seasons of The Chosen, probably the biggest thing in Christian media since Charlton Heston parted the Red Sea.

The series has its critics; some feel that any portrayal of Jesus violates the Second Commandment, and that the approach to characterization and dialogue are entirely too speculative.

For others, the Jesus portrayed by Jonathan Roumie doesn't match the Jesus of their heart, and the rather striking characterization of Simon and Matthew are jarring.

On the other had, many praise the fidelity to the Gospel accounts, notwithstanding the need to fill in details, both physical and character-wise, to bring setting and story to life.

What do you think? Have you seen The Chosen in whole or part?

If you quit, what drove you away?

How do you think Jesus feels?

In this house, we like it. A lot.

And Sylvia is half in love with Matthew's dog.

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The Vineyard

 I am not a plaster saint,

and I won't pretend to be

something that I truly ain't,

so don't you go and preach at me

about abstaining from my beer

to follow Jesus Christ;

the Bible makes it really clear

that wine wasn't sacrificed.

Look at the Cana wedding feast;

if the Christ was a teetotaler,

don't you think He would at least 

have turned wine back to water?

In Heaven we'll have us a brew,

and He will save one just for you.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is MAKE. I damaged an eye, so I will make this short.

Make and mend, the wise men say,

for we cannot have it all,

not even days when we pretend

to be Cinderella at the ball,

for soon or late the hour strikes,

and the Visa bill comes due,

and we cringe and whimper 'Yikes!

Can I skin a quid off you?'

Better far to live within

the means ability has set,

for it is some kind of sin

to walk on past that and forget

that we just cannot spend our way

out of the debt from yesterday.

Not sure what I was trying to say there, do you? But it took less than five minutes!

Sylvia does love her wine. Well, mine, when she can steal it.

Death By Rhetoric (Tell His Story)

Requiesce in pace, Cory Compertore 

We shout about the ones we hate 

until our faces go bright red,

and in this call down a fate

in which a gentle man is dead.

A day is spent to reconsider,

calls for unity and grace,

but anger is a raging river,

a thrill that no peace can replace,

and here, my God, we go again,

"He's an existential threat!",

and thus the rain dance brings the rain

and thus it is not over yet,

and will not be, 'till this, our home,

goes the way of ancient Rome.

Sylvia would organize mass time-outs.

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The Song Does Not Remain The Same

 

I guess it is how I was made,

but it don't trouble in the least 

to sit beneath the shining blade

at Damocles' fancy feast,

so pass smooth Southern whiskey,

and pass the fine cigars.

Pass the party girls (so frisky!)

who'll take me to the stars,

and let's all hoot and holler,

'cause all the world's a game,

but friend, it does not follow 

that the song remains the same

for one day soon joy will be full

for child, drunk, and dumb animal.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is CAPACITY.

I'm guilty of a paucity 

of blog participation;

it's just past my capacity,

and thus, the situation 

of wanting to respond in kind

to my far-distant friends,

but lack of O2 slows the mind,

and this is how it ends,

with brave words on Thursday night,

resolve that I'll do better,

but I am just plumb out of fight,

and typing every letter 

is such weight upon my chest,

but I remain, doing my best.

It took over five minutes, but I am just so tired now 

Sylvia rather resents the term 'dumb animal', and I have learned to appreciate the term 'finger food'.

Where Has Civility Gone? (Tell His Story)

 I'm too ill to write much, beyond hosting the linkup.

But recent days, in which a Supreme Court decision on presidential immunity has has media pundits and congresscritters suggesting that the sitting president could legally order the murder of a political opponent...

Is this our country now, where no heads are hung in shame, and the darkest passions are given voice?

I don't want to see it, and thank God for cancer.

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Bee Not Afraid

 I was just thinking about bees and Israelites, and rembered a fragment from a song I heard at church:

"...bees aren't afraid,

they go before you making 

honey so sweet 

to mix into your tea."

This must have been a great comfort to Moses and the gang on their way to the land of milk and honey.

And I had never thought of bees as brave...in fact, I hoped they weren't 'cause I'm allergic too bee stings...but think of it, they had to be brave to be a Plague of Egypt, and help the Israelites escape.

Really makes me think.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is SPECIFIC.

We have got to bee specific 

when we talk 'bout stinging bugs

that can be far from terrific;

in fact, I really think they're thugs

looking for someone to stab,

not caring if they die in sending

me to a cold mort'ary slab

anaphylaxis as my ending.

That did nearly happen once,

and I thought that I was heaven-bound,

but I am not quite the dunce

and in the years since I have found

that avoidance of the lethal stings

lies in killing all the bloody things.

Three minutes forty-five.

Syl thinks I have a bee in my bonnet.

What's Your Take On Medical Marijuana ((Tell His Story)

 First, a disclaimer. I don't use medical marijuana; I've never smoked the stuff at all, and never will. I don't like handing over the control of my brain to chemicals (I don't take opioids for the cancer thing, either).

That being said, I am aware of the benefits it can bring to some people, and am really appalled at the patchwork laws we have. In my state, medical and small amounts of recreational weed are legal, but the federales set up rolling checkpoints to interdict the product.

It's kinda nuts, guys. Make up your minds. Either accept it for medical use or ban it, but this wink-and-nod stuff is corrosive to the rule of law we need to share.

If you need medical weed and have (or choose) to travel, good luck. If you fly and TSA finds it, you're busted (though they don't specifically look for it).

In some states you may choose to visit, and medical marijuana is legal, you may be able to buy it directly with an authorizing card, or arrange up to thirty days ahead of time. In other states, you're out of luck.

Why the inconsistency? Part of it is undoubtedly cultural, that marijuana was seen as an outlaw drug, and a precursor to worse things.

But another reason may be found in the sonnet below. It doesn't necessarily reflect my opinion, but rather thoughts that I've seen expressed in online cancer forums.

And so, if you're with me to here...what would Jesus do? Wine mixed with myrrh was given Him on the Cross, presumably to control the pain, but what would He say about marijuana and opioids and the other things we turn to?

I honestly don't have a clue.

Temp'erture and dew point

and all their little friends.

It's too damp out to smoke a joint

before the night-time ends.

See, I've got a condition,

and weed settles me down.

Why should I need permission 

from some suited DC clown?

But that's the way the whole thing goes,

no thinking 'bout the little guy,

for as most all people knows,

the fingers in Big Pharma pie

will close the door to cleaner care

because there is no profit there.

Sylvia worries about my having excessive pain, but figures that cuddles and ice cream will fix anything.

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Refiner's Fire

 An end to all the moto talk,

and chest-beating just fades away

as I no longer walk the walk

and am compelled to face each day 

on its own terms, and not on mine;

I am a hostage to its whims,

to the flame that may refine

my soul from oh, so many sins.

At least I hope and pray it's true,

that cancer is a crucible 

and when its work at last is through 

the remaining irreducible

parts that long ago were me

are fit for Holy company.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is SAME.

Jesus Christ, He is the same

now, yesterday, forevermore,

and we praise His holy name, but do we really know the score,

that He did not one day decide

to take the Cross, free us from sin?

In His DNA was pride

that would not let the devil win.

We have that double-helix too,

deep within what we ignore,

but if we go and push on through

faith's heavy-hung and golden door,

we can stand next to the bloke

who saved us all from Hades' smoke.

Three minutes thirty.

Sylvia's been through the fire. Her advice is to work on my tan.

Your Biggest Fan (Tell His Story)

 Just how will you tell His Story,

the greatest story ever told?

Will your words cloak Him in glory,

and will joyous praise be bold,

or will you speak of bitter days,

the worst times you have been through 

when you and faith had parted ways,

but how He parted not from you?

Either point of view is valid,

either shines with His love's light.

Just as many fruits make salad,

He has many ways to fight

for you the sinful fallen man,

because the Christ's your biggest fan.

And Sylvia just KNOWS that He likes ice cream!

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A Prayer For The Living

Sometimes the road has gotta end,

and we don't know the how or why.

There are some things that God can't mend,

and so sometimes it's time to die.

This is not what I would choose,

'cause I still have a lot to give,

and there's not much else to lose...

except ability to live,

so God, if you can read these lines,

I know you CAN, but are you there?

I won't ask for better times,

nor for mansions in the air,

but please incline Your head in sorrow

and give me just one more tomorrow.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is CHOICE. Feeling too ill for a sonnet. Will a haiku suffice?

Sakura must fall,

but the Forty-Seven Ronin

choose their honour.

Believe it or not, that took the full five minutes, and a bit more.

Sylvia thinks another tomorrow would be great, especially if it's got ice cream in it.

  

 

Holy, Or Holier-than-thou? (Tell His Story)

 Awhile back I heard a TV preacher (Andrew Wommack) say that he lived a holier life than most of his viewers, partially because he didn't drink nor smoke.

Well, certainly holier than me, because at the time I smoked one or two cigars a day, and still drink beer and wine. The things you learn when you hang out with Catholic priests and nuns!

But it does beg the question, is this kind of abstinence a true mark of holiness, or is Rev. Wommack inventing sins to subdue?

Certainly Paul came out strongly against drunkenness, but this is not the same as drinking. Indeed, wine and a

kind of mead were necessary staples of the day, because in that part of the world clean water was not easy to come by, and without refrigeration, things like juices were limited to the wealthy

 because of their short shelf life.

And, of course, Jesus and His followers did drink wine, as is amply documented in the Gospels.

Smoking is another story; it's not mentioned in Scripture, but one could say it's proscribed because it's harmful to the body, and can lead to addiction.

Certainly it doesn't do much good (I used cigars to help control pain and nausea), but as an addictive agent...well, ask any golf widow about addiction!

But I am no theologian, so I will throw the question out there...does abstinence from alcohol and tobacco make one holier, or merely (when trumpeted) holier-than-thou?

If you're interested, here's an article about winemaking in Bible times, which lists some modern equivalents.

After all that Sylvia needs a Hav-A-Tampa and a cold Corona.

 

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The Virtue Of Self-Pity

Yeah, that's an odd title. (And no, that's not Honey feeling sorry for herself. That's Honey stealing my bed.)

To most, self-pity is a culturally defined weakness, something to be held in contempt.

But is it?

If you can't genuinely feel sorry for yourself when you're facing hard trials, can you feel for anyone else?

Obviously, an excess of self-care is wrong, but, in this life, so is an excess of ANY virtue.

Does killing self-pity also devalue empathy and sympathy? Will you become like the centurion Rufus that Tacitus famously described, 'all the more relentless because he had endured it himself '? (BTW, Rufus did get his comeuppance, a blanket party given by his men, in which they put a blanket over his head - so he couldn't see who was there - and beat the tar out of him.)

I think the question is valid, mainly because...this is me. I cope with an increasingly painful and tiring situation by saying that it's mind over matter.

I don't mind, and it don't matter.

And, for me, it works. I've callused my own heart, and get through each day, doing what I still can, in good and upbeat style.

But someone pays the price...Barb, because if I don't really care about myself, how can she care about me without feeling foolish...and how can she trust my sympathy for her?

I need to change, but don't know how. And maybe more tellingly, I'm afraid I might not like what I become.

They will tell you it's a sin

if you go and pity you,

but it's somewhere to begin 

to learn to pity others, too.

Being hard has much allure 

to men who went through life like me,

but it cannot be a cure,

and indeed blocks sympathy 

for those who've been less fortunate,

and are perhaps more sensitive,

so don't let your heart denigrate 

who they are or how they live,

for the pride in your stiff back

only highlights what you lack.

As further food for thought, here's a clip from The Fellowship Of The Ring

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is COVER. Can I cover that subject? We'll see.

Cover is as cover does,

it keeps you safe from harm.

Though you hear the bullets buzz,

you need feel no alarm,

for they cannot get to you,

on their single-minded path.

Knowing that this is quite true,

you can stop to laugh,

but not too long, so have a care

that the little folk are banking

on your being unaware 

that they might be flanking,

and in your mind this thought might lurk,

'Shoulda found another line of work!'

Three minutes flat. Experience matters.

Sylvia thinks anyone who isn't her

 SHOULD feel sorry for themselves.

Mercy (Tell His Story)

 What are your thoughts on mercy?

Mercy for the spring weeds

is a sentence of death

for the fall harvest.

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Old School

Gotta face your own truths eventually.

Sometimes it hurts.

And sometimes it's fun.

I am the hippest man you'll find,

and lately Barb said this to me,

that I have the finest mind

of the sixteenth century,

for I live in a state of grace,

not wreathed in dust upon a shelf,

where men and women know their place

and live in God's own sense of self.

The world may dance its merry tune,

but I'm not in the least upset.

It is not spinning to its doom,

and will come to ken this, yet,

that the finest life to choose

is bullets, Bible, and cheap booze.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is REVERSE.

Going back's what I don't do,

for in the lack there's sorrow,

and so I will laugh and push through 

unto my bright tomorrow 

in which my health will be restored,

and my heart will beat to run

as by time-keepers I am scored

through a sprinting mile of fun,

and then I'll drop on the green grass,

winded but with happy smile,

thinking of those that I did pass 

with speed and grace and yeah, with style,

knowing that to win the race

you need to leap and grab God's grace.

Four minutes. OK.

Sylvia is rolling her eyes. She's good at that.

This Space Is Yours (Tell His Story)

 I'm way too ill at the moment to offer original content, beyond some thoughts on life and death and legacy.

I thought I'd be a Man of Air,

denizen of the sky,

but for that life I did not care,

and so I ceased to fly,

deferring to a martial creed

(I always liked to fight),

and later thought I had the need 

to cogitate and write

about where all my days had led,

but this muse, too, deserted me,

and here where all old dreams are dead

I look around but fail to see

what legacy is all about...

('Look, a SQUIRREL!', that happy shout.).

But I really am happy. God is good. No complaints.

However, someone does keep stealing my ice cream!

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Blonde Moments

 

Have the feeling that the whole country is going through an extended Blonde Moment?

And...yes, Real Men Do Colour Their Hair, and I will say no more.

In the Country of the Blonde

the Brunette gal is queen,

for her wisdom goes beyond 

what anyone has seen.

Her raven hair is colorfast,

and she has The Look.

They say, sometime in ages past,

she may have read a book!

The Blondes drive their convertibles,

their Brunette Queen holds court,

and in this the Blonde Joy is full,

for they know who holds the fort:

yes, perhaps Blondes have more fun,

but the Brunette gets it done.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is THROUGH.

I am through with being blonde,

an object of brunette derision!

It is time to go beyond 

this fate, so here is my decision.

I'll go to the cosmetics aisle,

and peruse the darker shades

'till I find one that brings a smile,

and then these way cool chemists' aids

will change my life, just wait and see,

for all around me will assume 

that there might be far more to me 

than the dumb blonde in the room.

All that can make this plan go south 

is needing to open my mouth.

Sylvia asks, 'So which am I?'