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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