Of Cracker Barrels And Wineskins (Tell His Story)

 Honestly, if the corporate reimagining of Cracker Barrel was the worst thing in the world, we'd be blessed beyond measure.

But it's still a thing, and calls to us to at least think about it.

Cracker Barrel had been a piece of Americana, a throwback to a less busy, gentler time. We didn't go there for the food (still ok, though not what it was). We went for the ambience, a cluttered awkward place where the past had presence. Where we could get an after-church breakfast of cholesterol and diabetes from a waitress named Mabel, who smoked three packs a day and called you Honey.

Now it's gonna be like McDonald's, with sanitized folk art on the wall over your booth (no need to coordinate with the neighbouring table, yeah?).

All good, except for what's been lost, and the condescending attitude of the CEO (who came from Mattel and Taco Bell) and the Chief Marketing Officer (who came from the Vegas casino world):

"The objections come from a vocal minority."

The real problem is that these people are trying to pour new, fermenting wine, in the form of a new demographic that they're chasing, into an old wineskin. The hipsters they want to lure in may like the decor on the Internet, but they're not likely to come. They have their places.

And the established, loyal customers feel rejected, and will stay away.

It's just a restaurant.

But...has this been the story of your church, your denomination?

Or, worse, have you done something I did, put your life into a new paradigm, and tried to pour your new wine into the old wineskins of long-term friendships, to see them sadly split?

They trashed Americana 

and took the old man down,

just words, now, like banana

on a field of muddy brown.

Inside it's now sleek and bright 

with craft-store wall displays 

in which all of the suits delight,

but they forgot who pays

them for their educated brains,

and for the Florida retreat.

They do not see the coming rain,

nor hoofbeats of defeat

as we who loved what's cast aside

find other places to abide.

We found a Mom and Pop here, that serves pancakes the way Sylvia likes them.

Not, by any means, a short stack.

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Making Fun Of Old Poets (Tell Hi Story Even When He Rolls His Eyes)

I've written I guess about 7000 Shakespearean sonnets; at around 100 words per, the total word count blew past War And Peace and is nibbling at the Bible's heels.

So I guess that makes me a poet, but I really cringe at the label, mainly because of what other posts did, and worse, looked like.

For example, to pick on someone who's long dead, consider Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and his opium-fueled "just what is this dude trying to say" poem Kublai Khan.

And the guy looked like a total dork, but I guess so did everyone in the early 19th century. 

And that, no doubt, is what they would say about me. But I do not use opium.

I drink beer.

In Xanadu did Kublai Khan

a stately pleasure dome decree,

but I style myself Marlboro Man;

a pleasure dome just ain't for me.

He built the thing right by a river;

Alph, of all things, was its name;

the Alien Life Form did deliver

beyond its too-long 80s fame,

but really, this poem's stupid stuff,

and Coleridge had a messed-up head.

He was a druggie, sure enough

and the narcotics killed him dead,

but I write fine, shove comes to push,

with an ice-cold can of Busch.

So there!

Sylvia, don't roll your eyes like that. They'll get stuck.

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Crimson Tide - Ukulele Picture!

I'm down to one bowl of rice a day (made with a mixture of orange and cherry juice, canola oil, and some bacon bits).

Nonetheless, cancer is not winning. In this hopeless place, the spread of my arms expands, to embrace my purpose, and my dreams.

And here's the ukulele, waiting to be strung!

It's hard to know just what to do,

just how to tell the tale.

My lips are getting kinda blue,

and nailbeds getting pale.

The dunny holds a crimson tide,

but this is not no 'Bama song.

There's really nowhere I can hide

from all that's going wrong,

but every hour's still my own

to do with as I will.

I can whine and moan and groan,

or try yet to fulfill 

the dreams that God placed in my soul

to make me human, make me whole.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is OPPOSITE.

Life is full of yan and ying,

the circle with swirly design.

There's good and bad, but here's the thing:

in my heart, I am just fine

because I never was beholden 

to senses of entitlement.

I guess I am just part of olden

days when you went where you're sent

to do what was assigned to you

without question, without thought 

that maybe when the work is though

the pow'rs that be really ought 

to give you secret special token...

not hardly, mate, you must be jokin'!

And so, today the ukulele got it's soundboard attached, and the framing of the Spitfire rudder spar is done.

And Sylvia got her ice cream.

The Psalmist (Tell His Story)

 Have you read the Psalmist's words,

laments that are too deep to speak,

love and pride and fear and swords,

the feeble hero, strength of the weak?

Do you understand the songs 

and can you sound out every line,

seeing where each note belongs

in the ears of The Divine?

How did we deserve this blessing,

handed down through all the years

that leads us to our glad confessing

of our joys and of our fears

as we kneel in grateful praise

of the One who loves our days?

Sylvia says Right On, and she'd share some ice cream with the dude.

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Psalm 5 - Your Thoughts (Tell His Story)

 5 Give ear to my words, O Lord, consider my meditation.

2 Hearken unto the voice of my cry, my King, and my God: for unto thee will I pray.

3 My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O Lord; in the morning will I direct my prayer unto thee, and will look up.

4 For thou art not a God that hath pleasure in wickedness: neither shall evil dwell with thee.

5 The foolish shall not stand in thy sight: thou hatest all workers of iniquity.

 6 Thou shalt destroy them that speak leasing: the Lord will abhor the bloody and deceitful man.

7 But as for me, I will come into thy house in the multitude of thy mercy: and in thy fear will I worship toward thy holy temple.

8 Lead me, O Lord, in thy righteousness because of mine enemies; make thy way straight before my face.

9 For there is no faithfulness in their mouth; their inward part is very wickedness; their throat is an open sepulchre; they flatter with their tongue.

10 Destroy thou them, O God; let them fall by their own counsels; cast them out in the multitude of their transgressions; for they have rebelled against thee.

11 But let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice: let them ever shout for joy, because thou defendest them: let them also that love thy name be joyful in thee.

12 For thou, Lord, wilt bless the righteous; with favour wilt thou compass him as with a shield.

I'm way too ill to offer anything this week. Cancer has me on the ropes, but I'll be delighted to hear your thoughts on Psalm 5. I may not be well enough to reply, but I do read your comments.

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The Whole Point Of Hope

I have projects that I'm very unlikely to live to complete.

They're long-term, physically gruelling, and looking at where I am, where cancer is...well, it's not going to happen. Walking up three steps from the porch to the front door is a challenge...and he wants to build an aeroplane...and fly it.

Yeah, well.

But I'll keep going. Not so much in the hope that maybe God will heal me, maybe maybe maybe...but more in the hope that I can be a man about all this, and not simply yield to fate.

There's more to life than palliative care, more than a drugged descent into degradation.

Not because 'maybe'.

Because definitely.

I can die facing forward.

Die like a man.

 The point of hope is not denial,

I hope you understand.

Its purpose is to wear a smile,

and dying, play the man

with a bright and cheerful face,

with work of sternest discipline,

for it is thus that our Lord's grace

empowers us to win

the laurels becoming golden crown

when we pass through Heaven's gate,

and though it tempts to wear a frown

in facing Earthly fate,

just think ahead, and look to see

the future of your victory.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is ACCUMULATE.

I'd like to gather up God's grace,

accumulate it, all in bags

so that it would not share its space

with my virtues, filthy rags,

but that's just not how this thing works,

God's big thing is healing hurt,

and He spends His Love on jerks

like me, who wallow in the dirt

like pigs so happy in the pen 

(no, they do not want a bat Andh!),

but this is now and that was then

and this will be my epitaph:

Clean me up, God, as You could,

but let me still smell my old mud.

And if anyone read my comment on the Five Minute Friday link for this week, here's a picture of Barb's Flying V tenor ukulele, in progress.

Golden crown and ICE CREAM, says Sylvia.

But no mud.

Psalm 4 - Silently Calling To God ((Tell His Story)

 For the director of music,  with stringed instruments.

A psalm of David.

1 Answer me when I call to you,

    my righteous God.

Give me relief from my distress;

    have mercy on me and hear my prayer.

2 How long will you people turn my glory into shame?

    How long will you love delusions and seek false gods?

3 Know that the Lord has set apart his faithful servant for himself;

    the Lord hears when I call to him.

4 Tremble and do not sin;

    when you are on your beds,

    search your hearts and be silent.

5 Offer the sacrifices of the righteous

    and trust in the Lord.

6 Many, Lord, are asking, “Who will bring us prosperity?”

    Let the light of your face shine on us.

7 Fill my heart with joy

    when their grain and new wine abound.

8 In peace I will lie down and sleep,

    for you alone, Lord,

    make me dwell in safety.

There's a story about two priests who were at seminary together, Fathers Ryan and O'Rourke.

Father O'Rourke spent almost all his free time in prayer, beseeching God for wisdom and discernment. He served for years as a parish priest, but always asked God for a way ahead, to rise in the church hierarchy.

Father Ryan did the obligatory prayers, but enjoyed a game of golf, a drink, and the fellowship of his parishioners. He became a monsignor, then a bishop, then an archbishop, and was finally elected to the College of Cardinals.

Father O'Rourke felt a bit put off.

"God, I have spent literally years on my knees, asking ceaselessly for Your favour. And yet...Father Ryan has risen far past where I can now go. Why, God? Why him, and not me?"

And God answered, " Because Ryan wasn't always bugging Me!"

For some reason, Psalm 4 reminds me of the song 'Flowers', by Samantha Ebert.

Sylvia likes quiet meditative prayer.

With ice cream.

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Not Sure I Can Keep This Up

 

Had a fall over the last weekend, landed on the eraser end of a pencil and drove it into my temple, a depressed skull fracture but not bad enough for trephine.

Still, it could have been worse. I could have landed on the sharpened point, driven it further in, and Barb would have had a neat picture for Facebook.

It's very hard to write. I hope that passes, but if not, well, it'll be adios.

Que será, será,

whatever will be, will be

it could be fine, or blah,

so I guess we'll see.

There might be another chance,

or maybe it's time to go

with tears and a backwards glance,

I guess soon we'll know.

But if I have to go away

and leave all this in the past,

please let me right now say

that I've had a blast

and count myself richer than any king;

I would not change a thing.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is PERCEPTION.

Perception is a fleeting thing,

not substantive at all,

and to it circumstance may bring

harsh changes, from a fall,

and now my world's an altered place

that spins at a mad tilt,

and I must offer myself grace

and see myself rebuilt 

in body, mind, immortal soul,

to find a way ahead,

a road on which I may be whole 

and live in hope, not dread,

for the closing of one door 

may open many, many more.

That took more than five minutes. Words are hard to catch, fractious squirrels dashing through the shadowed thickets of my mind.

Sylvia prescribes ice cream. Eat enough, and I'll be fine.

Psalm 3 - Leaning Into God (Tell His Story)

1  Lord, how are they increased that trouble me! many are they that rise up against me.

2 Many there be which say of my soul, There is no help for him in God. Selah.

3 But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.

4 I cried unto the Lord with my voice, and he heard me out of his holy hill. Selah.

5 I laid me down and slept; I awaked; for the Lord sustained me.

6 I will not be afraid of ten thousands of people, that have set themselves against me round about.

7 Arise, O Lord; save me, O my God: for thou hast smitten all mine enemies upon the cheek bone; thou hast broken the teeth of the ungodly.

8 Salvation belongeth unto the Lord: thy blessing is upon thy people. Selah.

King David had a really dysfunctional family he wrote Psalm 3 when forced to flee from Jerusalem to escape Absalom...his son.

But he recognized that God was his REAL family, and leaned into God's strength for his needs and rescue.

How are you doing that today?

The original meaning of the word 'selah' is unknown; it's taken to be a musical break in rhythm, or, here, a pause for meditation.

  Sylvia feels beset when she doesn't have ice cream, but God always provides.

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So God Sent An Ant

 An ant carried a popcorn piece 

('twas much bigger than he),

and as I watched I got release 

from what had troubled me,

the thought that aspirations 

had now outstripped my strength,

that these miscalculations 

could not endure at length.

But the ant went out the door 

to cross the vasty yard,

telling me I could do more

although it might be hard

while singing that old glad refrain

that nourished High Hopes in my brain.

And, of course, the song, courtesy Frank Sinatra.

Sylvia has high hopes for more ice cream.

Psalm 2 : Don't P*** Off God And His Boy (Tell His Story)

 

1 Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?

2 The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the LORD, and against his anointed, saying,

3 Let us break their bands asunder, and cast away their cords from us.

4 He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh: the Lord shall have them in derision.

5 Then shall he speak unto them in his wrath, and vex them in his sore displeasure.

6 Yet have I set my king upon my holy hill of Zion.

7 I will declare the decree: the LORD hath said unto me, Thou art my Son; this day have I begotten thee.

8 Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession.

9 Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; thou

 shalt dash them in pieces like a potter's vessel.

10 Be wise now therefore, O ye kings: be

11 Serve the LORD with fear, and rejoice with trembling.

12 Kiss the Son, lest he be angry, and ye perish from the way, when his wrath is kindled but a little. Blessed are all they that put their trust in

 him.

This Psalm isn't very subtle. Human bigshots are wanting to cut ties to God, and God's just laughing, because He knows what's coming (and have you ever thought that a laughing God could be scarier than a wrathful one?).

God has a Son, and the Boy is going to judge. He's not coming to give a pass, or relate to the scoffers...and there's no jury of peers.

HE is judge, jury, and executioner.

And once He's done with the kings and presidents and prine ministers, He'll turn His attention to those who seek to rule their own souls.

People like us.

Sylvia, being a dog, has already surrendered her heart and soul for ice cream, which, she is sure, comes from the Lord.

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King Of The Yellow Brick Road

 Man, it's gotten brutal,

this Symphony Of Pain,

and though it might seem futile,

I'd do it all again 

to grow past that old carnal man

into what today is me,

though what, exactly, I now am

is just a great bright mystery,

but the puzzle has an answer 

that I don't need to know,

as arm in arm with my friend cancer

down the road I go

skipping over yellow bricks,

once the reigning King Of Pricks.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is PERHAPS.

Perhaps I shall not die today,

or perhaps I will.

Perhaps cancer will have its way,

perhaps I'll be here still 

to endure until the sun

rests behind the hills;

not up to me, but to the One

Who in His Heaven wills

the parsing of our every hour

to form that which is best.

I am not angry, bitter, sour

that I must face this test,

but stand contented in the trust 

that I serve a God who's just.

Sylvia says I stopped being a prick when I learned to share ice cream.