A Prayer For The Babies (Tell His Story)

There is a child that's just been born,

arrived the other day.

He deserves a world untorn,

and to this end I pray

that bladed words might be made new

to comment on the love and grace

which may one day be coming true

to heal this sad and lonely place,

and so I will begin it here,

and let compassion fly

gently to where air is clear,

and maybe, by and by,

others might come to understand,

and walk in beauty, hand in hand.p

Sylvia loves children, and peace.

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Torn Between Earth And Heaven

 

I died last night.

I was led Home by Ofhi Tobi, the white dog who is the guide of Barb's people, the Chickasaw.

Heaven is a lot like where I am now. A double wide on a desert mesa. There were dogs, and a horse named Cinnamon, and neighbours shooting off guns for the sheer joy of it. Someone brought a Carl Gustav.

There were angels. I asked one, a black man with a shaved head, "What the hell is going on?"

He replied, "That's the best question anyone's ever asked, on coming here."

I said that it all seemed so real, unlike any dream.

"That's because it is real."

My body kept trying to come back to this life, and I was torn between here and Eternity.

I don't know how many times I came back to this place, and then bounced back to Heaven.

Finally all became still, and I was breathing Earthly air. Very shaky.

Since then I can't stop crying. I don't know why. It's neither sorrow nor joy, so far as I can tell.

I can't write a sonnet right now. This had been overwhelming.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is EXPLAIN.

I can't explain the tears, and I don't want to try.

I do want to explain to you that this is, not WAS, a reality. A place beyond dreams, more real than Earthly life itself.

But how do I describe the sounds and smells and touch that are never found in dreams, and are heightened far beyond what one experiences in this world?

Words fail, here.

I just want you to know that hope is affirmed, and I don't know how.

Sylvia is glad I'm back.

How Not To Treat A Spouse (Tell His Story)

 In Vietnamese culture, one is enjoined to treat one's spouse as an honoured guest.

Well, today I didn't do that.

Precious ChiWeenie, all eight pounds of him pictured above, got off the property, and I was horrified. I can't chase a runaway dog; I can barely walk.

I called Barb at work and was really dreadfully rude. I was angry with myself for inadequately supervising the little guy, and took it out on her.

That's inexcusable.

She came home to help look, and as she pulled up to the gate, guess who was waiting for her? Yes, Precious.

The bad feelings have, for Barb, passed. She wasn't pleased with my behaviour, but understood it.

I will eventually forgive myself, but I will be watchful of my thoughts and words, more so, for now on.

And Precious will be walking on a leash for awhile.

Sylvia says, c'mon, Dad! He knows where he lives, and he proved it.

And I bit you once, when the ice cream didn't come fast enough. I got over it.

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The Subtle Danger Of Fiction

I was never that much of a fan of fiction (though I do have two novels published on Kindle, with the kind help of Carol Ashby), but recently a friend prevailed upon me to give Tom Clancy a try.

And he's good. The stories are well-thought-out, interweaving plot lines leading to a climax that is satisfying, tying up each loose end, except for some that are meant for the next book in its sequence.

But...life isn't like that, at least from the perspective of we who live ours.

Things start and stop, and leave a wake that is a question-mark on our time here.

Ordinarily, that's fine, and the purpose of reading fiction, beyond entertainment, is to try to see a kind of order, God's purpose writ small by a human author, if you will.

But sometimes we're past that, and we're dealing with the tag-ends of a life that no longer seems to be capable of following a plan, and we may therefore feel that something's gone very wrong, something that can't be fixed.

The stories become more real than our own, and better than our own.

And we feel like driftwood on the stormy wave.

And here, though it's hard, we have to fall back on God's ways not being our ways, His thoughts not being our thoughts.

Antoine de St. Exupéry said it well in Polite de Guerre (published in English as Flight to Arras):

We are individual stones in a mighty edifice, whose completed design we shall need more time and more peace to see in its proper perspective.

Our stories seem to have no arc,

no plot-line with its steady flow.

We wander sometimes the dark

through a land we do not know,

ushered onward by a fate 

sightless as Mr. Magoo,

pushing hard on every gate

which we must pull, that we go through.

But we may, in the dark of night,

when pain and fear cut to the bone,

catch the bright and fleeting sight

of Purpose beyond our own

that in time we will stand among

the heirs to Our Lord's Kingdom Come.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is THRILL.

Tom Clancy's books can be a thrill

(they're techno-thrillers, after all!),

a ride down a Death Mountain hill

into what seems a solid wall

of danger and of dreadful fate,

with pain and loss along the way,

and just before it seems too late

the hero comes to save the day,

which, when it is given thought,

is like our Christianity.

Our putrid sins, they really ought

to damn us for eternity,

but in our place the Saviour stands,

His death to place us in God's hands.

Sylvia sometimes thinks she is fortunate that she can't read.

Mr. Toad Tells His Story

 We had a terrific thunderstorm over Saturday night, and then, before dawn, a visitor.

Can you tell me, Mr. Toad,

just where do your kind reside

when the waters have not flowed;

just where do you hide?

To the river it's a mile,

up the mesa it's four hundred feet,

so tell me, and we'll share a smile...

just how do we meet?

The Toad, he seems to meet my eyes,

but Ribbit's all he says.

Something 'bout him does look wise,

and as I hold his gaze

I find that there is wonder here

as clouds pass and the stars appear.

Sylvia tried to eat a toad. The toad was offended, and hopped away hissing, and Sylvia figured she'd stick to ice cream.

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Peace Train

 With the world seeming to go nuts, it feels kinda funny to write about my dealing with cancer. A bit like navel-gazing.

There's nothing constructive I can really do, save trying to write something positive, and hope that these word-ripples survive their trip across the water, and wash some distant shore.

'Agree to disagree' was fine,

at least that's how it seemed to me,

but now it's like we crossed a line,

and you're evil if you don't agree 

with the right or with the left

to love or madly loathe this nation,

but can't we see we're warp and weft,

the tapestry of God's Creation?

I think if we would just step back

and look at our foes with new eyes

we might regain something we lack,

and find out, that, to our surprise,

those we'd throw beneath the bus

are an awful lot like us.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is SPARK.

Lord, please let me be a spark

to light a golden flame

to banish demons of the dark,

to light Your Holy Name.

Lord, let me be a man of peace

'till my life's at an end.

Let the pride in my heart cease,

to see a potential friend

in all those whose paths might cross

mine as I walk my days,

for missing this would be a loss,

and so please make my ways

straight unto the barren hill

where sacrifice is measured still.

Maybe this is appropriate music to add, Cat Stevens' Peace Train.

Sylvia refuses to hate, though she still chases lizards.

Kintsugi (Tell His Story)

 Have you heard of kintsugi?

It's the art of repairing cracked pottery and ceramics with powdered gold or silver, mixed with lacquer.

Each repair is unique. The damage becomes part of the beauty.

It does take time and care.

Sylvia understands. We found her dying in a summer field. It took awhile for her to thrive.

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Sitting

Barb took this picture on leaving for work the other day.

I'm writing this at the end of a very long night of severely worse metastatic pain in my right femur. Sleep wasn't possible, and I was too tired to read or scroll Facebook (which I don't do), or even think.

But I had to be present for the pain, and let it go on as it would (I don't have painkillers).

I wish there were some epiphany connected with this, some great knowing suddenly revealed...but it was just pain, and I had to be here.

But maybe that IS the epiphany, that it's ok to just sit with a hard experience, not trying to distract, or make it go away.

Reminds me of a song I love, Cat Stevens' Sitting.

The night crawls by on turtle feet,

and there's nothing in my brain

except to know that I must meet

and sit here with the pain

that burns within my thinning leg

like a freshly broken bone,

but I know better than to beg

for relief; I'm not alone.

The Lord is with me, and His face 

is turned to me in full.

The stars above reflect His grace,

and I can feel the pull,

upward, through the darkling sky,

and I am not afraid to die.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is AFFECTION.

I have affection for my life,

dogs and uke and aeroplanes, too,

and Jesus Christ and my dear wife,

so I guess I will stay true 

to the principle of living

every day as best I can,

taking less than I am giving;

that's what it means to be a man

in these days of grinding pain,

my own and that of this great nation,

and so for now I will refrain

from worry 'bout either situation 

letting peace and love take wing 

in every single song I sing.

Sylvia's not afraid either, 'cause she knows there's ice cream in Heaven.

World Full Of Hope (Tell His Story)

 We've come to a dreadful place

where hate rules above all,

but there is still some ample grace;

the tides still rise and fall,

and there is the autumn rain,

and the snows to come

that will ease the birthing pain

of a world that's remade young.

The sparrows will then make their nest 

when next spring arrives,

and parent-birds will do their best

that every hatchling thrives,

so turn away from mournful news

and glory in God's gift of views.

Sylvia likes to bark at sparrows.

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Called To Forgive

 I have seen the news this week,

and I have vengeance in my heart.

I would dearly love to wreak

havoc on those who tore apart 

the fabric of society 

with their vile and loathsome acts,

the parade of putrid cruelty,

but, my friend, these are the facts,

that those who perpetrated death

can be God's children, just like me.

They live from breath to breath to breath,

and though they are to blind to see

the evil that they choose to live,

Christ still calls me to forgive.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is PICK.

Forgiveness ain't what I would pick

for the monsters on our streets,

and it makes me kind of sick

that one only in forgiveness meets

the Christ that offers His salvation 

to even the worst of these.

I mean, really, my situation 

ain't that bad, so maybe please

let me be both judge and jury,

let revenge be mine, not Thine,

let me drop the jerks and bury

them somewhere in the sands of time.

Let me, Lord send them to hell...

"Fine, but you'll go there as well."

Sylvia says forgiveness is best served with ice cream.

Where The Wild Things Are (Tell His Story)

 I'm sort of too ill to put up a meaningful post today, but if anyone wants to know what life with a lot of dogs is like...the read-aloud of Where The Wild Things Are above pretty much tells the story. It's less than four minutes, but you'll want to pause often to savour the artwork.

And by all means, if you don't have a copy of Where The Wild Things Are

hie thyself off to Amazon posthaste.

Sylvia agrees.

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Nothing Personal

 Cancer's not a person,

never was, can never be,

but it's made a better version 

of the man I know as Me.

The petty needs all fall away,

ambition's cast aside,

and as I face my dying day

there is no-where to hide,

but in facing down the end

and looking past the veil of tears

I see the beauty 'round the bend

that folds away the fears

that came from avarice and sin,

and that now can never win.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is LEGACY.

If there's a legacy I leave 

to those I lived among,

let it be that I believe 

that Hope's a lot of fun.

Maybe it is odds against,

maybe folks say quit,

but I say, dude, don't fold your tent,

and just ride out the worst of it

because one day the sun will shine

from a clearer sky.

And you will know that dreadful time

was not your time to die,

so snap your fingers as self-goad

and boogie down the bricky road.

Sylvia things I'm a better man for sharing more ice cream.

It Sings! (Tell His Story)

 It has a voice!

The Flying V tenor ukulele actually sings (my hands are pretty stiff and awkward, but I'll learn).

It was fun to build, with a neck bought from Walmart, and the rest stuff I had lying around.

The picture was taken before the strings and tuning pegs were installed. The body is plywood, with blah grain, so I painted it. It's a gold undercoat, with misted blue and green.

I really enjoyed building it. Making an instrument that can produce music... that's

 special.

And Sylvia didn't even howl.

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Minneapolis, And The Normalization Of Hate

The Murder of the Innocents in Minneapolis wasn't about gun control or trans people.

It was about hate, and how our culture has normalized it.

Who hasn't laughed at an Internet troll? I certainly have.

But it goes so much further.

From Jew-free zones tolerated by college officials at public universities (yes, UCLA, that's you) to planting spies in Catholic and evangelical congregations (Joe Biden, take a bow!) to blanket bans on travellers from Muslim countries (hey, The Donald, are you here?), we've accepted and embraced hatred.

During President Trump's first term (as the 45th president), the governor of Michigan, Gretchen Whitmer, had a sign on her desk: "8645".

To 86 something means to get rid of it, and the definition includes killing 

The former director of the FBI, James Comey, posted seashells arranged to say 8647...Donald Trump now being the 47th president.

The closest thing I remember from Joe Biden's term was a chant from a NASCAR race, " Let's go, Brandon!", being turned into "F*** Joe Biden!". It's maybe not as inducing of violence, but it's still wrong. (And it may be that the insult to Biden came first...it was first heard when the when the winner of a race at Talladega, Brandon Brown, was being interviewed and the sportscaster interpreted it as "Let's go Brandon!".)

The temptation is to say it has to stop, NOW, but that's just virtue-signalling.

It has to stop at the root, and the root is deep.

And when you get to the deepest part of the root, don't judge, 'cause in God's eyes, you're there too, as am I.

Yesterday there was a child

ready for the coming day,

clothes in order, hair well-styled,

set for learning and for play.

Today there is a varnished box

with a picture set on top,

and it's closed-casket, so there's locks,

and we just weep for time to stop,

and for another universe 

in which the good do not die young,

that awful true and holy curse 

for us, condemned to live among

the idols of permissive hate

that we set up as our fate.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is BEHIND.

Look behind you, in the mirror.

Look, be sure and clear your eye

that you see them, ever clearer.

Look, and wave the dead goodbye.

See the children that we failed,

see the holes in feet and hands.

See how hatred has prevailed 

in this most highly blessed of lands

whose graces we have cast aside

to embrace a shallow wrath,

leaving these words, full of pride.

to be our grizzly epitaph:

"We are no babe, lost in a wood;

leave us! to find our greatest good!"

Sylvia will share her ice cream, because ice cream is THE antidote to hate.

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.