Spelling Counts (Tell His Story)

Hope you had a chance to watch the US Open this weekend, and the courageous come-from-behind win of J.J. Spaun.

Ah, golf...my old beguiler...

 Gotta hand it to old Scottish shepherds;

crook and stone, they played their shots

and then found, that just like leopards,

they could no longer change their spots

for they had become addicted 

the cruel mistress of a game,

but in their love they weren't conflicted

and life would never be the same

and down the years golf widows wept;

on weekend dawns their men departed

and no promises were kept

for the honey-do's they left unstarted,

but ladies, know tail wags the dog,

and, spelled backwards, golf is flog.

Sylvia says, No Golf! McDonald's ice cream instead.

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Air India 171

First, our friends Pam and Tony have just rolled out Shake N' Bake, their summer dessert and ice cream truck...the cheesecake and pineapple upsidedown cake are delicious ( and are what we've had so far). Please drop by their blog!

And now to Ahmedabad, with prayers and love.

On their way to London

and then a turn of fate

from what was to would become

a walk through Heaven’s Gate.

In that last stark blinding fear

I pray they felt embrace

of the One who holds them dear

and beheld His face,

and of those left here to toil

in memory and weeping,

please let them feel anointing oil

and hear, “They are but sleeping,

and will awake in My strong arms

to wait for you, now safe from harms."

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is PANIC.

There was one survivour there

who walked of of the flame

of hell falling through the air 

and Ramesh is his name.

He spoke of anguished seatmates,

he told of frightened screams

of those who clearly saw their fates,

but never in his dreams

did he think he would emerge

from this crucible.

He wonders that he did deserve 

this signal miracle

that nonetheless did bear a cost,

the well-loved brother that he lost.

Sylvia mourns.

The Worst Of Sins (Tell His Story)

I promised to be honest, and sometimes it's not fun.

This is one of those times.

A couple of days ago I acted a right bastard towards Barb. I can't even remember why (except that it was a pride thing), and would be tempted to blame it on extreme pain, fear, and the generally awful feeling of where the cancer journey is today, but that would be dishonest.

I had the choice to say, or not say, something cruel, and the choice to persist.

Barb has forgiven me, but I have to forgive myself... otherwise I'm rejecting her forgiveness.

And that's wrong, and that's prideful. Which is where the whole thing started.

But the hardest thing is yet to come...joining the dance again, without either putting lipstick on the pig of my actions, or staring at the ground in a kind of self-indulgent guilt that is really a passive-aggressive demand for pity (oh, poor me, the pain made me do it!).

It's time to be a man, admit my misdeeds, and do my best to contribute to the common good.

And the common happiness.

 Sometimes it's all going well

and you are on a roll,

and then it just goes all to hell 

and failure takes its toll.

Sometimes you live in God's bright graces

with kindness as your guide,

and then a harsh cold word erases

all with foolish pride,

and you're left with a ruined heart,

distanced from the Lord

and those who had taken your part

now seem to turn, your sins abhorred,

but this too is your prideful state,

indulgence in squalid self-hate.

Sylvia doesn't have a problem with self-loathing, even when she chews up a book.

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While God Isn't Looking

 You have to make the choice each day

of how you're gonna live,

of whether you will kneel and pray,

and in your prayers forgive

the people who have done you wrong

and made your life a mess,

but as the process goes along,

you may as well confess 

the wrongs that you have perpetrated

through negligence and spite,

self-indulgence that you've orchestrated,

plotting in the night,

the pot of rancid stew a-cooking

when you thought God wasn't looking.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is HONOUR.

We say we want to honour God

through all our days and years,

to live so humble, quiet, awed

and ready for surrender's tears,

but then we get a wild hard hair 

where it ain't s'posed to be,

and we find we do not care

for bland humility.

We really want to live out loud,

to make our being large,

to stand so brassy, tall and proud

as if we are in charge,

and God just smiles and gives us space 

to trip and fall into His grace.

Sylvia doesn't care for stew.

All Dogs Go To Heaven (Tell His Story)

 Say hi to Mr. Precious Peanut Buster, ten pounds of cheerful dominance. He's supervising Strawberry.

He came to us yesterday; Latte, Cocoa's brother, passed away last week and Cocoa needed someone his own size.

Everyone loves Precious, and they keep an eye on him so he doesn't try to escape the property.

And so the world goes 'round the sun,

and thus mem'ries are made,

gladness, sorrow, tears and fun,

and graves lie in the shade,

but I know that the grave's a lie,

for nothing good is ever lost.

God has said we will not die,

and paid the fearful cost

that I think truly extends

to the dogs that share our days,

for they are much more than friends,

and I trust God's good ways

not to break my fragile heart,

but have in Heaven a doggy part.

Sylvia has friends in Paradise, which does not mean she'll be sharing ice cream with them.

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