Rain On The Moon

 

It looks a little like the moon

after a hard desert rain,

and perhaps a bit too soon

the water into sand did drain,

but its passing left its sign

to be remarked appreciated;

something of the great Divine 

that sere land won't leave defeated,

for down and down the water goes

to join the great broad aquifer,

and then upward through wells it flows,

cool and fresh and clear and pure

like the part of God within

that never will be touched by sin.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is FACE.

Go out, and look up in the sky,

and look for evening grace

that is going to tell you why

the ol' Moon has a face.

It's not the shape of hills and seas

that form that Man who's in the Moon;

nor imagination that we seize 

like Burrough's far Barsoom.

No, our grand Moon shines on us

through reflected light

that makes neither demand nor fuss

in the quiet,

but simply lets us know that we

are lighted through Eternity.

If you have a chance, please visit the Etsy shop of our friends Pam and Tony. It's called New Morning Studio, and offers lovely faith-based crochet patterns.

Sylvia likes the taste of fresh rainwater. She also likes to splash in puddles.

Orange Man Bad? (Tell His Story)

 I don't like to pay attention to current events, but a ceasefire between Iran and Israel?

They love to hate the Orange Man,

they think he is a beast,

and the thing they cannot stand

is that he has brought peace

to a place of endless war

that threatened festering.

What else might he have in store,

this man they curse as king?

I don't know but I'm amazed

at things that I am seeing,

cities spared, and lives are saved

because one human being 

sought to make the legend real,

the man behind Art Of The Deal.

Sylvia asks, what's wrong with orange?

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Is Lamentation Vital To Worship, And To Love?

 

My New Year's Resolution was to be honest. Hang on.

I don't do lamentation (though Barb says I did, long ago). I wander through life like a happy smelly goat, either on my way from trouble, or on my way to it. This doesn't overlook the really hard pain and nausea of where cancer is now, but I'm ok with it all, and Why Me, Lord? just doesn't enter into it.

One of my favourite songs has always been Easy Come, Easy Go.

I guess that sums it up.

But it does beg the question...is this fundamentally, theologically wrong? And I cheating myself, and Barb, and God with a plaster shell so thick that it's become structure, and not mere weatherproofing?

After all, 30% of the Psalms are flat-out laments, and another 40% have lament as an overtone.

There's a Book Of Lamentations in the Old Testament, for crying out loud! (Get it?)

And Jesus famously lamented over Jerusalem, and over Lazarus' death.

Now, I won't say that nothing bothers me. One of the dogs dies, yeah, it hurts. But I get past it, sometimes uncomfortably quickly. It's more of I'm sorry it had to happen than a wail of anguish to shake Heaven. (Yes, everyone who knows me knows I care more about dogs than people.)

And I'm not saying that stainless steel emotions are a pose. I'm not impressing anyone, not even myself (the premise of this post shows that... I think).

But this may well be a deficiency, and a serious one, a wall that keeps Barb at arm's length, and keeps God further away than that (yes, I'm saying my wife is closer than the Almighty, deal with it).

Case in point...if you read The Last Lecture, you'll recall Randy Pausch describing embracing his wife as they wept together over his terminal diagnosis, and over his decline from pancreatic cancer.

It makes my skin crawl. I can't do that. I'll crack a joke, and in so doing completely betray my wife, and the oaths of marriage that I willingly took.

It's called 'leaving her heart in the dirt'. I was going to say 'dust', to make it maybe not sound so bad.

I do not share in her grief. In my manner, I make fun of it.

And what if the God in Whom I profess belief?

He is willing, even eager, to save and treasure my tears. But I won't share them. That I don't have them doesn't matter. God needs me to be broken, that I might be remade in His image, according to His Love.

We are supposed to die to ourselves to be born in Christ, and each death, even this necessary one, is worthy of lament.

No lamentation puts one into either the position of a child who says I'll do it myself!, but can't. He looks silly and, well, childish.

But worse, far worse, is the man who says I'll do it myself...and CAN.

He's relegated God to Plan B.

I'm afraid that's me.

So, what's to be done?

Well, maybe admitting that there's a problem is the first step.

And next, I can refrain from humour where it's out of place. I may not see a situation, like my own, as tragic, but I don't have to share my lack of concern.

This addrresses Barb, and maybe through her, I can come to God.

I'll make a joke of anything,

whatever fix that I am in,

in a search for what will bring

the ability to grin.

I don't worry that you weep,

you just do just what you can,

for you are a lowly sheep

and I am a full-grown MAN,

except that real men know the truth 

about love and its tears, and life,

and this marks me a callow youth

who cannot understand a wife

who yet can forgive again

the jerk who brings her so much pain.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is CIRCLE.

The Cyrkle has a lovely song

that really truly tells it all

about a love that's gone so wrong,

and it's called Red Rubber Ball.

It's about a bloke who gave

his heart to an uncaring gal,

and he thought nothing would save

him from an agonizing fall,

but happily he realized

that he could once again be free

for she, although highly prized 

was one starfish in the sea

and others might well take his love

as a gift from God above.

Sylvia says, in her best Mr. T growl, Grow up, FOOL!

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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