A Prayer For The Living (Tell His Story)

 Where have all the good days gone,

the days of health, the days of strength?

Every day now, 'fore the dawn,

I know there will be pain at length,

but I cannot turn from my task

to hold genuinely to a smile,

so this, my Lord, is all I ask,

that You hold me all the while

my body fades and wastes away,

through the endless aching night

and through the challenge of the day

that I remain, and that I might 

pass on the blessings I've received 

to the ones in greater need.

Syl suggests I not pass on my ice cream.

The Least Of These

We plan our days for times so great

that awe will drop us to our knees,

not taking care and time to wait 

and appreciate the least of these,

the brave weed-flower by the trail

to Grand Canyon's overlook;

we pass by in haste and fail

the test we never knew we took

that calls us to the caring glance

for the man beside the road

who perhaps had blown each chance

and now, with failure as his load

travels through a life of night

hoping for a mercy-light.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is WITHOUT.

They do without the things we take

for granted every single day,

and of nothing still can make

a plan, a life, a hope, a way

in places we don't deign to see,

and of course refuse to go.

So, we ask, how can it be

that Least Of These profess to know

the Christ that joins us in our feasts,

who's honoured in Easter Parade?

These people (more akin to beasts!)

seem to be why Heaven was made,

and when our Earthly days are gone

are the host that cheers us on?

Sylvia's chances were blown for her, as she waited in a field to die... until Barb stepped in.

Sometimes Things Don't Work Out (Tell His Story)

I promised to be honest, even when it's uncomfortable and embarrassing. This is both.

Trying to find food I can digest, that's light and still nutritious... I know!

Air-popped popcorn!

Some things really do not work

but yet have lessons they can teach

which bring you up with a sharp jerk

like a Pit Bull on a leash.

This was popcorn, fresh and light,

the brand was said to be the best,

and Barb and I thought it just might 

be much better to digest 

than bread or rice or fruit cocktail,

and it would give sodium,

but it proved an epic fail,

and earned itself opprobrium

when through intestines it had run

tore me, yes, a brand new 'one'.

Syl was glad to finish up the popcorn.

Hope On The Installment Plan

Hope without action is just wishful thinking.

The action can be physical, putting your heart into a future through the work of your hands. A new garden, a book you're writing, a home improvement. For me, it's building a small aeroplane (not a model, one I can fly).

Or it can be mental. There's the story of an American pilot who was shot down over North Viet Nam, and kept in awful conditions, in solitary confinement.

He could have surrendered to despair. Instead, he built his dream house...in his head. He drew up the plans, dug the foundations, built the walls, did the electrical and plumbing work...and did not let up, even for a day.

When released in 1973, he went home...and built that house.

You can't let cancer leave you sour;

you can find hope, you can!

But its bill comes due every hour

on God's installment plan.

It would be nice were it an app

to download to your brain,

but thinking like that is a trap

for it won't long remain

without the work that you put in

each and every day.

If you really want to win,

this is the only way,

to pay in effort every cost

that keeps your hope from being lost.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is SCARED.

Don't be scared to be afraid,

don't be afraid of shaking knees,

for that's the way that life is made,

and if you do not freeze

you'll find you, trembling, can go on

through things you thought you could not face;

you'll find that when all hope is gone

it leaves a kind of grace

that is the province of the lost 

who cannot hope for safety,

and who no longer count the cost

and learn a rawboned gaiety 

that leaves them dancing in the night,

shining with an inner light.

Syl finds hope in the existence of ice cream.

The Elephant In The Room (Tell His Story)

 

I think it's really time to fly

away from anger, loathing, hate;

wave it all a stern goodbye 

before the whole thing gets too late.

I don't know who you voted for,

and, in truth, I do not care.

I'm glad to open up a door

and offer you a comfy chair

and a cup of chamomile

along with a warm croissant.

The two of us can keep it real

and usher out the elephant 

that these days is in the room,

his acrid droppings hell's perfume.

Syl would go for a croissant.

Harvest Of Truth

 My New Year's Resolution was to be honest, even when it's uncomfortable.

I'm starting to lose the meaning. Self-delusion about my own strength and worth is being stripped away by day and night, and the holes in my faith and trust are starting to show.

Pain is doing this, of course, but also bodily humiliation and fatigue, and seeing even small aspirations pass beyond my reach.

I need the courage of full surrender, but it's not just a word, nor is it an action, once done with difficulty and then past.

It's a process, and may well call for more grit than I have.

I have to learn how to be brave

and reweave my warp and my weft

so that perhaps I can save

the worth of the time I have left,

to rise past the pain and despair,

to cling to the Foot of the Cross,

in blood-drops of He who hangs there

as ransom for sin and for loss,

and then perhaps raise my head

to look into the kindest of eyes

that offers Himself in my stead

if I can turn from self-told lies

that paint me as hero of old

but leave my heart lost in the cold.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is PERSUADE.

I've tried hard to persuade you all

that I am bulletproof,

but that tale us getting tall

and you deserve the truth,

to know I'm really terrified,

and to know that I 

do not care to be sanctified 

if it means I have to die,

for there are those who say to me

that I demonstrate faith and trust,

but the honest truth, you see

is that, really, I just 

want to these days to last and last,

and want this fatal cup to pass.

Syl offered me a lick of her ice cream. One lick.

Clowns Of Glory Tell His Story

I came to Christianity from a Buddhist background, and combined with hearing loss through prolonged exposure to really loud noises, I misheard some things.

Like, Jesus healed leopards. Since He's the Lion of Judah, thus seemed pretty cool, that He had an affinity for big cats, but what about tigers and cheetahs and panthers? Were they left out?

And then...

I hope I'll be surviving

to the ending of this story 

when Christ will be arriving 

with His Clowns of Glory,

whom I will then gladly join,

big red nose and floppy shoes,

and will then sinners enjoin

to hear the bright Good News

that Calvary was not a test,

but is a hospital.

It's not for the righteous best,

but for those who fell

and can only stand again

by His Blood, and by His Pain.

Sylvia rose from the blood of a dead puppy in her womb, and the pain if adandonment in a Texas summer field. She gets it, and she can still laugh.

No Choice But Forgiveness

 When you're tempted to the rage

at a world so badly flawed,

take a breath and turn the page

and place it in the hands of God

for He alone can bring the healing

of your anger and your cares,

and in His love will be revealing 

of the path up Dolorosa's stairs.

So journey on, and take each day

as it comes, and thus forgive

what pains your soul, and then you may

find a better way to live,

the way that Christ has shown to you,

for they know not what they do.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is VACANT.

Set up a sign, No Vacancy,

when anger comes to call,

and when it knocks ensure there be

no space for it at all.

Fill the rooms with happiness,

fill the lounge with love,

and every inch of spaciousness 

will call to God Above 

to bid Him join the happy crew,

all joyous in the dance,

for the Christ makes all things new 

and it takes just a glance

for the cheery heart to know

anger's not welcome, and now must go.

Ice cream helps.

Papist Funnies (Tell His Story)

 So, in the mid-fifties, Pope Pius XII decided that mass books needed an upgrade.

He hired Georges Braque to do the covers, but Braque was late on delivery, and thus...

The Cubist Missal Crisis.

Want more? No?

Three friends graduated from the seminary, and became Father Murphy, Father Owele, and Father Secola.

Years passed, and there were promotions. Monsignor Murphy, Monsignor Owele...but it was still Father Secola.

The hoops to the bishopric were passed, and wearing the red were Cardinal Murphy, Cardinal Owele...and...but it was still Father Secola.

Father Secola asked for an audience with the Holy Father, and it was granted.

"Eminence, my record is exemplary, I have served in every capacity ordained by the church...and I am still passed by."

The Vicar of Christ pursed his lips, sighed, and said, "I am so sorry, my son. It is an injustice, but please see that the Mother Church simply can't chance being led by Pope Secola."

Syl is always up for a bully laugh. And yes, I'm Catholic.

Peanut vs Angels...Guess Who Won?

It's been a rough couple of weeks, and God sent His angels to take me home.

Didn't quite work out the way He planned, I think.

Jesus is my Saviour,

but Peanut is my dog;

I need not this belabour,

and I admit no fog

in knowing what my heart must see

when Peanut chased angels away

on what had then been deemed to be

my glory, and my dying day,

for Peanut rose up with a roar,

my canine Galahad.

Great Danes ain't easy to ignore:

"Hands off, dude, that's My dad!"

And so I guess I'm gonna stay,

for Peanut really wants to play.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is ENGAGEMENT.

It might not always go well

engaging angels in a fight,

but who can know and who can tell

when it's wrong or right?

Jacob got another name

with his demanded blessing,

but his hip was not the same

after he'd been messing

with this strong and glowing being

through the night 'till dawn.

I wonder how angel was feeling,

and if he could go on

grappling with this stubborn guy

underneath the morning sky?

Didn't know I was going there, but here I am.

Sylvia will give her place to her litte brother for this week. And she'll even share some ice cream.

Yes, Peanut, like Barb, prefers Pepsi.

Forgiving God (Tell His Story)

 

How can I forgive You, God,

for the awful things I feel and see?

Is Your plan so badly flawed,

or does the problem lie with me,

that I don't understand the cost

You pay in grieving tears each day

for Paradise that Adam lost,

and for a world that's lost its way?

Do You have to stand aside

to let us daily make a choice

that we may, or maybe not, abide

in the hearing of Your voice

like sheep upon a grassy hill,

questioning their Shepherd's will?

Sylvia just hopes God's will always includes ice cream.

The Ugly

My New Year's Resolution was to be honest, and sometimes honest is ugly.

There is now nowhere to turn

where I might hide safe and escape

the fevers that do daily burn

the days that I have left, and shape 

me into something I detest,

a whining hypochondriac fool

who takes up worst to shame the best,

and ransoms hope for ridicule.

Lord, please set me on my feet

once more that I may yet remain 

something that is still complete,

and someone who can bear the pain

as I once did, and bear it still 

in honour of Your holy will.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is JOURNEY.

When I say that I am beat,

when I whine "This isn't fair!"

that's the thing that sets my feet

on the journey to despair.

When I dwell on what I've lost,

all the cool stuff I can't do,

it's thinking that bears a cost

that will poison and run through 

the life that yet to me remains,

toss the blessings to the floor,

make naught of the small gains,

and quite firmly shut the door 

in God's disappointed face

when He comes to offer grace.

Syl's worried. I'm not the Dad she knew.

You've Gotta Stop Somewhere (Tell His Story)

 The common expression, you've got to start somewhere, has a corollary.

You've got to stop somewhere.

Every earthly journey 

has got to have an end,

until you reach Eternity 

and walk on with your Friend 

through forests of Forever

down streets of beaten gold

where you know you'll never

bow to heat or cold,

so let the things you cherish

here on God's good Earth 

fall away and perish,

for they'll receive rebirth

like the tears God saved for you

to anoint what's fresh and new.

Fresh-churned ice cream. Woof!

 

Risen Every Day

 Barb recently said she wished the cancer would go away.

Yes, but there are blessings in the situation, some unseen, and I would not want the good things to go away.

It's hard, both physically, and walking the tightrope over the pit of despair, but...

I raise my eyes unto the hills

whence myriad blessings flow.

All of this is as God wills,

and by His will I go

down these roads of blood and pain,

dread sessions in the dunny

(where for hours I remain...

OK, that's kind of funny),

but through it all He lifts me up

and holds me to His golden heart,

gives blood-wine communion cup,

and with this He makes me part

of the timeless victory 

He won for me at Calvary.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is PURSUE.

Auto-spell tried to convince me it was PURDUE...

I did not pursue admittance 

to the college of Purdue,

and the regents said Good Riddance

and they thought that they were through 

with that threat that I presented 

to their staid and quiet life,

but then the hand of God was entered,

and I got an Indiana wife,

and therefore I was forced to choose

a place of higher education 

where I could become the news,

a pub-wrecking thuggish sensation,

but the faculty could take their ease

when I blew my SATs.

Yeah, well, five minutes, what are you gonna do?

Ice cream, says Syl. Don't forget the ice cream.

 

We All Make Misteaks (Tell His Story)

 This was written last week, when I thought I had messed up the Inlinkz timing.

But, you know, I was only wrong once in my life, when I thought I had made a mistake, and it turned out I hadn't.

God sure does not make mistakes,

but you can bet I do,

but hey, there, baby, that's the breaks,

and would you believe I blew

the linkup time for Tell His Story

(last week's link is still alive).

and thus I am not wreathed in glory,

but be sure I will arrive

with a Tell His Story link

early upon Wednesday's morn

when the sky is fading pink

and a new day will be born

upon which you can link to great

folk you find here, one day late.

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

 

Put Away The Shame

 People talk 'bout getting right 

with Almighty God.

I wish I may, I wish I might,

but I'm too badly flawed,

and 'holiness' is not a word

that is used 'round here.

Sitting 'neath Damocles' sword,

it's all so very clear

that sincere repentance 

is all the I can give.

The Christ took on my sentence,

He died so I could live

and I must put away my shame

to honour His bright holy name.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is ORIGINAL.

After what ol' Adam did,

no sin can be original 

because his action truly hid

the unblemished aboriginal

and put in its noble place

the cunning scheming man

who thought that it was earthly grace

to undermine God's plan.

Well, that whole thing sure went wrong,

and bore a crushing fearful cost.

No more with God did he belong,

and paradise was lost,

but God is quite a schemer, too,

and gave His Son for me and you.

Dogs never fell, says Sylvia, so they can't sin. Therefore, you should give me more ice cream.

 

Sadness And Hate (Tell His Story)

Pain and stuff have been outrageous this week, and I have found myself tempted to a kind of sorrow.

The bad kind, that's a doppelganger with resentment of my situation, and resentment of those who don't share it.

"You have to protect yourself from sadness. Sadness is very close to hate. Let me tell you this. This is the thing I learned. If you take in someone else's poison – thinking you can cure them by sharing it – you will instead store it within you." - Michael Ondaatje 

The author of 'The English Patient'

once compared sadness to hate,

concluding that they are adjacent,

and self-poisoning's the fate

of those, who with heart full of care

see another's grief and sorrow 

and are thereby moved to share

something they should never borrow.

I have learned that this is true,

and though I must treat with compassion 

that sadness which may well place you 

into a yoke that hell did fashion,

to pass beyond must be my duty,

for only thus is shared God's beauty.

Sylvia doesn't do sadness.