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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All In The Name

 Barb supplied this lovely picture.

One of the cool things about cancer is positivity. I like cheerful things, and I am most irritatingly upbeat.

So I was watching Return Of The Jedi the other day, and it occurred to me what a bummer the Death Star's name is. I mean, really? Who could be happy working there?

I'll bet those dudes in their goofy caps (Trick or treat!) and lame helmets that look like they're covering up a bad case of the mumps have lines that snake through several corridors to the pshrink's office. Not to mention the Darth Vader theme being on Muzak's auto-repeat.

So, Evil Empire, I have some alternate names for the Death Star...

The Pretty Pony Happy Star

The Hello Kitty Magic Star

The Strawberry Shortcake Birthday Star

The Pikachu Poké Star

And, since the Empire employs chicks, the Cyndi Lauper Party Star, decked out like a mirror ball, with an Imperial Mall at its heart, because girls just wanna have fun.

I mean, guys, you can still blow stuff up with a cool name and mirrors (or maybe paint it pink!).

But maybe you'll be smiling so much you won't want to.

Which is kinda the whole point.

I get so tired of posturing,

nicknames to call fear and dread,

and attitude that's fostering

a woodenness of heart and head,

but maybe it's a simple thing

to change the angry mind.

Just step back and choose to bring

a name both bright and kind

to evoke a cheerful smile 

and happy skipping steps

instead of drear and weltschmerz style

and daily sodden schlepps

to fetch water from poisoned stream...

why do this when your dance can gleam?

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is ANYMORE.

I used to think that acting tough

showed the world I knew the score,

 but now I've really had enough 

and I don't do that anymore,

'cause life is really way too short

to try to act your place and age,

and from now on I will not court

dignity, and turn the page

to where the Pooh just may live,

and maybe little Pikachu;

these are the brightly things that give 

meaning to my point of view

that I see causes sharp pained winces

when I let out my Disney Princess.

And now for some appropriate music...

Sylvia will Jump for ice cream.

The Joys Of Friendship (Tell His Story)

 Damn it all, I'm bleeding bad

from, please pardon me, both ends,

and this all might make me sad

were it not for bonza friends

who joke about blood in the dunny

and look to make some photo bombs

(that would be, yeah, kinda funny)

about my crimson-scarlet yawns.

Friends take away the tragedy

and roughly wipe tear from wet eye,

to help me face reality

that I am really gonna die,

but at least the laughing host

won't be upset to see my ghost.

Sylvia thinks this is not in good taste. But she's smiling all the same.

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The Normalization Of Deviance

When the space shuttle Challenger blew up in January of 1986, it was found that NASA had become acceptant of bad situations, specifically erosion of the o-rings that joined sections of the solid rocket boosters. Erosion was exacerbated by cold, since the o-rings were rubber, but NASA figured that some excursions to the edge of danger were acceptable against The Big Picture, keeping the flight schedule. It was called The Normalization Of Deviance.

They were proven wrong, and the bitter joke became 'NASA means Need Another Seven Astronauts'.

Now we as a country are there. How on earth did we let this happen?

 We're in mortal danger,

this nation once so great.

We're tolerant of anger,

and normalized the hate

of anyone who's different,

the Muslim and the Jew,

the Catholic and Protestant,

and we hate me and you,

for in our blind acceptance 

of what should be called sin,

we pay the devil deference

and bowing, let him in

to a place whose lease we can't afford

that should be a dwelling for the Lord.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is PERSEVERE.

The world will push you to the brink

with click-bait redolent of hate

until within your heart you think

that it's really far too late

to bring back basic decency,

a world in which the social frame

honours all with right to be free,

and dignity's more than a game.

You cannot push your leaders toward

a better thought, nor academic halls,

but you can lay bright virtue's sword

against the rabble at the walls

to cut the heathen ranks right through

and bleeding, come to what is True.

The Beatles would say that all you need is love, but Sylvia would maintain that all you need is vanilla ice cream. I'm with her on this.

Judge Not (Tell His Story)

 When you think to judge another person,

do not always trust your gut

lest your 'feeling' be their cursing 

whilst your head was firmly up your butt.

Be wary of the things you say

and the postures that you take,

for at the ending of the day

the decision just ain't yours to make,

and others may use what you've spoken 

and blindly act accordingly,

and something good may well be broken,

and you'll have responsibility

when before God's throne you kneel

as He stomps your ego with His heel.

Sylvia says that in the presence of ice cream, all is forgiven.

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Talked To God. He Answered.

 I talk to God most every day,

and I do know He's there

by the blunt and pithy way

He hears my not-a-prayer,

'cause God and me, we just talk

like homies, man-to-man,

and sometimes He likes to shock

when I don't understand 

why it has to hurt so much

when He can do some healing

with a casual simple touch,

but His answer is revealing:

"If I give you this victory,

you're gonna lose your ministry."

Don't want that, and He knows it.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is EXTRA.

Extra work and extra duties

to support my darling wife

are part of manifold beauties 

that describe my married life,

and have from that bright wedding day

that God set to inspire

in quite a mischievous way

when the bouquet caught fire

and the champagne had gone bad

(just how, I've no idea),

but on our wedding night we had

a case of diarrhea,

but through it love and laughter came

as the **** went down the drain.

What, TMI?

Syl says that at least there's ice cream. I've developed a liking for Great Value crispy ice cream bars from Walmart.

And speaking of food, drop in at Pam and Tony's place for a behind-the-scenes look at the food truck life, and a killer queso recipe.

You can also find them on Facebook.

Chiaroscuro (Tell His Story)

 So why on earth do we write,

what do we need to say?

Do we let our dreams take flight,

or do we find a way 

to hold for others open doors

through which we have gone,

that we may share the reservoirs 

of faith that we depended on

to see bright blessings in the places

that are darkened with our pain,

and in them see the offered graces

like rainbows past the rain,

and find in the mixed light and shadow 

our life in Christ, chiaroscuro.

Sylvia doesn't know what that last word is, but if it's an ice cream flavour, she's game.

If you want some really good recipes, please drop by and visit my friends Pam and Tony, at the Som-Tin-Ta Eat food truck blog.

You can also find them on Facebook.

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God's Drunken Sailor

The whole cancer thing has gotten so hard now that I just want to have some fun.

The drunken sailor comes to church 

with beery fumes and cheery smile.

Sit back, my friends, and watch him lurch 

right down the communion aisle.

In Catholic places he'd get wine,

not a lot, enough to love,

and that would leave him feeling fine,

praising the priest and God above,

but elsewhere grape juice is the thing

(did not Jesus, though, make wine from water?),

and digging deep he's gotta bring 

the thinking that he maybe oughter

respect the ones who teetotal;

what they don't drink makes his mug full.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is INVEST.

Everything is going south,

and I've long been on the run,

but I ain't gonna shut my mouth,

and singing, will invest in fun.

Not because elsewise I'd weep,

there are no tears here of a clown.

No, my joy is mine to keep,

and dying doesn't get me down

because the days are fully blessed 

if I have the wit to see,

and seeing is to pass the test

and go to where I'd rather be,

in a place of joyous dance

which is survival's bestest chance.

If you want some really good recipes, please drop by and visit my friends Pam and Tony, at the Som-Tin-Ta Eat food truck blog.

You can also find them on Facebook.

Sylvia has stolen a full beer can or three. Ice cream is better. Sometimes.

A Punderful Post (Tell His Story)

 My body says I'm past my prime;

I tell myself it doesn't matter 

that I've run me out of time

and dreams now fall away and shatter.

There's not enough of blood to flow,

much is lost in wasted care,

but truly I  don't want to go

to what fell fate is waiting there,

and so I push in mindless glee

to make the best of what I've got,

pretend I still have energy

and prove that I really am not

wearing that Cleopatra smile,

yes, that's her, Queen of de Nile.

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

If you want some really good recipes, please drop by and visit my friends Pam and Tony, at the Som-Tin-Ta Eat food truck blog.

You can also find them on Facebook.

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Kung Fool

Tashka' likes to hang out under the deck on the south side of the house. It's a good place to watch traffic and passing cows.

Unfortunately, the south deck is where I used to empty water from the clothes washer (it's an apartment-sized unit, and hooking the outlet to the drain isn practical for a number of reasons).

The buckets I pitched were never close to Tashka', but he was offended nonetheless, as you can see from his expression, having taken refuge by a large dog house.

I'm not in the mood to write about coping with cancer today. I'd rather have fun.

Yes, I am a Chinaman,

and Asians are cool.

When things in life don't follow plan,

I go all Kung Fool,

head-high kicking 'round about,

chopping each direction,

and then I give a mighty shout

with Mandarin inflection.

The canines all look quite perplexed,

and Barb just rolls each eye,

wondering what I will do next,

and asking God on high

just why did He play the trick

of sending her this lunatic.

And, of course, there's music to be had.

If you want some really good recipes, please drop by and visit my friends Pam and Tony, at the Som-Tin-Ta Eat food truck blog.

You can also find them on Facebook.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is PROVE.

A Chinaman has naught to prove

in the fractured warring west,

and I don't care if you approve 

or not, for I have passed the test 

of seeing people of faith passing 

me along the road of life,

and I can now refrain from classing

them, to set in plan a strife.

No, I will just let them live

and travel onward with my prayers.

Each of us has much to give

to a world so full of cares

that even whose beliefs seem odd

may nonetheless be serving God.

Sylvia says that if I pour Kung Pao sauce over her ice cream, I'm in real trouble.