June 27, 2003
We are now at the time of the year
When the sun seems to be far too near!
For the heat that one sees
Brings him down to his knees,
And he hopes, as he prays, God will hear.
But at times when we are without ease,
When we have all but worn out our knees,
When we've given all we've got,
Think the Lord hears us not,
We are met with His one saving breeze!
What a time to reflect upon life,
And ask God why He called home my wife,
Left me here all alone,
Without her as my own,
'Tis the worst I have known in human strife.
But at last I arise from my knees,
For my God and my wife brought my ease
As His Spirit spoke and said,
"Orion, Dorothy is not dead!
And with me, sends to you, this saving breeze."
So that breeze blows across my bleeding heart,
Puts in place that which once was blown apart,
Puts a spring in my step,
Fills my soul with holy pep,
And once more she helps me make a start.
Friday, June 27, 2003
Thursday, June 19, 2003
REFLECTION ON MY ACHING HEART
June 19, 2003
The reason that I mentioned first
The ache that's in my heart
Is that it aches far the worst,
And seems to make the others start.
So I must follow her advice,
"Fix my thoughts on other's need",
Toss away the heat and ice,
So healing help can then proceed.
By His own pain our Savior grew
In human heart and mind,
To be the God that we all knew,
And sought to be His kind.
So if our Lord endured the Cross,
And counted it but gain,
How can I then turn and toss
And criticize my pain???
The reason that I mentioned first
The ache that's in my heart
Is that it aches far the worst,
And seems to make the others start.
So I must follow her advice,
"Fix my thoughts on other's need",
Toss away the heat and ice,
So healing help can then proceed.
By His own pain our Savior grew
In human heart and mind,
To be the God that we all knew,
And sought to be His kind.
So if our Lord endured the Cross,
And counted it but gain,
How can I then turn and toss
And criticize my pain???
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
ACHING HEART
June 18, 2003
Aching shoulder, aching knee,
Aching back, and aching heart.
It's hard for me to even see
How on earth to make a start.
For many years you soothed my pain
With gentle hands while we talked,
Or if massage appeared in vain,
You listened while we walked.
And sparingly you gave advice,
Which always seemed so wise to me;
It did far more than heat, than ice,
To cure my aches and set me free.
But now, at night, when all alone,
There are those aches I cannot reach;
Heart, muscle, joint and bone;
All have aches I can't impeach.
I knew full well throughout our years
That when life's end caused us to part,
That missing you would bring these tears;
But thought that God would heal my heart.
I guess He has in many ways;
Sometimes I'm weak; sometimes I'm strong;
There are some good, and some bad days,
And other days just move along.
But this I know, which cheers me so,
That every day moves toward that time
When God tells me, "IT'S TIME TO GO!"
A perfect ending for life's rhyme.
I'll see you then, in all your glory,
A bride adorned to meet her man,
Unfolding that eternal story,
Which man can't write, but God Can.
And so the question comes to me,
As I await that golden day,
"Who would you now have me be,
Have me do; have me say?"
Your answer floats upon the breeze:
"Reach out to others now in grief,
And God will give you much more ease,
So, share with them your firm belief."
Aching shoulder, aching knee,
Aching back, and aching heart.
It's hard for me to even see
How on earth to make a start.
For many years you soothed my pain
With gentle hands while we talked,
Or if massage appeared in vain,
You listened while we walked.
And sparingly you gave advice,
Which always seemed so wise to me;
It did far more than heat, than ice,
To cure my aches and set me free.
But now, at night, when all alone,
There are those aches I cannot reach;
Heart, muscle, joint and bone;
All have aches I can't impeach.
I knew full well throughout our years
That when life's end caused us to part,
That missing you would bring these tears;
But thought that God would heal my heart.
I guess He has in many ways;
Sometimes I'm weak; sometimes I'm strong;
There are some good, and some bad days,
And other days just move along.
But this I know, which cheers me so,
That every day moves toward that time
When God tells me, "IT'S TIME TO GO!"
A perfect ending for life's rhyme.
I'll see you then, in all your glory,
A bride adorned to meet her man,
Unfolding that eternal story,
Which man can't write, but God Can.
And so the question comes to me,
As I await that golden day,
"Who would you now have me be,
Have me do; have me say?"
Your answer floats upon the breeze:
"Reach out to others now in grief,
And God will give you much more ease,
So, share with them your firm belief."
Saturday, April 12, 2003
MY TELEPHONE AND ME
April 12, 2003
I'm always dreaming dreams,
And life is never what it seems;
Or do those dreams divine
Conditions I don't own as mine?
Eighteen months I've lived alone,
My closest friend the telephone;
Which causes me to gravitate
Toward looking for another mate.
But as I think of who I am,
I contemplate the awful jam
I would cause a mate to own
If she displaced my telephone.
The dream that came to me last night
Well may touch upon her plight,
Should some brave soul take on my care
Without much God-directed prayer!
Waiting at the altar, my knee was killing me!
My aching back was close behind, and yet I still could see
Two bridesmaids and my bride, dressed in nurse attire,
Walking down the aisle with cheeks of burning fire!
The bouquets which they carried were not flowers, well arranged,
But all this scent and beauty they subtly had exchanged
For bottles tied in clusters, which they humbly would present,
Which looked and smelled, without a doubt, like Watkins Liniment!
To comfort and to counsel I know a mate must do,
But bringing bottled comfort to the altar is something really new!
Awakened from my dream, with just another groan,
I recommitted one more time to my trusty telephone.
I'm always dreaming dreams,
And life is never what it seems;
Or do those dreams divine
Conditions I don't own as mine?
Eighteen months I've lived alone,
My closest friend the telephone;
Which causes me to gravitate
Toward looking for another mate.
But as I think of who I am,
I contemplate the awful jam
I would cause a mate to own
If she displaced my telephone.
The dream that came to me last night
Well may touch upon her plight,
Should some brave soul take on my care
Without much God-directed prayer!
Waiting at the altar, my knee was killing me!
My aching back was close behind, and yet I still could see
Two bridesmaids and my bride, dressed in nurse attire,
Walking down the aisle with cheeks of burning fire!
The bouquets which they carried were not flowers, well arranged,
But all this scent and beauty they subtly had exchanged
For bottles tied in clusters, which they humbly would present,
Which looked and smelled, without a doubt, like Watkins Liniment!
To comfort and to counsel I know a mate must do,
But bringing bottled comfort to the altar is something really new!
Awakened from my dream, with just another groan,
I recommitted one more time to my trusty telephone.
Saturday, March 15, 2003
WHY THESE TEARS?
March 15, 2003
If I believe my Loved One lives,
The very hope the scripture gives,
Then why these tears upon my cheeks,
That rend my soul for weeks and weeks?
Are they wholly self-concern?
Does my soul refuse to turn
Toward Him who with His every breath
Proclaimed our life; denied our death?
If I have lived the selfless way,
Guided by what scriptures say
And by looking at my Savior,
Why this "All is Lost" behavior?
Where is that enthusiasm
That so often spanned the chasm
Of unknown, uncertain ways
To end in glad triumphant days?
Am I to say, "Without her hand
It is impossible to stand
Against the foes we once defeated,
Before which now I have retreated?
Was it her hand that always led?
Or by God's Spirit were we fed?
If WE ate the Bread of Life,
Can I not stand without my wife?
God's Spirit seems to say to me
That I can be what He can see;
That if my eyes are set on Him,
The way I grope will be less dim.
So, Father God, here am I;
Lift my face toward Heaven's sky;
No more my call let me defer;
In full response, I'll walk with her.
If I believe my Loved One lives,
The very hope the scripture gives,
Then why these tears upon my cheeks,
That rend my soul for weeks and weeks?
Are they wholly self-concern?
Does my soul refuse to turn
Toward Him who with His every breath
Proclaimed our life; denied our death?
If I have lived the selfless way,
Guided by what scriptures say
And by looking at my Savior,
Why this "All is Lost" behavior?
Where is that enthusiasm
That so often spanned the chasm
Of unknown, uncertain ways
To end in glad triumphant days?
Am I to say, "Without her hand
It is impossible to stand
Against the foes we once defeated,
Before which now I have retreated?
Was it her hand that always led?
Or by God's Spirit were we fed?
If WE ate the Bread of Life,
Can I not stand without my wife?
God's Spirit seems to say to me
That I can be what He can see;
That if my eyes are set on Him,
The way I grope will be less dim.
So, Father God, here am I;
Lift my face toward Heaven's sky;
No more my call let me defer;
In full response, I'll walk with her.
Wednesday, March 05, 2003
HOME FROM THE PARTY
March 5, 2003
Again I saw my precious wife,
Not alive, but in a dream;
Again she dulled the painful strife
That renders lives not what they seem.
This dream flashed back across the years:
My youngest child was just fifteen,
An age of laughter, and sometimes tears,
Always child, yet still a queen.
The party over, she said, "Dad,
Let's go home and talk to Mom;
I want to share the fun I've had,
A junior in this senior prom".
Mom, a teacher, tired from grading,
Was asleep on our wide bed,
And gently, not her sleep invading,
Dad laid down at her feet, Glenda at her head.
What comfort those sweet feet gave
As I drifted off to sleep;
How many times they'd rushed to save
From pains that cause strong men to weep!
Her body sleeps and endless sleep,
Which none can say about her soul,
But here's a thought I'll always keep,
Her soul will always make me whole.
And so I know that even now
Angel feet run to our cause,
And I know that she somehow,
In our behalf, gives heaven pause:
She entreats God, in his great love,
To witness pain our sad hearts feel,
And by that love, from heaven above,
His kindest comfort to reveal.
Again I saw my precious wife,
Not alive, but in a dream;
Again she dulled the painful strife
That renders lives not what they seem.
This dream flashed back across the years:
My youngest child was just fifteen,
An age of laughter, and sometimes tears,
Always child, yet still a queen.
The party over, she said, "Dad,
Let's go home and talk to Mom;
I want to share the fun I've had,
A junior in this senior prom".
Mom, a teacher, tired from grading,
Was asleep on our wide bed,
And gently, not her sleep invading,
Dad laid down at her feet, Glenda at her head.
What comfort those sweet feet gave
As I drifted off to sleep;
How many times they'd rushed to save
From pains that cause strong men to weep!
Her body sleeps and endless sleep,
Which none can say about her soul,
But here's a thought I'll always keep,
Her soul will always make me whole.
And so I know that even now
Angel feet run to our cause,
And I know that she somehow,
In our behalf, gives heaven pause:
She entreats God, in his great love,
To witness pain our sad hearts feel,
And by that love, from heaven above,
His kindest comfort to reveal.
Monday, January 27, 2003
MOM'S BREAD
January 27, 2003
My Darling Wife is with me while I make the bread,
For in each step of baking, I recall just what she said:
Three cups nice warm water in a large mixing pan,
Blend one half cup sugar until clear if you can,
One tablespoon of yeast, sprinkled on the water,
Then cover up the pan to keep the water hotter.
Sift four cups of flour, and have it there all ready
To spread it on the fresh bloomed yeast, an stir in soft and steady
Until the sponge is smooth as cream, then cover with a cloth,
Slide it in the slight warmed oven, and turn the oven off.
Thirty minutes in that oven will help the sponge to rise,
Then when you take it out, a fluffy sponge meets your eyes.
Have seven cups of sifted flour in a pan standing by;
A quarter cup of oil, and four teaspoons of salt also nigh.
Mix with salted oil one cup water, nice and warm,
Stir into batter with a mixer, for that will save your arm.
Then with a large wooden spoon, stir the flour in,
Until the sponge is good and stiff, then knead it there and then.
Continue with your kneading until the sponge seems right,
And if it starts to feeling sticky, sprinkle flour, just a mite.
When the sponge feels soft and spongy, no longer clinging to your fingers,
Back into the oven, where it for thirty minutes lingers;
Repeat this process one more time, before you cut the sponge in loaves,
Knowing when the bread is done, you'll have the proudest of all stoves.
Coffee cans with bacon grease, heated nice and hot,
Make a better baking pan than any store has got.
Be sure to roll the grease around, greasing all the sides,
Thus greasing sponge upside and down, as rising loaf abides.
Back into the oven for an hour, or more,
And while the bread is rising, wash the dishes, sweep the floor!
When the sponge then tops the can, looking soft and white,
Set the pans upon the counter; for baking, it is right.
Turn the oven to 450, and when the light is gone,
Set the loaves all back in, and turn the timer on.
Ten minutes at 450 makes the loaves nice and brown;
Set the time for 24 and turn the oven down.
Three twenty five is what Mom said, and she was always right;
Those loaves come out smelling good, and what a glorious sight!
Slip the loaves out of the cans and on the cooling trays;
I'll guarantee you'll count this day among our better days!
This bread Mom taught me how to make keeps my body whole,
But bread like this, which she still sends, is healing for my soul.
My Darling Wife is with me while I make the bread,
For in each step of baking, I recall just what she said:
Three cups nice warm water in a large mixing pan,
Blend one half cup sugar until clear if you can,
One tablespoon of yeast, sprinkled on the water,
Then cover up the pan to keep the water hotter.
Sift four cups of flour, and have it there all ready
To spread it on the fresh bloomed yeast, an stir in soft and steady
Until the sponge is smooth as cream, then cover with a cloth,
Slide it in the slight warmed oven, and turn the oven off.
Thirty minutes in that oven will help the sponge to rise,
Then when you take it out, a fluffy sponge meets your eyes.
Have seven cups of sifted flour in a pan standing by;
A quarter cup of oil, and four teaspoons of salt also nigh.
Mix with salted oil one cup water, nice and warm,
Stir into batter with a mixer, for that will save your arm.
Then with a large wooden spoon, stir the flour in,
Until the sponge is good and stiff, then knead it there and then.
Continue with your kneading until the sponge seems right,
And if it starts to feeling sticky, sprinkle flour, just a mite.
When the sponge feels soft and spongy, no longer clinging to your fingers,
Back into the oven, where it for thirty minutes lingers;
Repeat this process one more time, before you cut the sponge in loaves,
Knowing when the bread is done, you'll have the proudest of all stoves.
Coffee cans with bacon grease, heated nice and hot,
Make a better baking pan than any store has got.
Be sure to roll the grease around, greasing all the sides,
Thus greasing sponge upside and down, as rising loaf abides.
Back into the oven for an hour, or more,
And while the bread is rising, wash the dishes, sweep the floor!
When the sponge then tops the can, looking soft and white,
Set the pans upon the counter; for baking, it is right.
Turn the oven to 450, and when the light is gone,
Set the loaves all back in, and turn the timer on.
Ten minutes at 450 makes the loaves nice and brown;
Set the time for 24 and turn the oven down.
Three twenty five is what Mom said, and she was always right;
Those loaves come out smelling good, and what a glorious sight!
Slip the loaves out of the cans and on the cooling trays;
I'll guarantee you'll count this day among our better days!
This bread Mom taught me how to make keeps my body whole,
But bread like this, which she still sends, is healing for my soul.
Saturday, January 18, 2003
I DONE GOT THERE!
January 18, 2003
Mary, do you remember Dad's old poem...
"Be the task great or small,
Do it well or not at all."
Well here is my line:
Be the task great or small;
When we daily trip and fall;
When cows butt us into their stall.
We're too old to do it all;
Then we'd best to step aside,
Before we lose too much hide!
There to rest, write, reside
And enjoy life's changing tide.
I done got there!
Mary, do you remember Dad's old poem...
"Be the task great or small,
Do it well or not at all."
Well here is my line:
Be the task great or small;
When we daily trip and fall;
When cows butt us into their stall.
We're too old to do it all;
Then we'd best to step aside,
Before we lose too much hide!
There to rest, write, reside
And enjoy life's changing tide.
I done got there!
Tuesday, December 24, 2002
TO MY SISTER
December 24, 2002
Hi, purty lady with the injured paw!
How's our usually fast movin' maw?
First she puts a patch on her eye,
Lookin' mightily like ol' Captain Bly;
And then before she can set down and rock,
Ol' Sawbone's got 'er agin on the block!
What a way to rest through this Season;
Want me to give ya a much better reason?
Take me, fer instance at age eighty two,
And little better off than Robert and you!
My heart sez, "Git"; but my legs sez, "No!"
It gits harder and harder to git up and go!
So I do what I can, then set down and rest;
I reckon after all that plan is the best'
But, Honey, you know that I'm only teasin'
"Cause I really aint got no suggestible reason.
'Cept that wise men rest at a livestock stall
When it cradles a king born to rule over all!
I reckon that He never meant us to worry,
To chase the loose ends and be in a hurry,
So maybe a slit wrist and a patch on yer eye
Will give ya some time to gaze at the sky
And praise the Good Lord fer all that He's done;
What better to do with our race so near run?
Hi, purty lady with the injured paw!
How's our usually fast movin' maw?
First she puts a patch on her eye,
Lookin' mightily like ol' Captain Bly;
And then before she can set down and rock,
Ol' Sawbone's got 'er agin on the block!
What a way to rest through this Season;
Want me to give ya a much better reason?
Take me, fer instance at age eighty two,
And little better off than Robert and you!
My heart sez, "Git"; but my legs sez, "No!"
It gits harder and harder to git up and go!
So I do what I can, then set down and rest;
I reckon after all that plan is the best'
But, Honey, you know that I'm only teasin'
"Cause I really aint got no suggestible reason.
'Cept that wise men rest at a livestock stall
When it cradles a king born to rule over all!
I reckon that He never meant us to worry,
To chase the loose ends and be in a hurry,
So maybe a slit wrist and a patch on yer eye
Will give ya some time to gaze at the sky
And praise the Good Lord fer all that He's done;
What better to do with our race so near run?
Sunday, December 22, 2002
BE SURE WE SEE YOUR SERIOUS SIDE
Our world needs the jokester with his laughter and his bluff;
With the greatest sense of humor life is serious enough.
Facial muscles need the workout that a sense of humor brings;
So, in the midst of trouble let’s be sure our soul still sings1
The world will quickly turn away from him who never laughs,
Who never sees the funny side but simply grieves or chafes;
But if the words we speak to men are to abide;
We must be sure the world can see we have a serious side.
Great thoughts are often given us right behind a funny word,
For laughter gains attention through which our thoughts are heard,
And though we think the speaker is simply blowing smoke,
He may well be quite serious by telling us his joke!
He may be roasting or be toasting concepts he lightly chides,
But either way what we say eternally abides;
So help us, Lord, as we speak, always to reside
In a balanced sense of humor that sees the serious side.
With the greatest sense of humor life is serious enough.
Facial muscles need the workout that a sense of humor brings;
So, in the midst of trouble let’s be sure our soul still sings1
The world will quickly turn away from him who never laughs,
Who never sees the funny side but simply grieves or chafes;
But if the words we speak to men are to abide;
We must be sure the world can see we have a serious side.
Great thoughts are often given us right behind a funny word,
For laughter gains attention through which our thoughts are heard,
And though we think the speaker is simply blowing smoke,
He may well be quite serious by telling us his joke!
He may be roasting or be toasting concepts he lightly chides,
But either way what we say eternally abides;
So help us, Lord, as we speak, always to reside
In a balanced sense of humor that sees the serious side.
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