Hands of Time
It's a journey really, each of us on a schedule. A schedule whose end we can not see or predict and whose path in reality is only illuminated usually enough to get through a day at best, a directional prediction of what is ahead. We dream of manipulating it to make it slower, sometimes wish it would go faster but in the end we are slaves to it. You see time has no life, no heart, it's eyes are uncaring to our needs, apathetic to our every cause, all we can do is grasp and covet pieces of time, the piece of time I have lived becomes more and more vague the details are lost to time itself. The pieces of the future we like to think we can create and orchestrate but in the end there is no promise of tomorrow. Inevitability, we are left with the only piece of time we can control the piece that the Lord has blessed us with: today. When we look back on our lives we see how these pieces of time have been brought together in union. Union with others on their journey, pieces of a puzzle that are brought into each others presence and even sometimes joined but like a rose floating on the surface of the lake the only surety is that this rose is mine and this lake of life controls my path. How fortunate I am to see that my contentment lies in the simple truth that the Almighty alone directs my drift with gentle breezes and unseen hands. Some may wonder at my desired lack of control but in this journey of life the release and surrender moves me from the bondage of responsibility to the freedom to live my life in peace under the watchful eye of the Almighty.
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2/26/2011
Allis in the Field
I saw it in the distance, it looked liked a late 40's Allis Chalmers. There was a tall bed of grass surrounding every part of her and I wondered how many decades she had sat there. I wondered what caused such a wonderful thing to be walked away from and left to slowly decay. And I wondered how many thousands of others were sharing the same fate. Tractors to me are more than just simple tools they capture an America that used to be. A time when Mom new how to make bread from scratch and linen sheets smelled liked the cool fall air that danced across the prairie. A time when Dad's hands were calloused and the smell of farm animals was the smell of future meals, money for the five and dime, new shoes from the Montgomery Ward catalog, or maybe just an ice cold root beer on a hot August day. A time when a woman was proud to stay at home and on Sunday the aroma of Mom's perfume could not only be smelled throughout the house but would drift out to the tire swing where I spun and looked at the clouds and wondered if there really were Martians up there. I wanted to take that old Allis home with me, dig it out of that grass pile and at least get her under cover. In some way I felt as if I could just get her home, clean off the dirt, change her oil and see if her engine could spin something would happen. Maybe, just for a moment, I could smell Mom's perfume in the air, feel that tire swing spin or hear the tired comforting voice of my Dad calling from the field. That old Allis whispered to me that day, whispered please remember; and I will.
I saw it in the distance, it looked liked a late 40's Allis Chalmers. There was a tall bed of grass surrounding every part of her and I wondered how many decades she had sat there. I wondered what caused such a wonderful thing to be walked away from and left to slowly decay. And I wondered how many thousands of others were sharing the same fate. Tractors to me are more than just simple tools they capture an America that used to be. A time when Mom new how to make bread from scratch and linen sheets smelled liked the cool fall air that danced across the prairie. A time when Dad's hands were calloused and the smell of farm animals was the smell of future meals, money for the five and dime, new shoes from the Montgomery Ward catalog, or maybe just an ice cold root beer on a hot August day. A time when a woman was proud to stay at home and on Sunday the aroma of Mom's perfume could not only be smelled throughout the house but would drift out to the tire swing where I spun and looked at the clouds and wondered if there really were Martians up there. I wanted to take that old Allis home with me, dig it out of that grass pile and at least get her under cover. In some way I felt as if I could just get her home, clean off the dirt, change her oil and see if her engine could spin something would happen. Maybe, just for a moment, I could smell Mom's perfume in the air, feel that tire swing spin or hear the tired comforting voice of my Dad calling from the field. That old Allis whispered to me that day, whispered please remember; and I will.
Steel Rails to Heaven
It was iron and it was black and stretched so far down the track into the setting sun it seemed to all most touch it. Its life began in the depths of the earth in iron ore deposits that had been formed millions of years before. The ore was unearthed not by modern heavy equipment but the sweat and muscle of late 1800's labor. No health plans, no safety, no dreams just a few tons of ore a day to feed the kids and buy a little coal for the stove. This was the conception of an Iron Horse, a brooding sleeping giant that when brought to life lifted its voice and roared to the heavens with a never ending stream of smoke. As if to announce; “I am alive” and the children would run to their Mother’s sides and never fail to turn and watch the splendor of it all. Through the years the common thread no matter the generation is the mournful cry that beckons the listener. Its cry calls to us, down mountain valleys, desert flats, inner city ghettos, ocean vista’s, and flower filled Colorado meadows. Everyone knows they are machines, that they are simply tools going on their way. It seems, however, when we are not with everyone, and we are simply alone to listen, it whispers something to our soul. For over 150 years they’ve whispered the same secret, “I’m going someplace and I can take you with me” and for just as long we have yearned to go; escape the confines of our normal lives and take a different path. A journey where we too can cry out under moon lit skies for others to join us on steel rails that take a path to Heaven.
It was iron and it was black and stretched so far down the track into the setting sun it seemed to all most touch it. Its life began in the depths of the earth in iron ore deposits that had been formed millions of years before. The ore was unearthed not by modern heavy equipment but the sweat and muscle of late 1800's labor. No health plans, no safety, no dreams just a few tons of ore a day to feed the kids and buy a little coal for the stove. This was the conception of an Iron Horse, a brooding sleeping giant that when brought to life lifted its voice and roared to the heavens with a never ending stream of smoke. As if to announce; “I am alive” and the children would run to their Mother’s sides and never fail to turn and watch the splendor of it all. Through the years the common thread no matter the generation is the mournful cry that beckons the listener. Its cry calls to us, down mountain valleys, desert flats, inner city ghettos, ocean vista’s, and flower filled Colorado meadows. Everyone knows they are machines, that they are simply tools going on their way. It seems, however, when we are not with everyone, and we are simply alone to listen, it whispers something to our soul. For over 150 years they’ve whispered the same secret, “I’m going someplace and I can take you with me” and for just as long we have yearned to go; escape the confines of our normal lives and take a different path. A journey where we too can cry out under moon lit skies for others to join us on steel rails that take a path to Heaven.
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