Cherrios
I often gaze at it from my easy chair. It’s a long freighter above my mantle, red oxide paint, long white stripe along the length of its hull and it never fails to take me to another place. It was made by his decade’s old hands and it says a lot about him, about who he was, what he was made of, what he valued, what his dreams were. At least around me he was often quiet, I think he knew who he was and was comfortable with that person. He had been through a lot in his life, which perhaps like the keel of those freighters, just made him stronger.
The freighter as real as it looks is made of cereal boxes. The first time he showed me one his eyes twinkled as he told me to look at the underside and see what was underneath. I think that he delighted in taking something that was to be thrown away and make something wonderful with it. It was a reflection of his frugalness, a subtle playful heart, and the proof that as a man he was gifted to transform something to be cast off into a very real work of art. I know that even in his wheel chair, with his oxygen tank, all he had to do was start transforming the empty box into a freighter and he was free again, he could hear the seagulls in the distance, feel the wind in his hair and stand high on the bow.
I don’t think he ever really left the water, he had to be a Daddy, he had to be a husband and a Grand Pa, but every ship was a voyage to that place his heart truly was; Iron ore from Superior, coal from the Cleveland yards, maybe just a trip to the winter resting grounds. The voyages he took are captured in each one he shared. It’s as if when I look down on my mantle the Freighter calls to me and says “Won’t you join me?” and I always do.
It’s as if those dreams he had while giving birth to these mighty ships were all passed into them embedded deep within them. Somehow with each coat of paint that covered a simple cereal box he trapped a dream and revealed how really alive he was and how really alive we need to be. Tonight as I look down at my Freighter the snow is not so cold anymore, my burdens are not so heavy, my dreams seem just a little bit more attainable as my heart and mind drift toward the distant shore. He’d like that…..
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2/06/2012
Livingroom Sway
It’s always the same,
I unexpectedly take you in my arms and draw you close,
No sound to be heard just perhaps a gentle hum coming from me as I pull you in,
I don’t know why I do it,
I guess it takes me back to my Mom doing it with me in the living room when I was little,
Its that mix of comfort and love and fun and unexpected experience saved just for
You
And in the midst of it I forget any pain I feel, any loneliness, any stress, any sorrow and everything is somehow made right again…
Somehow in the comfort of your warmth it all melts away with a subtle sway, a subtle rock and in that delicate dance that we share I can be that boy again not knowing the world exists outside the warmth of your arms and the hum of a love song…
It’s always the same,
I unexpectedly take you in my arms and draw you close,
No sound to be heard just perhaps a gentle hum coming from me as I pull you in,
I don’t know why I do it,
I guess it takes me back to my Mom doing it with me in the living room when I was little,
Its that mix of comfort and love and fun and unexpected experience saved just for
You
And in the midst of it I forget any pain I feel, any loneliness, any stress, any sorrow and everything is somehow made right again…
Somehow in the comfort of your warmth it all melts away with a subtle sway, a subtle rock and in that delicate dance that we share I can be that boy again not knowing the world exists outside the warmth of your arms and the hum of a love song…
I AM
It was a simple request of expressing your thanks.
We thanked him for our spouse.
We thanked him for our health.
We thanked him for our food.
We just thanked him and when we got to her she said in a delicate voice “I’m thankful that I am.”
It was thanksgiving and we had no way of knowing it would be her; last.
I wonder when she first came to that realization.
Maybe when she played jump rope as a little girl.
Maybe Ring around the Rosy.
Perhaps when she fell in love with her first grade school boy.
When she built her first snowman.
When she felt the cool breath of spring.
Her wedding day when his eyes looked into her soul.
Felt her first child move deep within.
Maybe when she saw the first steps of that same life.
Perhaps the first marriage of her own child.
The birth of her first grandchild.
The death of her Mother.
The death of her Husband.
Maybe it was that very night in the midst of all that noise that a holiday brings.
A fork hitting a plate.
Football on the TV.
Maybe at the table just in that moment of her limited life an Angel simply whispered to her “Be thankful”
and she said; “I am”.
It was a simple request of expressing your thanks.
We thanked him for our spouse.
We thanked him for our health.
We thanked him for our food.
We just thanked him and when we got to her she said in a delicate voice “I’m thankful that I am.”
It was thanksgiving and we had no way of knowing it would be her; last.
I wonder when she first came to that realization.
Maybe when she played jump rope as a little girl.
Maybe Ring around the Rosy.
Perhaps when she fell in love with her first grade school boy.
When she built her first snowman.
When she felt the cool breath of spring.
Her wedding day when his eyes looked into her soul.
Felt her first child move deep within.
Maybe when she saw the first steps of that same life.
Perhaps the first marriage of her own child.
The birth of her first grandchild.
The death of her Mother.
The death of her Husband.
Maybe it was that very night in the midst of all that noise that a holiday brings.
A fork hitting a plate.
Football on the TV.
Maybe at the table just in that moment of her limited life an Angel simply whispered to her “Be thankful”
and she said; “I am”.
Two Coconuts
They had watched a thousand sunsets just a tree away.
They often wondered why they never dropped like all the rest, just fate they guessed.
Never speaking but knowing if they did it was sure to be interesting.
Some nights they would watch the tide rise and dance at the roots 50 feet below.
During the rainy season the only comfort they had was knowing the other was just a few yards away.
Silence was the norm but always that tender peace that comes with familiarity that can only be developed over time.
On moon lit nights the migration of the dolphins could be seen when the water was just like glass. They also were mates for life and simply shared the hope that comes with every new day.
Of course they yearned to be closer but the Lord in his wisdom surly knew what was best.
One fateful day the storms rose fast from the west and winds with such force blew them both to the sand below in a moment of absolute terror.
Something magical happened that very day, in the midst of fear the winds blew ever stronger and somehow by the grace of God pushed them together across the sands.
In what was thought to be misfortune all their hopes were answered with the invisible hand of the Almighty. Touching at last whether for 1000 years or even a day was of no consequence because at least for a little while they could simply be; together. A simple blessing for some simple nuts; a couple of God’s coconuts.
They had watched a thousand sunsets just a tree away.
They often wondered why they never dropped like all the rest, just fate they guessed.
Never speaking but knowing if they did it was sure to be interesting.
Some nights they would watch the tide rise and dance at the roots 50 feet below.
During the rainy season the only comfort they had was knowing the other was just a few yards away.
Silence was the norm but always that tender peace that comes with familiarity that can only be developed over time.
On moon lit nights the migration of the dolphins could be seen when the water was just like glass. They also were mates for life and simply shared the hope that comes with every new day.
Of course they yearned to be closer but the Lord in his wisdom surly knew what was best.
One fateful day the storms rose fast from the west and winds with such force blew them both to the sand below in a moment of absolute terror.
Something magical happened that very day, in the midst of fear the winds blew ever stronger and somehow by the grace of God pushed them together across the sands.
In what was thought to be misfortune all their hopes were answered with the invisible hand of the Almighty. Touching at last whether for 1000 years or even a day was of no consequence because at least for a little while they could simply be; together. A simple blessing for some simple nuts; a couple of God’s coconuts.
The Last Dance
He had watched for ten thousand years, watching all forms of dance.
He saw the ancient tribes dance in the land now known as America, and the sub-Saharan dance of more African’s than he could recall.
He saw the social dances of the French renaissance, the ballet in London, ball room dancing in Australia and although he had heard of Fred Astaire his travels never allowed him to see the master at work.
He couldn’t be seen but he frequently watched from the shadows most of the time. In Russia he once got so caught up in watching a dance he almost missed his scheduled mission.
His love of the Almighty and his love of dance were sometimes so similar he could hardly control his excitement.
When he could he would stand in the shadows of an old dance studio just outside of Brooklyn. The building was an old brick factory made perfect with old creaking white oak floors, large wall length windows and ceilings as high as he could see.
He would watch the ballet class at 7pm, the waltz class at 8pm, and classic ball room at 9pm, lost in a sea of movement and beauty and music.
As a servant of Heaven the Lord thought it appropriate to give him a special gift and what a gift it was! Tonight his glorious wings would fade, the heavens would illuminate the floors and for just a little while this angel would be simply; human.
He could feel the grain of the oak under his feet, he could feel the cool musty breeze flowing through his hair as he ran, and spun and jumped and swayed.
He swung his powerful arms, leaped high with his mighty legs and for a few special moments he was allowed to leave the glory of Heaven and feel the glory of; LIFE.
He had watched for ten thousand years, watching all forms of dance.
He saw the ancient tribes dance in the land now known as America, and the sub-Saharan dance of more African’s than he could recall.
He saw the social dances of the French renaissance, the ballet in London, ball room dancing in Australia and although he had heard of Fred Astaire his travels never allowed him to see the master at work.
He couldn’t be seen but he frequently watched from the shadows most of the time. In Russia he once got so caught up in watching a dance he almost missed his scheduled mission.
His love of the Almighty and his love of dance were sometimes so similar he could hardly control his excitement.
When he could he would stand in the shadows of an old dance studio just outside of Brooklyn. The building was an old brick factory made perfect with old creaking white oak floors, large wall length windows and ceilings as high as he could see.
He would watch the ballet class at 7pm, the waltz class at 8pm, and classic ball room at 9pm, lost in a sea of movement and beauty and music.
As a servant of Heaven the Lord thought it appropriate to give him a special gift and what a gift it was! Tonight his glorious wings would fade, the heavens would illuminate the floors and for just a little while this angel would be simply; human.
He could feel the grain of the oak under his feet, he could feel the cool musty breeze flowing through his hair as he ran, and spun and jumped and swayed.
He swung his powerful arms, leaped high with his mighty legs and for a few special moments he was allowed to leave the glory of Heaven and feel the glory of; LIFE.
Whispers of the Creator
There is an exact point in each of our lives that our life begins. Maybe it’s that very first heartbeat when the very first thump radiates from the mother’s womb and plays in the heavens like a song. Maybe its that first breath when we open wide and pull in those few breaths and cry out we are alive to everyone in the room. and yet another song plays for the angels to hear. I suspect the simple fact is that the Almighty breaths our name and like the world itself; it’s done.
Whether God is the great planner who plans our every step or simply lays a path for us to step on is of little consequence to him or to me. I only know that there was a moment when the Creator of the universe whispered my name and the angels rushed to see it happen again as if it were the very first time: unlike us, angels never lose their fascination for the creation nor their amazement at the work of the Creator.
There is an exact point in each of our lives that our life begins. Maybe it’s that very first heartbeat when the very first thump radiates from the mother’s womb and plays in the heavens like a song. Maybe its that first breath when we open wide and pull in those few breaths and cry out we are alive to everyone in the room. and yet another song plays for the angels to hear. I suspect the simple fact is that the Almighty breaths our name and like the world itself; it’s done.
Whether God is the great planner who plans our every step or simply lays a path for us to step on is of little consequence to him or to me. I only know that there was a moment when the Creator of the universe whispered my name and the angels rushed to see it happen again as if it were the very first time: unlike us, angels never lose their fascination for the creation nor their amazement at the work of the Creator.
A Future Glance
He was dying and he knew it. So many years had gone by and he needed a revelation. A revelation not of what could be his but what would be his. Some of us find the Lord in delicate whispers of his voice, “come to me“, “take my hand“, and we do. Others like Paul need to be brought to their knees on the road to Damascus. I suspect it was in the quiet when he finally came to terms with the gravity of his situation. That inner voice inside your soul that says this really is the transition point. There was no question the tearful goodbyes, the hugs; the plans were more meaningful than ever before. Maybe he hadn’t always seen or appreciated the giver of life watching in the shadows throughout his life. The very one that blessed him with a wife that loved him, children that brought him joy, a simple life that was a simple blessing and a precious gift.
We don’t always see the beauty of the stars overhead, the health of our loved ones, the job that feeds them. Our Creator is frequently lost in the life he gives us, but this night would be different. Tonight he would be given a precious gift, he would enter a world that he was destined for, a glimmer of the truth as real as the very life he would soon be transitioning from.
It was simple, somewhere between the cool sheets he closed his eyes and for the first time in his life he saw the truth. It was a gift that few are given. He must of been so very special to be given a glimpse and introduced to another who was also in the shadows of his life. This moment was his and he made the choice to fight for his eternal future. This day he would stand before the heavens while Angels watched in wonder and be stronger than he had ever been in the weakest time of his life. His fight was not for the life that lay suffering in this bed but a life with the one who said “Come to me” and he did.
He was dying and he knew it. So many years had gone by and he needed a revelation. A revelation not of what could be his but what would be his. Some of us find the Lord in delicate whispers of his voice, “come to me“, “take my hand“, and we do. Others like Paul need to be brought to their knees on the road to Damascus. I suspect it was in the quiet when he finally came to terms with the gravity of his situation. That inner voice inside your soul that says this really is the transition point. There was no question the tearful goodbyes, the hugs; the plans were more meaningful than ever before. Maybe he hadn’t always seen or appreciated the giver of life watching in the shadows throughout his life. The very one that blessed him with a wife that loved him, children that brought him joy, a simple life that was a simple blessing and a precious gift.
We don’t always see the beauty of the stars overhead, the health of our loved ones, the job that feeds them. Our Creator is frequently lost in the life he gives us, but this night would be different. Tonight he would be given a precious gift, he would enter a world that he was destined for, a glimmer of the truth as real as the very life he would soon be transitioning from.
It was simple, somewhere between the cool sheets he closed his eyes and for the first time in his life he saw the truth. It was a gift that few are given. He must of been so very special to be given a glimpse and introduced to another who was also in the shadows of his life. This moment was his and he made the choice to fight for his eternal future. This day he would stand before the heavens while Angels watched in wonder and be stronger than he had ever been in the weakest time of his life. His fight was not for the life that lay suffering in this bed but a life with the one who said “Come to me” and he did.
Pieces of Your Presence
In the morning, before you awake, I frequently lay there and just feel the warmth of your body next to mine. At night after you fall asleep I do the same. I simply feel your presence. In the evening, while I watch TV you play your scrabble game and even then I bask in your presence. Like the heat of the sun coming through a window I feel you near and the pleasure of having you near is all I want. You may think that I yearn for something more but that is not the case. When I leave you I take with me those quiet moments. It's in those quiet moments I fill my pockets with pieces of your presence. Little pieces of a memory, memories of your warm skin, your soft hair before the sun rises, and the many times I've told you to look into my eyes. It's the pieces that sustain me, make me feel safe, make me feel loved, give depth to my life. The pieces of your presence drift from my pocket, to my mind, to my heart, and into my soul. Without these tender pieces of you in my pocket I wouldn't have peace; in me
In the morning, before you awake, I frequently lay there and just feel the warmth of your body next to mine. At night after you fall asleep I do the same. I simply feel your presence. In the evening, while I watch TV you play your scrabble game and even then I bask in your presence. Like the heat of the sun coming through a window I feel you near and the pleasure of having you near is all I want. You may think that I yearn for something more but that is not the case. When I leave you I take with me those quiet moments. It's in those quiet moments I fill my pockets with pieces of your presence. Little pieces of a memory, memories of your warm skin, your soft hair before the sun rises, and the many times I've told you to look into my eyes. It's the pieces that sustain me, make me feel safe, make me feel loved, give depth to my life. The pieces of your presence drift from my pocket, to my mind, to my heart, and into my soul. Without these tender pieces of you in my pocket I wouldn't have peace; in me
Echo’s of Life
The echoes of life are all we leave behind. Footprints in the sand, a signature of memories in the lives each of us has crossed. Some are strangers, children, spouses, lovers, neighbors and friends. At the transition from this life to the next it begins. Loved ones mourn, friends weep and acquaintances begin the process of listening, they all listen for the echoes of our life. The echo of who we touched, what we said, how we lived, who we uplifted, who we loved, how we loved. Echo’s of life are just like shouts down a canyon wall, the one who lived cannot reel them back in. Surprisingly, although they can’t be seen they remain etched in the hearts and minds they touched. The author of them who’s gone can’t reach back to retrieve them, to alter them, and we can’t reach through the veil of eternity to praise or question the author whose remnants of a life whisper to our memories and our hearts. We should assure that the echo’s of our life are as incredibly beautiful as the veil is incredibly eternal.
The echoes of life are all we leave behind. Footprints in the sand, a signature of memories in the lives each of us has crossed. Some are strangers, children, spouses, lovers, neighbors and friends. At the transition from this life to the next it begins. Loved ones mourn, friends weep and acquaintances begin the process of listening, they all listen for the echoes of our life. The echo of who we touched, what we said, how we lived, who we uplifted, who we loved, how we loved. Echo’s of life are just like shouts down a canyon wall, the one who lived cannot reel them back in. Surprisingly, although they can’t be seen they remain etched in the hearts and minds they touched. The author of them who’s gone can’t reach back to retrieve them, to alter them, and we can’t reach through the veil of eternity to praise or question the author whose remnants of a life whisper to our memories and our hearts. We should assure that the echo’s of our life are as incredibly beautiful as the veil is incredibly eternal.
In the Shadows
She’s a woman now, not sure when the transition occurred, I’m not sure she knows. I look at her picture and see a woman of incredible beauty and a certain peace comes over me. She probably isn’t aware that I was the only one that saw her enter this world. Her Mother was exhausted, eyes closed, barely alert but I watched the very second air danced on her skin, the air filled her lungs, I heard her cry, and I cried too.
There are special tears reserved for moments like this, tears drawn from the depths of a man’s soul; tears of absolute joy, a moment that Father’s have when their girls are born and again when they give them away. She thinks we’re so distant but in reality I never left that delivery room. My soul is forever etched with the shadow of her first breath. In my quiet moments I sneak a peek to see her life evolve in her words and snapshots of her life and her baby son.
At night I thank my heavenly Father for the gift that he entrusted me with that day. The gift of a life I could give to her and the gift of life she has given to me. It all started with a simple breath and a little girl’s hand wrapped around her Daddy’s finger.
She’s a woman now, not sure when the transition occurred, I’m not sure she knows. I look at her picture and see a woman of incredible beauty and a certain peace comes over me. She probably isn’t aware that I was the only one that saw her enter this world. Her Mother was exhausted, eyes closed, barely alert but I watched the very second air danced on her skin, the air filled her lungs, I heard her cry, and I cried too.
There are special tears reserved for moments like this, tears drawn from the depths of a man’s soul; tears of absolute joy, a moment that Father’s have when their girls are born and again when they give them away. She thinks we’re so distant but in reality I never left that delivery room. My soul is forever etched with the shadow of her first breath. In my quiet moments I sneak a peek to see her life evolve in her words and snapshots of her life and her baby son.
At night I thank my heavenly Father for the gift that he entrusted me with that day. The gift of a life I could give to her and the gift of life she has given to me. It all started with a simple breath and a little girl’s hand wrapped around her Daddy’s finger.
Fragile Bridges to Peace
I often dream of solitude, my thoughts take me to places that I've never been but are always strangely familiar. It's in nature that I find this peace, always to the hill country of West Virginia, the fjords of Washington State, the mountains of Colorado; mountain streams just this side of Montana, a Sunday afternoon in the wheat fields of Kansas. I can go anyplace in my mind, and I do. It's like an expression I heard once, "Beautiful music makes you yearn for something you never had, and never will have" and this is where I'm at when I go to these places; yearning, resting, robed in peace. It's as if I can reach out and touch the reality of my imagination, but when I do like a pebble hitting the surface of a still pond, the image blurs and I'm back to reality. I've learned to relax and take it in and drift; like watching the clouds roll by. My writing is a bridge to that place, a place where I can weave a memory, an event, a thought and breathe words of life into it. This is a place where I can open the window of my imagination and invite the reader or the listener to come in and share. Come in and touch something that without my words would have never been revealed, never seen, even if for a moment I can share the vision with someone else, even if that vision is a fleeting vapor of emotion, an escape, a dream, a message of hope as much for me as anyone else.
I often dream of solitude, my thoughts take me to places that I've never been but are always strangely familiar. It's in nature that I find this peace, always to the hill country of West Virginia, the fjords of Washington State, the mountains of Colorado; mountain streams just this side of Montana, a Sunday afternoon in the wheat fields of Kansas. I can go anyplace in my mind, and I do. It's like an expression I heard once, "Beautiful music makes you yearn for something you never had, and never will have" and this is where I'm at when I go to these places; yearning, resting, robed in peace. It's as if I can reach out and touch the reality of my imagination, but when I do like a pebble hitting the surface of a still pond, the image blurs and I'm back to reality. I've learned to relax and take it in and drift; like watching the clouds roll by. My writing is a bridge to that place, a place where I can weave a memory, an event, a thought and breathe words of life into it. This is a place where I can open the window of my imagination and invite the reader or the listener to come in and share. Come in and touch something that without my words would have never been revealed, never seen, even if for a moment I can share the vision with someone else, even if that vision is a fleeting vapor of emotion, an escape, a dream, a message of hope as much for me as anyone else.
Canadian Boat Ride
It was a dreary, rain filled morning, with a banged up aluminum boat with no doubt much more time on the edge of the water than on its surface. The smell of fall was in the air, damp leaves that lived up their short life before the glory of their color could arrive. It was a new lake for us, my bride and me. Like a dream we had spent the night listening to the rain cascade endlessly through the canopy that surrounded the cabin. The boat was a relic of 1950's mass production, the remnants of her beginning was the shadow of a turquoise stripe across her bow. Somehow the stripe had clung to the surface of the metal as tenaciously as the environment tried to retch it to the wind. I struggled with whether to take her out but in the end the call of the water caused me to walk moss covered paths to see what she could do.
The boat was stored on two ramps of wood, dragged to its position by a winch that was strapped to a birch, the tree younger than the boat, the winch older than some of the rocks by the looks of it. Any effort to force her down the slide was as much a risk to the boat as it was to the person desiring to get in her. Moss covered granite stones; mud and compost helped me slide perfectly but was of no use with regard to the boat. I managed to break her free and she slid gracefully into the water. Somehow by the grace of the Almighty I slid with her surprising myself that I was in her instead of alongside her in the cool water. My bride joined me at the shore looking like she was ready for a photo shoot in yachting magazine and while I, dripping with sweat, wondered myself if there was a super yacht coming and picking her up instead of me. I arrived at the pier with an oar in my right hand and prayed that as her majesty came down the ladder that her Polo deck shoes would not get soiled which didn't matter because I would personally soil them for her as I struggled to start the beast while in gear. My bride settled in to the comfortable aluminum seat and immediately informed the Captain that the climate control system of my fine ship was allowing her to become cold and wet.
Ultimately, I returned my bride to the shore and I sped off and found a new affection for this little boat. Like an ugly horse that when set free runs like the wind so did she and I was once again filled with the joy and peace of the water below and the wind in my face. Boats are just like people having their own personality, how they approach the water, how they react to it, how strong they are in adversity, how beautiful they are in view, how well they are crafted, how they stand the test of time, how they endure over time, and how they bring joy to the people use them. I won't remember the sweat and effort; it was all washed away by the wind in my face on a little boat brought to life.
It was a dreary, rain filled morning, with a banged up aluminum boat with no doubt much more time on the edge of the water than on its surface. The smell of fall was in the air, damp leaves that lived up their short life before the glory of their color could arrive. It was a new lake for us, my bride and me. Like a dream we had spent the night listening to the rain cascade endlessly through the canopy that surrounded the cabin. The boat was a relic of 1950's mass production, the remnants of her beginning was the shadow of a turquoise stripe across her bow. Somehow the stripe had clung to the surface of the metal as tenaciously as the environment tried to retch it to the wind. I struggled with whether to take her out but in the end the call of the water caused me to walk moss covered paths to see what she could do.
The boat was stored on two ramps of wood, dragged to its position by a winch that was strapped to a birch, the tree younger than the boat, the winch older than some of the rocks by the looks of it. Any effort to force her down the slide was as much a risk to the boat as it was to the person desiring to get in her. Moss covered granite stones; mud and compost helped me slide perfectly but was of no use with regard to the boat. I managed to break her free and she slid gracefully into the water. Somehow by the grace of the Almighty I slid with her surprising myself that I was in her instead of alongside her in the cool water. My bride joined me at the shore looking like she was ready for a photo shoot in yachting magazine and while I, dripping with sweat, wondered myself if there was a super yacht coming and picking her up instead of me. I arrived at the pier with an oar in my right hand and prayed that as her majesty came down the ladder that her Polo deck shoes would not get soiled which didn't matter because I would personally soil them for her as I struggled to start the beast while in gear. My bride settled in to the comfortable aluminum seat and immediately informed the Captain that the climate control system of my fine ship was allowing her to become cold and wet.
Ultimately, I returned my bride to the shore and I sped off and found a new affection for this little boat. Like an ugly horse that when set free runs like the wind so did she and I was once again filled with the joy and peace of the water below and the wind in my face. Boats are just like people having their own personality, how they approach the water, how they react to it, how strong they are in adversity, how beautiful they are in view, how well they are crafted, how they stand the test of time, how they endure over time, and how they bring joy to the people use them. I won't remember the sweat and effort; it was all washed away by the wind in my face on a little boat brought to life.
Weathered Wood and Love
It was an old red barn, commonly known as an English barn it was 50 by 75 ft and I loved her, although she's not mine anymore I still do. She was moved there in 1908, five years after the house on the property was built in 1903 for a Mennonite minister and his third and last wife. She was made of hand hewn timbers of oak, poplar and cedar shingles with thousands upon thousands of fine square nails in her roof. Hewn by hands that had no choice but to take simple tools and with sweat and muscle shape this huge building into a tool itself. A tool made from things that once lived, to house things that bring life. I call the barn "she" because this barn had so many attributes that made it a thing of beauty that like other more mechanical devices transcends from being just created to truly being a creation. In typical fashion she had a milking area with rusty old stations that held the cow in position and a block milk house that was at the northern end and had the only sign of any sort of climate control. Hand carved pins that held her together and old hay from decades before. Her ridge line was 50ft above the earth and had greeted so many sunsets and sun rises it would be difficult to count. I was fortunate enough to sit up there many times and simply enjoy the view, watch a few of the Lord's sunsets myself and feel the gentle breeze of summer.
I never really felt I owned her I felt more as a steward over her. I fixed the foundation of stone dug from the earth nearby, replaced the siding as money allowed and prayed that lightning would stay away. I knew that she was standing a century before I came along and I prayed that the roof I put on would maintain her until another owner comes along that would see her for what she is. My fondest memories involved my daughter on the tire swing out front and the simple joy of having the gift of appearing to own that barn that you could see from a mile away. The reality was I never really owned her, she has always owned me. I was simply there to preserve her for another generation to laugh on a swing out front and enjoy the view aloft on warm summer evenings.
It was an old red barn, commonly known as an English barn it was 50 by 75 ft and I loved her, although she's not mine anymore I still do. She was moved there in 1908, five years after the house on the property was built in 1903 for a Mennonite minister and his third and last wife. She was made of hand hewn timbers of oak, poplar and cedar shingles with thousands upon thousands of fine square nails in her roof. Hewn by hands that had no choice but to take simple tools and with sweat and muscle shape this huge building into a tool itself. A tool made from things that once lived, to house things that bring life. I call the barn "she" because this barn had so many attributes that made it a thing of beauty that like other more mechanical devices transcends from being just created to truly being a creation. In typical fashion she had a milking area with rusty old stations that held the cow in position and a block milk house that was at the northern end and had the only sign of any sort of climate control. Hand carved pins that held her together and old hay from decades before. Her ridge line was 50ft above the earth and had greeted so many sunsets and sun rises it would be difficult to count. I was fortunate enough to sit up there many times and simply enjoy the view, watch a few of the Lord's sunsets myself and feel the gentle breeze of summer.
I never really felt I owned her I felt more as a steward over her. I fixed the foundation of stone dug from the earth nearby, replaced the siding as money allowed and prayed that lightning would stay away. I knew that she was standing a century before I came along and I prayed that the roof I put on would maintain her until another owner comes along that would see her for what she is. My fondest memories involved my daughter on the tire swing out front and the simple joy of having the gift of appearing to own that barn that you could see from a mile away. The reality was I never really owned her, she has always owned me. I was simply there to preserve her for another generation to laugh on a swing out front and enjoy the view aloft on warm summer evenings.
Little White Crane
It's one of the rarest birds in the world, of course it migrates hundreds of miles to be embraced by your place of birth. How perfect that this majestic and one of the rarest creatures would find refuge and peace in the very place the Almighty brought you your first breath. How amazing it will be for you to look back in wonder that this same creator who gave you the gift of life could bring you across the expanse of the world to also be embraced in the loving arms of the parents he had destined you to be with all along. These two hearts yearning for you, yearning to love you, yearning to hold you, yearning to be your friend, to watch you laugh, make funny faces, giggle, jump like a bunny, whatever makes your eyes dance and joy come to your soul that's what they want. And for all the love, care, and sacrifice they give they ask only one thing in return, the honor of simply knowing; you, everyday of your life. And that "every day" can be when you're sad, when you're sick, when your heart is broken, when you're driving them crazy, when you're grown and even when your kids are driving you crazy. And when they are old and you are too, remember this, there was a little white crane in China, thousands of miles away and many years ago that needed to be embraced, and this couple, this man, this woman, your Mom, your Dad reached across the great ocean and yearned to embrace you before they ever had a chance to touch your face, smell your hair or had a chance to make your eyes dance and joy come into your soul.
It's one of the rarest birds in the world, of course it migrates hundreds of miles to be embraced by your place of birth. How perfect that this majestic and one of the rarest creatures would find refuge and peace in the very place the Almighty brought you your first breath. How amazing it will be for you to look back in wonder that this same creator who gave you the gift of life could bring you across the expanse of the world to also be embraced in the loving arms of the parents he had destined you to be with all along. These two hearts yearning for you, yearning to love you, yearning to hold you, yearning to be your friend, to watch you laugh, make funny faces, giggle, jump like a bunny, whatever makes your eyes dance and joy come to your soul that's what they want. And for all the love, care, and sacrifice they give they ask only one thing in return, the honor of simply knowing; you, everyday of your life. And that "every day" can be when you're sad, when you're sick, when your heart is broken, when you're driving them crazy, when you're grown and even when your kids are driving you crazy. And when they are old and you are too, remember this, there was a little white crane in China, thousands of miles away and many years ago that needed to be embraced, and this couple, this man, this woman, your Mom, your Dad reached across the great ocean and yearned to embrace you before they ever had a chance to touch your face, smell your hair or had a chance to make your eyes dance and joy come into your soul.
Shadow of an Angel
I prayed a prayer for him; my solder, it was the beginning of many. I was scared for him going to Baghdad he is my baby, my little boy. It’s hard for me to even describe him, he’s the definition of so many thousands already there. Thousands already gone; he’s my blood, my first born, my precious, my handsome little boy, my little troublemaker, my little guy, my spitting image, the Father of my Grandson, my gift from heaven, a gift from the Lord. And I remember the very moment of his birth, his first day of school, his gift of art, the beauty of his eyes and his desire to be different. This first night I cried out to the heavens before he left and the Almighty gave me a vision.
Looking down from high above on the large city of Baghdad at night I saw a small ball of orange light arch from one point to the next, and then another, and another, and another until the sky above was full of them flying to and fro. I realized that these orange flashes were angels doing the work of the Almighty, yielding to the cry of loved ones from Michigan and Ohio, Florida and Maine, California and Texas. The heartfelt cries of brothers and sisters Mom’s and Dad’s to bring their loved ones home, let them live, let no harm come to them.
The revelation came to me that God is doing his best to answer the mournful cry of so many in a land where at times there appears to be no sign of God at all. My son comes home next week after a year serving a country founded “In God we trust” at night I’ll look toward the heavens and seek a shadow of an angel and praise the Almighty for the gift and the life of my solder; my son
I prayed a prayer for him; my solder, it was the beginning of many. I was scared for him going to Baghdad he is my baby, my little boy. It’s hard for me to even describe him, he’s the definition of so many thousands already there. Thousands already gone; he’s my blood, my first born, my precious, my handsome little boy, my little troublemaker, my little guy, my spitting image, the Father of my Grandson, my gift from heaven, a gift from the Lord. And I remember the very moment of his birth, his first day of school, his gift of art, the beauty of his eyes and his desire to be different. This first night I cried out to the heavens before he left and the Almighty gave me a vision.
Looking down from high above on the large city of Baghdad at night I saw a small ball of orange light arch from one point to the next, and then another, and another, and another until the sky above was full of them flying to and fro. I realized that these orange flashes were angels doing the work of the Almighty, yielding to the cry of loved ones from Michigan and Ohio, Florida and Maine, California and Texas. The heartfelt cries of brothers and sisters Mom’s and Dad’s to bring their loved ones home, let them live, let no harm come to them.
The revelation came to me that God is doing his best to answer the mournful cry of so many in a land where at times there appears to be no sign of God at all. My son comes home next week after a year serving a country founded “In God we trust” at night I’ll look toward the heavens and seek a shadow of an angel and praise the Almighty for the gift and the life of my solder; my son
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