I am empty
Serving no purpose until I am filled
Born to give shape and form
To that which fills me
A vessel of Light awaiting a word
And the hand that pours the wine of Life
Into my waiting.
Insubstantial, it is my substance
Into which the waters flow,
Held in safety, preserved from dissipation
By the cup of my being.
My feet in earth
Lips raised to the sky in joyful paean
Catching heaven’s rain as it falls
And fills me with its clarity
That I may drink the morning.
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This is a very old post of mine, but expresses a part of what I mean about sex in the context of love being one of our ways to experience God.
That may seem like a funny thing to say in a world obsessed with sex. However, when an Adult Sunday School Class was asked the question, “What’s a way you experience the presence of God?” and I answered “Sex,” it went over like a lead balloon. There was a profound silence. I think the pastor just finally moved on to another question.
Evidently this is not the number one response.
For me growing up in the fifties and being a newly wed in the sixties created a sexual conundrum. It meant coming into marriage with all sorts of taboos drummed into your conscious and unconscious, but suddenly hearing the feminists claiming equal fun for everyone. This led to being rather self-centered about sex. I did finally get the impression that men need the enjoyment of sex to feel good about themselves, but women need to feel good about themselves to…
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Oh, to be open each dawn to the Spirit which gives us life, love, and grace. A lovely poem by Sue Vincent in England.
I am empty
Ahh…..for a moment I delighted with you…..and I don’t even like Scotch. Such is the power of language. How then, can we capture and pass on the beauty some of us glimpse only in that ephemeral place of possibility so that those unsighted can taste and see that universal goodness in which we were created to live and breathe and have our being?
a gift-glass of excellent
Scotch, a Glenmorangie
Nectar D’Or aged in
an indulgence, yes, expensive
and rare; that’s the point of it,
it was a sacrifice,
it was given in love
and I drink it with love on
my mind. Lemony
start, honey on the tongue
with dark burn, a finish
built on notes of
regret at its ending and
joy that it was here and I
had this chance to taste it:
I’m not going to be ashamed
at this, you see, not while
so much wrong needs righting,
not while there’s so much need
to assuage pain and trouble;
for a few minutes
I’m going into this glass
to understand it as a golden
taste of an expression of love,
a trace of what a pure future
might be once we get past
this dim moment.
The blog posts by this author are written with his eyes on a special computer. His journey is the most literal example of “living for others” that I have ever encountered. His writings and example have pulled me out of my self-pity spells for years.
I almost made it through a whole year without being hospitalized or having any additional health problems. Almost. Then, with just a few days left in 2016, I caught a cold. The “commoncold” is not much more than an annoyance for otherwise healthy people, but for someone like me with weakened breathing muscles and only 30% of my lungs functioning, the common cold is much more than an annoyance.
On the morning of the last day of the year, I was having an extremely difficult time breathing even wearing my breathing mask. In addition to that, I couldn’t keep anything down. I was a mess, more than usual. Mary and I both assumed it was pneumonia again so she called 911 and within minutes we were in an ambulance en route to the hospital. ALS has brought us one adventure after another over the last 20 years.
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This young woman just restored my hope for the future.
You only need to meet me to know that no matter how you cut it, I’m no saleswoman . So, If you had told me that my first job would be as a sales consultant at a debt counseling firm, i would have never even entertained the conversation.
Yet a couple of months after varsity I found myself doing just that. Four years and student loans later, I was working a job that I hated more with every passing day.
It amazes me how at the feet of desperation, preference bows out and just about anything goes.
To be fair, It didn’t start out that way. Initially that job had felt like a godsend. I’d been job hunting for months to no avail and couldn’t even keep track of the applications I sent out.
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There are people in my life who push my buttons, causing me to question my words and actions. Yesterday for example, the first email of the day was from a work colleague asking for a meeting to discuss myself and my team moving out of our offices. Some of their people would be moving in next week. They appeared in my office, shortly after receiving news that I knew nothing about the relocation. We exchanged points of view in a jovial manner. I offered one of the desks in the area for one of their team members, as a stop gap measure.
A small time later I received another email from them, letting me know that they had no intention of kicking us out. I know that they are not the catalyst, there are more senior powers at work. The communication ended with the following “Sorry for the stressful start to your…
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Saw it coming when she said “Jesus fed a crowd at moment’s notice!” This is great…..a man of all nationalities and genders….that’s my Jesus.
One day, on their way home from work, the Seven Dwarfs got into a heated argument about Jesus and his ethnicity.
Grumpy argued that Jesus was Black: “He called everyone brother, he liked Gospel, and he didn’t get a fair trial.”
“No way,” said Doc, “Jesus went into His Father’s business; he lived at home until he was 33; he was sure his Mother was a virgin, and . . . his Mother was sure he was God. He was obviously Jewish.”
Bashful quietly said, “I think Jesus must have been Italian. He talked with his hands, he drank wine with his meals, and he used a lot of olive oil.”
Grumpy raised an eyebrow and asked, “What makes you think Jesus used a lot of olive oil?”
Bashful blushed, “Well, he must have. He always had an olive branch to offer . . .”
Before Grumpy could respond, Dopey grinned and said, “Dudes. He never cut his hair, he walked around barefoot all the time, and he started his own religion. He was…
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This illustrates the base for all ministries: prayer!
Communion. Midnight. Children. Shootings. Jesus. Hookers. Drug dealers. Ministry.
Yeah… those were the days.
In this vignette, I will now tell of the night we stopped a murder with a communion service. This was truly a highlight in my life and ministry. Perhaps we could call it clandestine consecration.
Special Agent D (SAD) and I were learning clandestine consecration. Here is how we figured it out: When we heard the name of a rumored drug dealer out on 65th Drive (and then passed it on to a handful of little grannies in a prayer circle back at church), those drug dealers would wind up going to jail. It was quite remarkable. It only took a couple of weeks worth of prayer before God seemed to move in dramatic fashion to bring about change in the lives of these guys.
First we heard about a guy named “Blue.” We passed…
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“Emma.” Nanu exclaimed, “Why are you out of your bed?”
“I’m scared of the monsters hiding under there,” Emma sobbed.
“Oh! I understand,” nodded Nanu, as she held out her arms.
With Emma snuggled into her lap, Nanu whispered in her ear,
“I remember when I was a child and used to get scared.”
“What did you do?” Emma asked, whispering back.
“Hiding under the covers was my favorite safe place.”
“But what about the monsters? Weren’t you afraid?”
“Well, I’d leap into bed from at least two feet away,
right into the safe space, smack-dab in the middle.
Then, I’d yank the covers up over my head,
staying perfectly still, with my eyes shut tight,
my legs close together and my arms at my sides,
so not any part of me would hang over the edge.
Then I felt safe from anything under the bed.
I’d wake up next…
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Too good to not share.
Microcosms this week is a picture prompt
Norman thought of himself as meticulous; Daphne thought him slow. He started many jobs always intending completion. Rarely did it happen. However the construction of an air-raid shelter was one project Daphne determined Norman would finish.
Norman’s problem was a Victorian urge to over-engineer. The neighbours dug a simple pit which they covered in corrugated iron. Norman hunted out precious bricks, while assessing ground conditions and the best prospect – east-facing he thought.
Progress was slow. Bombing raids came and went. Daphne and the boys sheltered with the neighbours. Meanwhile Norman pottered and pointed and pontificated.
The boys joined up and still Norman built. VE Day passed in a blur for Daphne as she imbibed more oak leaf wine than was recommended.
When she returned, as the rain blew away, Norman was waiting. ‘It’s done.’ At the top of…
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