As years pass and we grow out of our childish ways we oft forget to keep close what mattered most to us during those adolescent years. The matter may have changed over the time from toys to Friday night dates and for some a pair of ice skates, others a doll that came to life in our eyes when we were young. Have we forgotten now what is was like to go to bed with no worries or fear but only dreams of what adventure we will take the next day? Adventure to Treasure Island or to Outer Space with our trusty cardboard box as our ship or shuttle.
Or how about the nights when you would stare aloof, pondering how long Christmas was away? Do we pause now and remember the nights of sheepishly waiting for Santa only to find a plethora of gifts around us the next morning, realizing that you fell asleep on the couch? Do we remember what it was like to scan the newspaper ads or the shop windows so that we knew exactly what to ask for?
How about the many letters we put our heart into thanking Santa for his Christmas flight, then trying to be nice? Do we pause to remember?
This season of time let us not forget what we once held so dear, for there are many around us that hold similar things near. Young or old, the spirit will not die, it is us that we must keep alive.
Take some time to reflect and give thanks for the cherished times, then let us all press on building what is left of our precious time. Making memories with the ones we love, and remember, take time to dream of what may be above.
Monday, November 28, 2011
a knights tale
Hoof beats on the ground sounding as thunder from afar
A merciless knight rides on
Armor glistening, scattering diamonds across the sunset sky
Darkness draws in but still he rides, for terror is upon the wind
He knows not where he rides, but follows the promptings of his heart
He was beckoned, heeded the call, a Damsel was awaiting
Every knight knew the sound, but only when true love was found would one listen
Ascending the final peak, his noble stead's hoof beats sounded forth his onslaught
As he rode into the heart of the unconquerable keep
At once he drew his sword and shouted onward to his foe:
"A knights tale is not complete until you are sleeping underneath my feet!"
Dismounting his horse, his heart knew, his mind aware
For there was a malicious glare as Hell's fire licked
To travel around the glory of his shield
Battle ensued,
One fighting for love
The other fighting to defend a lair
The knight fought with the fury of a dragon
Using his growing rage to compete against an
Imaginable beast of midnight scales with a warriors pattern
Of stars lining its jaws of eternal abyss
Terror struck, the beast thought he had victory
Watching yet another knight fall to a knee
All at once the knight felt the cry of true love
Resonate throughout his chest, pulling him to his feet;
Guiding his crimson sword deep, piercing the soul of the Midnight Beast
Releasing anguish and sorrow from its darkened prison
With the rising of the sun the knight removed his blackened helmet
And viewed the arrangement of what entailed and fell weeping
Seeing his image upon the creature he had destroyed
A gentle hand cleared his tears
Gazing up he found true beauty
That he longed to know for a thousand years
This knights tale, is now complete
A merciless knight rides on
Armor glistening, scattering diamonds across the sunset sky
Darkness draws in but still he rides, for terror is upon the wind
He knows not where he rides, but follows the promptings of his heart
He was beckoned, heeded the call, a Damsel was awaiting
Every knight knew the sound, but only when true love was found would one listen
Ascending the final peak, his noble stead's hoof beats sounded forth his onslaught
As he rode into the heart of the unconquerable keep
At once he drew his sword and shouted onward to his foe:
"A knights tale is not complete until you are sleeping underneath my feet!"
Dismounting his horse, his heart knew, his mind aware
For there was a malicious glare as Hell's fire licked
To travel around the glory of his shield
Battle ensued,
One fighting for love
The other fighting to defend a lair
The knight fought with the fury of a dragon
Using his growing rage to compete against an
Imaginable beast of midnight scales with a warriors pattern
Of stars lining its jaws of eternal abyss
Terror struck, the beast thought he had victory
Watching yet another knight fall to a knee
All at once the knight felt the cry of true love
Resonate throughout his chest, pulling him to his feet;
Guiding his crimson sword deep, piercing the soul of the Midnight Beast
Releasing anguish and sorrow from its darkened prison
With the rising of the sun the knight removed his blackened helmet
And viewed the arrangement of what entailed and fell weeping
Seeing his image upon the creature he had destroyed
A gentle hand cleared his tears
Gazing up he found true beauty
That he longed to know for a thousand years
This knights tale, is now complete
Monday, November 21, 2011
a missionary
Sometime between the whirl of teenage activity and the confinement to cane and rocking chair, we find a strange creature called a missionary. Missionaries come in two varieties: elders and sisters. They come in assorted sizes, weights, and colors-green being the most common among the new ones.
Missionaries are found everywhere, hurrying, climbing, knocking, walking, and getting thrown out. Converts love them, young girls worship them, the law tolerates them, dogs hate them, most people ignore them, and heaven protects them.
A missionary is a composite. It has the appetite of a horse, the enthusiasm of a firecracker, the patience of Job, the persistence of a Fuller Brush salesmen, and the courage of a lion tamer. It likes letters from home, invitations to Sunday dinner, conferences, checks, and visits from the mission president.
It isn't much fun tracting in blizzards, ladies who slam doors, hats, suits and dull ties, apartment houses, transfers to hot areas, shaking hands at arms length with the opposite sex, alarm clocks, and "Dear John" letters.
A missionary is an odd character. It can get homesick, discouraged, and temporarily lose faith in the whole human race. Yet nobody else can knock so boldly with such a shaky hand. Nobody is so early to rise or so tired at 10:30 p.m. And nobody else can get such a thrill at the end of a discouraging day from the words, "Come on in-I've been waiting for you."
A missionary is truth with a pocket full of tracts, and faith with 69 cents in its pocket. "Hey Dad, where is that check?" Yes, they are all this but a strange lump will rise in its throat the day it receives its letter of release, and on arrival home its homecoming speech will probably contain the phrase it once considered trite. "The time I spent in the mission field was the happiest time of my life."
-From the Finnish Mission newsletter, November 1959-
Missionaries are found everywhere, hurrying, climbing, knocking, walking, and getting thrown out. Converts love them, young girls worship them, the law tolerates them, dogs hate them, most people ignore them, and heaven protects them.
A missionary is a composite. It has the appetite of a horse, the enthusiasm of a firecracker, the patience of Job, the persistence of a Fuller Brush salesmen, and the courage of a lion tamer. It likes letters from home, invitations to Sunday dinner, conferences, checks, and visits from the mission president.
It isn't much fun tracting in blizzards, ladies who slam doors, hats, suits and dull ties, apartment houses, transfers to hot areas, shaking hands at arms length with the opposite sex, alarm clocks, and "Dear John" letters.
A missionary is an odd character. It can get homesick, discouraged, and temporarily lose faith in the whole human race. Yet nobody else can knock so boldly with such a shaky hand. Nobody is so early to rise or so tired at 10:30 p.m. And nobody else can get such a thrill at the end of a discouraging day from the words, "Come on in-I've been waiting for you."
A missionary is truth with a pocket full of tracts, and faith with 69 cents in its pocket. "Hey Dad, where is that check?" Yes, they are all this but a strange lump will rise in its throat the day it receives its letter of release, and on arrival home its homecoming speech will probably contain the phrase it once considered trite. "The time I spent in the mission field was the happiest time of my life."
-From the Finnish Mission newsletter, November 1959-
Monday, November 7, 2011
the moments
This is a poem that Kathy Petersen of Hastings, MI wrote, she is a very dear friend of mine and I wanted to include her work for others to see
THE MOMENTS
The hands of time
like an hour glass of sand,
Flowing ever so silently
yet swiftly.
Embrace the moment
that falls into your hands...
Cherrish it.....
Love it......
Embrace it...
Sweet are the moments.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)