They could practically be heard arguing throughout the whole diner, but they were oblivious to their small audience of onlookers in the heat of their conflict. Tori stood there with her hands on her hips as her husband, Hank, made himself clear that he was upset. He was sitting up at the counter on one of the barstools eating his chili. On the other side, Tori poured herself a much needed cup of coffee.

“You’re a waitress, not Mother Theresa! A mother with two hungry mouths!” he bellowed out to her. “That’s less money that goes into our pockets! What the hell were you thinking, Tor?”

“Was only helping a poor guy out!” she shot back. “He looked hungry and—big deal—so I bought him something to eat! So forget it, Hank, cuz I’m not sorry!” She remained defiant in her stance, unapologetic in her Good Samaritan role. Her boss never allowed her to give free food away, so the food was on her. It was a hot dog and fries, one time, some bacon and eggs, another.  She got the man bagels, donuts, toast, oatmeal—whatever she could supply with his usual cup of coffee he ordered. It was obvious from the word go that he had little in his pocket, and he could barely put a tip on the table—usually a nickel or a dime, sometimes a few pennies. He wore the same shabby tee shirt, flannel shirt and bummy jeans. And those pitiful shoes—with his dingy white socks poking through at the big toe of his right foot—that was pitiful.  So what if she had two young children? Nobody was going into the poor house because she bought a poor guy a few meals.

“Well, stop buying him food! No more!” Hank commanded. Tori gave him her best you’re not the boss of me look as he put his spoon down and walked over to the booth towhere the man with unkempt, silvery hair, and an untrimmed beard, sat.  That was his usual spot, and that was Tori’s booth to cover.  

The man just stared at him, not seemingly startled by the younger man who boldly confronted him. “Hey, look!” Hank said, lowly, yet sharply, “Straight up and no *******. Get a job. Get a life. Just quit taking advantage of my wife. Got it?”

It didn’t seem like the intimidation was working. The man just stared at Hank, his deep, soulful, brown eyes could penetrate right through him, and Hank wanted to shift his gaze away. He didn’t though, for that wouldn’t have given him the menacing upper hand. “Well!” he demanded, fidgety and frustrated, “What’s your problem?” The response was simply the same silent stare and Hank blurted out through clenched teeth, “Don’t take nothing no more from my wife!”

Unexpectedly, the man placed his hand upon Hank’s and said, “My son, don’t be angry. Sin no more. I give you my blessing, and go now in peace”. Hank quickly pulled his hand away, his face burning with embarrassment. A few guys at table nearby snickered at the sight of the pair.

“The guy’s nuts!” Hank got up and moved back to the counter. “What does he think? He’s Jesus or something?”

“Hank, quit stirring up drama or you gotta leave! You’re gonna drive out business!” Al chimed in. Al was in the kitchen helping the cooks in the back to get out orders. Now if anyone had a right to kick Hank out it was him. He owned the place.

Hank, still enraged, pointed his finger at Tory and promised, “We’ll talk later!” He quickly stormed out. Tory was not to be dictated to, feeling vindicated for her kind actions.

Well, everyone thought the man who tried to bless Hank was harmless, off kilter, maybe, but harmless. He didn’t seem to cause any trouble, and he minded his own business—only spoke until spoken to, and it was always with grace. Was there something special about him? It was only Tori and fellow waitress, Bonnie, who put more stock into this than anyone else would.

“And what if he is God?” Bonnie asked.

Al scoffed, trying to keep the conversation at a low minimum.  “You sound just as loony as he is”

“Well? And what if he was?” Tori backed up Bonnie. “Or maybe even an angel! You know they can come in many disguises! Maybe God is trying to test us to see if we really give a ****. Did you ever think of that?”

Al shook his head. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. “Test us?” he asked back as if Tori had no sense at all. “You’ve watched too many TV shows!” He raised his hands up in a grand fashion of showmanship, knife in hand,” Or maybe I’m not the owner of Al’s Diner, but I’m really God myself”, he mocked.  “So, as God, my dear little children, I command you back to work! Come on, now! Chop, chop!” He started to shoo everyone away. “How you think we are going to feed the masses, huh? With loaves and fishes? Customers! Customers! Get those orders moving!”  

The smells and sizzling sound of hamburgers on the grill were enticing to the senses. Tori and Bonnie went back to busily retrieving orders, and Al went to chopping some tomatoes, but soon he was playfully tapped on the shoulder.  It was Amber, another waitress who never seemed privy to the conversation.  “You remember this song?” she asked him, singing the tune in an off-key way, “What if God was one of us, just a slob like one of us….”

“Just a stranger on a bus, trying to make his way home…” Tori sung along, cheerfully moving about, adding a pretty, more melodious tone to the song.  

“Exactly”, Bonnie exclaimed, enthusiastically. “Like God’s gone undercover!”

Al rolled his eyes, for he thought he made himself clear he was done with this talk. But he couldn’t help but get a kick out his quirky waitresses. “Sure I know that tune—a few decades back—blonde chick—what’s her name?” he asked, smirking.  

“Joan Osborne”, Bonnie proudly stated. “Cool song, too. Makes you think a bit…at least for me.”

“And so why not ask him who he is?” Joey asked. “He’s got a name.”

It was like everyone forgot Joey was in the room though he was busily busing tables and sweeping floors. Tory, Bonnie and Al stopped what they were doing and intently looked at the teen. He seemed to ask a sincere question.  Al burst out laughing. “Now someone’s talking sense, and chalk it up to the kid with good wits. Yeah, Joey, these ladies just want to exist in fantasy land. Go, Team Al!”

Joey shook his head and said, soberly, “Not taking anyone’s side. I just think he’s got a name and he’s got a story behind him…and it isn’t what you think, Tori…or even you, Al.”

Al waved his hand to dismiss the whole thing. “Yeah, his name is probably Ralph, or something. Even then, I bet Tory would believe he is the Almighty right there in the flesh!”

“I would!” Tory shot back. She looked at Joey and answered, “Maybe you do think I’m as bad as Al does, but you’re too polite to admit it…but…yeah…I did ask him his name.”

“And, so?” Al asked, pretending with wide eyes to be full wonder, like he was clinging to every word, anxiously. “What’s his name?”

He was simply finding humor at her expense, and Tori wished she never said a thing. She reluctantly replied, “I am what I am.”

What?” Bonnie asked. “What does that mean?”  

Al replied, “I am what I am! Well, that sure don’t mean Popeye, sweetie!” With a comical, gravelly voice, he did his best Popeye imitation, “I yam what I yam and that’s all I am!”, squinting up one of his eyes he teased Tori, “Got that Olive Oyl?”

Bonnie and Joey laughed along at the sight of him, and Al added, “Look! I may be practically an atheist, but I’m not ignorant to the bible. That’s just what God said to Moses when he asked the same question!”

Tory defended the poor man that she so proudly helped. “So what if he does think he is God? He’s not doing anyone any harm, is he?” Al completely ignored her, so Tory to turned to Joey, and asked again, “What harm is there in it?”

Joey slightly smiled at Tory, trying to remain respectful to her beliefs, and said, “Truth be told, I don’t know much about God. I’m not a churchy person. He pointed over at the poor man in the booth and said, “I just know if God existed, it’s not him.”
  
Tori was saddened by Joey’s words. It was not that because he didn’t believe her ideas were feasible—that maybe God was testing them—but that he didn’t even know if God existed. The youth nowadays—who did they have to look up to?  Who guided them? The internet? Their cell phones? So many people seemed to have walked away from their faith or had none at all. And Al reminded Tori so much of her own dad. She grew up in a home without religion. Her mom had a vague notion of God, but her dad was a huge skeptic that had the same mocking spirit that Al had. Neither her father or Al were bad guys, but there were no miracles in their worldview. There was nothing divine, and everything was so ordinary and practical.

But Tori always felt awestruck by the world, nature and the animals, a curious minded child. She was the one who had that childlike faith—even now as a grown woman—and she yearned to know God, personally, not just know about Him. She just had to believe that this world and the universe were not all just for nothing, not at all a happenstance, not a just a brief journey on this earth and then that was it. It was after searching and yearning that Tori went to her friend’s church, and soon became a Catholic. She might have been alone in her family in this endeavor, but it gave her life more meaning.

Tori would look at the figure of Jesus upon the crucifixion and oddly was comforted by the sight of him that might bring others revulsion or doubt—the nails piercing his hands and feet, the thorn of crowns, the blood, the tragic sight of his lifeless body so cruelly tacked up upon the cross.  She raised her own two children to know God, and Hank’s lukewarm feelings did not match hers. He wasn’t much help in that department at all. But she knew by looking through the bible that true life was about helping other people, that God loved the poor and the downcast. To find your life, you had to lose your life. To feel exalted, you had to humble yourself. To give your life, to save someone else’s—well, that was the greatest gift you could give. That means you gave it all.  She might not have been the smartest person in the world, but she didn’t need to be bible scholar to figure such things out.  

Well, it would be a while before Tori would see her special customer again. But one day she ran back into the kitchen and told Al, excitedly, “His name is Bill!”

Al shot her a strange look, and then he got the connection. “Oh, so that’s God name?” he said jokingly.

Tori pulled him by the arm and took him out front, summoning Bonnie and Joey over, too. Bill was sitting in the same booth he often did, but there at the counter stool sat a petite, sixty-something-year-old woman whom everyone was about to meet. “Al, Bonnie, Joey, this is Bill’s sister, Mary”, Tori introduced her. “She shared with me about Bill’s story, and I think you should know, too.”   She looked like Bill, but had black dyed hair and was better put together. There was a warm and gentle way about her that intrigued Tori. And she sat there to shield her brother by keeping him out of the conversation, for she didn't want to upset her brother by mentioning something that might cause him pain.

Actually, they all were intrigued by her story.  Mary had told them that Bill once had a family, a wife and two sons. He couldn’t keep a steady job, though, and he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. His wife divorced him years ago and moved out of state with their two boys. His sons never tried to contact him, and he hasn’t seem ever since. For quite a while, Bill lived on his own, but he didn’t take good care of himself. He was living more poorly than ever—not eating right or caring for himself, erratically taking his medication, and so it wasn’t a surprise that he lived a deluded life. “He does strange stuff like that, think he is God”, Mary admitted to Tori. “He’s been made fun of a lot for acting that way, and it’s my job to watch over him and see that he is safe. So now I help take care of him, and he lives with me. Bill’s always been too proud to accept my help, but the doctor says being with me will help to give him a better life”. Mary was a widow, and she didn’t have much money herself, but she did what she could to protect her brother.  

Al looked embarrassed, knowing now the truth about Bill and realizing he was making fun when he should have known better. Mary gave Tori a huge hug. “And thank you”, she said to Tory, “for looking out for my brother, too.”  Everyone, even Al, was deeply touched by their embrace.  

“You know that Tori is a saint”, Bonnie bragged on her behalf to reiterate the same sentiment. “There should be more people like her.”

Tori remained humble and disagreed, “No, I’m just doing what we should all do in this world. If anything, it teaches me that we should all see God in every opportunity.”

Al whispered into Tori’s ear and told her, “You want to give him something to eat again, well now don't bother paying for it. It's on me”.  She smiled at him like was ready to give him a big hug, and he added, “Don’t think this makes me all buying all this God stuff—or anything”.

“And why not?” she asked.  

He replied with his own question, the ultimate question that people have been asking for ages. "Why would any god allow a man to suffer like that? Just look at him! How could that happen and you still think there is some guy in the sky that's all warm and fuzzy, like some invisible Teddy bear?"  

"Oh, you mean so how can God be loving, fair and merciful?", she snapped back, hurt that Al would make faith sound so childish and idiotic. Tori thought a moment, and simply replied, "I could ask the same question. Is life fair? Is it just wishful thinking? Actually, all my life I've wondered such things. The difference between us though is I don't know all the answer any better than you...but I still believe."

Al waved his hand away at her, "Whatever..."

"Wait!", Tori commanded him as he walked away. Al stopped and turned to face her like he was more than through with this conversation.  She said, "Maybe if us mere mortals did our job on earth of helping others, it would better a whole nother story. You'd probably have a different point of view, Al."

She didn't expect Al to have some bolt of enlightenment when it came to God, but before he went back to the kitchen he left her with words she wished he didn’t say. “All those people way back then…all those prophets and saints…supposing they were around today. You think they'd they stand up to today's world? I don't. Wouldn’t they on meds, too? I'd say we wouldn't see them any differently than we'd see Bill.”  Blindsided, she never did know how to follow up with all that. Al just knew how to rain on her nice parade.

Joey never said anything about that day, but when Bill came in again, Tori surely took special notice of them sitting together for a while. When she passed by the table, Joey was watching Bill walk around, and she quickly noticed the new black and green athletic shoes on his feet. Even on him, they looked sharp.

”They fit alright?”  Joey asked. Bill nodded, and shook the boy’s hand. He never said anything about it, but his silly, old grin—along with a few missing teeth—was priceless. He truly was happy to get those shoes. The old ones, with the hole in the toes, remained on the floor to be pitched out.  

Tori had to ask Joey, “You bought those for him? That’s so sweet of you!”

Joey smiled. “I just never could stand those beat up, old shoes”, he replied. “They are a good brand, but didn’t put me back that much. I’m not making a big deal about it, though. I’m not even going to tell anyone I did it. Only telling you, because you asked.”

“Makes you feel good, doesn’t it? Like it really makes a difference”.

“Yeah, it does. It’s like buying God a pair of shoes.”

Did he just say it was buying God a pair of shoes? How odd to hear that from Joey, but how that statement impacted her, and Tori would never forget that.  She gave Joey a peck on the cheek and a hug. He was like a little brother to him. She didn’t feel old enough to be a mother figure, but she felt some kind of sisterly feeling for him.

Joey went on to explain, “Yeah, I’ve been thinking a lot about Bill, lately. He lost his job, his family—he lost everything. No, he’s not God, but I was thinking…though I don’t know that much about religion or God, I thought that if you do

Inside
I am bruised
I am bleeding
I am broken
Most cannot see it as they go about
It is not a physical thing
Except for the anger, sorrow and shame
Reflected on my face

The heaviness weighing me down

I engage in a fight, continually
One that I desperately want to call it quits  
Want to be rid of
If not for once and for good
I want to at least stop
And get a different perspective
To give it a rest for now
But how can I do that

When I am the true foe?

For I am the sole opponent
My own worst enemy
And the constant fight is
Within and not without
There is no referee
Who can declare a fair fight
There is no audience to cheer me on
To be the victorious champion
But only quiet desperation,
Wishful thinking and

Good intentions gone bad

For in this continual,
Almost daily match
Between me and myself
In the boxing arena of my thoughts,
This ugly, viscous cycle goes on 
Of self-inflicted pain and suffering
Quite intense, at times
Sometimes, at a low level battle,
But no winners are ever declared

Only defeat and indignity

So wrapped up in myself
Much of the time
When I want to be angry,
At the way my life is going,
Or mad at the often turbulent world,
For containing me inside it,
I turn around and
Attack who else?

Myself, again and again

Not able to get it together
The clutter in my mind
The clutter in my life
The fully needless
The utterly useless
The completely worthless
Things that seem to stick like glue
And do absolutely nothing for me

Soul consuming as quicksand

Standing so alone
In this battered state
I cannot point the finger at another
For any sort of blame
Not another person
Not at God

I willingly take the blame

Disappointed,
Disillusioned,
And often disgusted
At who I am
I truly don't want to
Live this life
With little hope

For relief or redemption

The continual yearning
For faith, hope and love,
That seems to slip
Out of my hands so easily,
I desperately want to grasp
With an ironclad fist
And never let go of

But they often evade me

Maybe letting go
Is truly my problem,
And the key to my solution,
In equal proportions
Yet I desperately fear
That in letting go of all the junk
That I'll be left
With nothing that seems familiar
Virtually nothing at all

But empty hands

Even as a writer
I know I could do more
A talent I wonder
Why I deserve
And am amazed that
Someone like me
Could capture someone else's attention

In any way, shape or form  

In my mind
I am the worst of the worst
A title that I don't even deserve
For disappointment,
Disillusionment and disgust
Define many a soul

Do they not?

And I only kid myself
That I do not share a common thread
With humankind
With many, many others
Who knows exactly what I mean
Who, like convicted criminals,
Feel imprisoned,
But without any visible bars
That prevent their freedom

I am way overdue in calling it quits

Can you take all my pain?
Bury it deep in the ground?

Maybe, a blooming seed of sorrow
Will soon rise up out of the cold dirt
And the sun and the rain might nurture it
With mercy, they might not crush its fragile beauty

Can you take all my pain?
Bottle up the tears and pour them in the ocean?

Maybe that is how the oceans were born
From all the tears from all the people everywhere
Who felt that the torrent of tears would never end
Depositing that gushing flood of weeping upon the ground

Can you take all my pain?
Write down all that hurts me and then set it to fire?

Watching the paper go up in a blaze
And bits of it taking off in flying embers
Floating its way up to the sky
Maybe that is how the sun got its pizazz  

Maybe......just maybe

Caterpillars are simply butterflies
who have not learned to fly the skies
Creatures who are temporarily earth bound
without the means to leave the ground

I saw one by circumstance
It died before it had a chance
To transform and spread its wings
So sad to me, this lifeless thing

It reminds me how our wings must spread,
If not, we are found left for dead
We were never meant to crawl in the mire
We were meant to fly higher and higher

Chains!
Broken!

I have broken free!

Give me the credit? Don't bother!
All glory goes to God, the Father!

Through Jesus, His Son
The Holy One!

He showed me the key
He said, "Believe in Me"

And now I throw those
heavy weights aside
They've ruined my stride!

And I want them no more!

Chains!
Broken!

I have broken free!

Do you ever feel like you're missing the boat, that your life is like a ship floating on by but you're not in it?

Do you ever feel like your watching others live their lives, like on a big, pretend movie screen, but you are not a participant of your own?  

Does reality sometimes bite you in the **** and the pain drive you to rethink: Where the hell am I going with this?

I don't want a cheap, imitation life
I want more than just getting by
I'm not saying I'm cashing in my chips
I "m not saying all is lost
I just want to tear it all down
The paper scenario of the facade
It's doable because I've done it before
I had to in order to thrive

I don't want a cheap, imitation life

Let me introduce the royal players:

Everyone wants to corner the King
He may be Lord of the board
But he's the most powerless thing!

His lady has to defend her man
He's pretty much a sitting duck
And not one to take command!

The other pieces....what will be their fate?  
They exist to save the wimpy monarch
All the wrong moves...Checkmate!

Manning the front row are the peons, the pawns
Lucky to make it across to promote their rank
Like helpless turtles, they inch forward on

The Bishops, like royal clergy in robes of red
Diagonal in direction, they stride and they glide
Moving this way..and that way...behind or ahead

Shapely horse heads, the gallant Knights
In L - shaped ways, they gallop in battle
Noble beasts who prove their might!

Set upon the four corners are the Rooks
Castles, they have straight-line tactics,
Advancing away from their nooks

Oh, the lovely, noble Queen, not forsaken!
She rules! Nearly limitless, so watch out!
Yet if not careful, even she can be taken!

If Her Majesty is captured...you've lost the very best!
You might as well admit your defeat
You, who play this game called Chess

Let the games begin!

Children can be so forgiving
even when they've been
hurt again and again
But adults can build protection
about themselves
like a  a suit of armor made of steel
Their distrust and disillusionment
becomes their impenetrable fortress

How I wish to see the world again
through childlike eyes
To not be jaded
To not be cynical
To not be tainted by hatred


It is said that to inherit
the kingdom of heaven
one has to become like
a little child

Perhaps it is because
they fully believe
and fully accept
and fully forgive
and fully love
with guileless hearts
as we all were meant to do
in this world

Lights strung on houses
Cardinal on snowy branch
Prime pine trees gathered

I've been having a good one this year
I've been creative
I've been enjoying the music
I've been appreciating the decor
But melancholy never ceases to creep in
The loved ones who are gone for good--my dad, my brother, a few friends, faulty relationships

Expectations
Expectations always come
Though I try to banish them
Expectations of a perfect holiday
Of a Norman Rockwell time with everyone in a perfect scene
So goes the melancholy

Christmas lights
Outdoor trees, delight
Taking away the fright
Of a wintry, cold, dark night

Christmas lights
A glorious sight
Taking away the bite
Of a wintry, cold, dark night

Christmas lights
Black skies contrast the ground, white
And warmth of soul ignites
My inner fire on a wintry.....

Cold, dark night

It’s a horrible feeling when you belong to nobody, and nobody belongs to you. When you don’t matter to a single soul—there is no worse feeling in the world. That feeling nagged Clem throughout much of his life. He used to walk around, wounded and broken inside. Though what he felt inside may never have shown on his tough armor that he wore in public, Clem often felt his life pretty much meant nothing. So how did he ever get to where he was today? How did he get to be so blessed? It amazed him.

Born in 1917, Clem Manning never thought he’d ever make it to one hundred years old, yet here he was. Today was his special day, though he didn’t want any fuss over it all. But he was living with his daughter, Violet, for the past few years, and she wouldn’t have it any other way but to put together a celebration to remember. With a houseful of people, some inside, some in the backyard, and some on the front porch, Clem could say that he no longer felt that he belonged to nobody and nobody belonged to him. It was a beautiful Arizona day, and the distant mountains were ablaze in a fiery purple.  It was a day made for birthdays.  

Seeing one make it to one hundred was rare and amazing sight to witness. To make it this long meant you beat the odds.  Most of all, it was amazing to good, old Clem, himself. His parents died young, long before he could remember them. If others in his family lived longer, he never would have known. The only kin he knew of was his aunt and her husband. They may have taken him in, but he certainly never felt wanted. Both of them slapped him around, punished him by locking him in closets, and prevented him from eating meals when he was bad. They also neglected his needs of decent clothing and a good bed. He had a beat up mattress on the floor or nothing but the hard floor, itself, when he was being punished.  Thankfully, somehow someone intervened, and he ended up in a boy’s home. That place wasn’t a whole lot better when it came to dodging a hard hand, but he was kept clean and with a full belly.

Clem ran away when he was fifteen from that place, and that was in the throes of the Depression. From there on, he fended for himself. His days of experiencing hunger from living at his aunt’s house helped him to be street smart. The petty thievery he learned to master—just to manage to stay alive—continued on beyond childhood.  Like many men, down on their luck and traveling the country, he rode the rails illegally. Just how did Clem survive to be so old, anyway? In his hobo days, he’s been shot at, chased by police, and bitten by dogs. He also almost drowned once in a rapid river, and had a bout with double pneumonia that made him downright delusional and on Death’s door.  

But when the second world war came about, life became easier for Clem. He found his sweetheart, Bess, married her and settled down out west. He wanted to fight in the war, but a hernia disqualified him from joining. His life was surely spared then, for many of his friends were drafted in the army, went overseas, but never made it back alive.    

It sure has been one heck of a life. Resting in his easy chair, he was thankful he still had his wits about him—had a sound noggin—and that he could see and hear still alright—with the help of coke bottle glasses and a hearing aid. Everything that surrounded him was a grand sight to look at, knowing that he helped to create all this hustle and bustle of people in his presence, those here simply to honor him.

He and Bess had three of their own children, Hank, Violet and Daisy, and they also adopted two more, Ted and Sam. It was during those days in the home for boys that Clem saw some of the luckier ones go to good families, selected by potential parents that could give them the secure homes they desperately wanted.  Clem was never picked but picked over. Because he never got that chance, he swore he’d help out those just like him, ones who felt unwanted or ignored, ones that belonged to nobody and nobody belonged to them. He did just that very thing and strove to become the best dad he could possibly be. This was a learning experience for him, and his mistakes were his teachers. Nobody showed him how to be a father, but Bess was his rock and his ally. How he longed to be with her, again.

Clem outlived all of his friends. He lost his sweet Bess fourteen years ago, and buried one of his children—his beloved firstborn child, and it wasn't easy to bury Hank. It should have been the other way around.. There were now thirteen grandchildren, and he never did remember how many great grandchildren that there were, but they were all here now. It was a miracle to have everyone under one roof, as there was family scattered all across the country. He smiled to himself as he thought about how everyone took the time out of their busy lives just for one, old geezer.  

“You better matter to someone right now”, Clem once told a good friend, “Cuz one day you’ll be long gone, and you’ll be lucky if anyone knows your name. It doesn’t matter if you are loved by one hundred people—or one person. That’s how I see it, anyways”.  

With his wife’s relations, and his children and their families, Clem knew the family tree had plenty of branches on it. His life did matter in this world. One of his grandchildren, Amber, mapped a tree out, and she made it all seem so spectacular, and put together like a royal family’s would be. Sketched around the details was a tree done in colored pencil—vivid greens and browns that were eye catching to even a old man with weak eyes—and today it was on display for everyone to inspect and talk about.  

Clem knew very well that his days were waning, that soon he’d just be a memory in the minds of his children and his grandchildren—probably not his great grandchildren who would barely remember him, if at all. Someday, he’d just be a name in the family records of that famous family tree. Like he said to his friend, his name would barely matter to anyone some day. He was simply Clem Manning, a guy who got a break in life and dodged disaster. Maybe only the good did die young, or perhaps he was just too stubborn to die.

But this wasn’t a day for having a sourpuss or for dwelling on the hard things. This was a day to remember for everyone, more than just a birthday for a lucky, old guy that beat the odds. Clem couldn’t eat much of the food made for his birthday feast—too rich or not appealing to his declining appetite—but he promised to have a nice sized slice of cake. It was red velvet with cream cheese frosting, his favorite.

Happy Birthday to you…happy birthday to you…happy birthday, dear Cle-em

Da-ad

Grand-pa

Happy Birthday to you!

There was lots of applause, cell phones out and cameras snapping for picture taking, as Clem tried to blow out the three candles—1-0-0. Thankfully, he had a bit of help from the little ones up close, for Clem wanted to still show nothing was going to beat him, especially three, little, measly candles. But those weren’t just measly candles. They represented so much of who he was.

He still couldn’t believe he made it to see this day. How on earth did he pull it off, anyway?

I'd cry with you
but what did I say?
My tears have all
just gone away.

I once was like you
of flesh and blood
and how my tears
have caused a flood!

But now my eyes
have all gone dry
because closed up hearts
refuse to cry.

Maybe I was born
to be a Debbie Downer
Maybe I was born
to sing the blues

But I think I'll be
a cockeyed optimist
for what have I got to lose?

The hope written on my heart
It belongs to me
And it's mine for keeps
I've got a legal right to it
For I've earned every scar and scratch
Printed upon that beating muscle
So it's legally mine
Has been fought for
In the battlefield of life
And has no right to be infringed upon
To be taken away from me

Guys and gals,
Ladies and gents
I love to see the couples in love

Couples newly in love
Couples well into love
Couples who never thought they'd ever find it

Young couples
Old couples
Middle-of-the-road couples

Eye catching couples
Plain couples
Color blind in-love couples

Taller couples
Shorter couples
From alpha to omega couples

Couples who lost the love, but found it again
Couples who struggled on through
Couples who defied the odds

Maybe I'm peering through rose-colored pupils
Maybe my vision has gone radioactive
But I love to see such couples in love

Courage is portrayed on the big screen as Rambo bursting onto the scene or John Wayne playing the tough cowboy that saves the day. Its displayed in all kinds of bravado like Bruce Willis in the Die Hard movie series or James Bond's physical prowess in espionage. These are typical, cinematic emblems of the ever invincible hero.

Did those men ever cry? What happened to them when they were afraid?

I once told my father, after my brother took his own life, that he should go to counseling. He had to be struggling. Like me, I know that this horrible news shook his world to the core.

"I've got to be a man. I've got to handle this on my own".  He continued to suffer in silence.

Courage may sound like a lion's roar, but I've seen courage through the unexpected--in meekness. Having boldness is asking someone for forgiveness, often years after the offense because humility feels like weakness. It's the courage to tell someone your wrong when you love being right. Most of all, it's having to admit that you're not as solid as you want to appear, and you're falling apart.  Revealing that you need help when you've done everything you did to keep the facade going, but the cracks keep popping up, shows more strength than any stiff, upper lip.

That's courage to me.

It was the summer of 1954. David Ito was from the only Japanese family we had in our town. I was glad he was my best friend. Actually, he was my only friend. His father moved his family to our small town of Prichard, Illinois when David was only eight years old. That was three years ago.

Only two and a half months apart, I was the older one of our daring duo. I even was a couple inches taller than David was, so that settled it. In spite of being an awkward girl, our differences in age and height made me quite superior at times, although David always snickered at that notion. To me, theses differences were huge and monumental, like the distance of the sun from the moon. To David, that was typical girlish nonsense. He thought it was so like a girl, to try to outdo a boy.  And he should have known. He was the only son of five children, and he was the oldest.

At first, David was not interested in being friends with a girl. But I was Josephine Dunn, Josie they called me, and I was not just any girl. Yet, like David, I did not know if I really liked him enough to be his friend. We started off with this one thing in common.

I knew he was smarter than anybody I ever knew, that is except for my father, a self-taught man. The tomboy that I was, I was not so interested in books and maps, and David was almost obsessed with them. Yet, there was a kindred spirit that ignited us to become close, something coming in between two misfits to make a good match. David was obviously so different from the rest. He came from an entirely different culture, looking so out-of-the-ordinary than the typical face of our Anglo-Saxon, Protestant community, and me, never really fitting in with any group of peers in school, I liked him.

David knew he did not fully fit in. I surely did not fit, either. My brother, Carl, made sure very early on in my life that I was to be aware of one thing. And that one thing was that I did not belong in my family, or really anywhere in life. Mostly, this was because I was not of my father’s first family, but I came after my father’s other children and was the baby, the apple of my father’s eye. But that wasn’t the real reason why Carl hated me.

During World War Two, my father enlisted in the army. He already had two small sons and a daughter to look after, and they already had suffered one major blow in their young lives. They had lost their mother to cancer. Louise Dunn was an important figure in their lives. She was well liked in town and very much missed by her family and friends.
  
Why their father wanted to leave his children behind, possibly fatherless, made no sense to other people. But Jim Dunn came from a proud military family and would not listen to anyone telling him not to fight but rather to stay home with his children. His father fought in the First World War, and three of his great grandfathers fought for the Union Army in the Civil War. It was not like my father to back out of a fight, not one with great principles.  My father was no coward.

Not only did my father leave three small children back home, but a new, young wife. Two years before World War Two ended, he made it back home to his lovely, young wife and family. Back in France, my father was wounded in his right leg. The result of the wound caused my father to forever walk with a limp and the assistance of a cane. It was actually a blessing in disguise what would transpire. He could have easily came home in a pine box. He was thankful, though, that he came away with his life. After recovering for a few months in a French hospital, my father was eager to go home to his family. At least he was able to walk, and to walk away alive.

This lovely, young woman who was waiting for him at home was twenty-year-old Flora Laurent, now Flora Dunn, my mother, and she was eleven years younger than my father. All soldiers were certainly eager to get home to their loved ones. My father was one of thousands who was thrilled to be back on American soil, but his thrill was about to dampen. Once my father laid eyes on his wife again, there was no hiding her highly expanding belly and the overall weight gain showed in her lovely, plump face. She had no excuses for her husband, or any made-up stories to tell him, and there really nothing for her to say to explain why she was in this condition. Simply put, she was lonely.

Most men would have left such a situation, would have gone as far away from it as they possibly could have. Being too ashamed and resentful to stay, they would have washed their hands of her in a heartbeat. Having a cheating wife and an unwanted child on their hands to raise would be too much to bear. Any man, in his right mind, would say that was asking for way too much trouble.  Most men would have divorced someone like my mother, kicked her out, and especially they would hate the child she would be soon be giving birth to, but not my father. He always stood against the grain.

Not only did Jim Dunn forgive his young wife, he took me under his wing like I was his very own. Once I knew he was not my true father, I could never fully fathom why he was not ready to pack me off to an orphanage or dump me off somewhere far away. Why he was so forgiving and accepting made him more than a war hero. It made him my hero. That was why I loved him so much, especially because, soon after I was born, my mother was out of our lives. Perhaps, such a young woman should not be raising three step children and a newborn baby.

My father never mentioned any of the details of my conception, but he simply did his best to love me. He was a tall, very slim and a quiet man by nature. With light brown hair, grey eyes, and a kind face, he looked every bit of the hero I saw him as. He was willing to help anyone in a pinch, and most people who knew him respected him. Nobody in town ever talked about this situation to my father. To begin with, my father was not a talker, and he probably thought if he did talk about it, the pain and shame of it would not go away.

One of my brothers, Nathan, and my sister, Ann, seemed to treat me like a regular sister. Yet, Carl, the oldest child, hated me from the start. As a girl who was six years younger, I never understood why. He was the golden boy, with keen blue eyes and golden, wavy hair, as were Nathan and Ann.  I had long, dark brown hair, which I kept in two braids, with plenty of unsightly brown freckles, and very dark, brown eyes.  Compared to my sister, who was five years older, I never felt like I was a great beauty.

I was pretty young when Carl blurted out to me in anger, “Your mother is a *****!”  I cried a bit, wiped away the tears with my small hands and yelled back, “No, she isn’t!” Of course, I was too young to know what that word meant. When my brother followed that statement up with, “and you are a *******”, I ran straight to my father. I was almost seven years old.

My father scolded Carl pretty badly that day. Carl would not speak to me for months, and that was fine with me. That evening my father sat me upon my knee. “Daddy, what is a *****?” I asked him.

My father gently put his fingers up to my lips to shush me up. He then went into his wallet and showed me a weathered black-and-white photo he had of himself with his arms around my mother. It was in that wallet for some time, and he pulled out the wrinkled thing and placed it in front of me.

My father must have handled that picture a thousand times. Even with all the bad quality, with the wrinkles, I could see a lovely, young lady, with light eyes and dark hair, smiling as she was in the arms of her protector. My father looked proud in the photograph.

He said to me, his expression serious, “whatever Carl or anybody says about your mother, she will always be your mother and I love her for that”. I looked earnestly in his somber, grey eyes. “Why did she go away?” I asked him.

My father thought long and hard about how to answer me. He replied, “I don’t know. She was young and had more dreams in her than this town could hold for her”. He smiled awkwardly and added, “But at least she left me the best gift I could have—you.”  

I would never forget the warmth I felt with my father during that conversation. Certainly, I would never forget Carl’s cruel words, or sometimes the odd glances on the faces of townswomen, like they were studying me, comparing me to how I looked next to my father, or their whispers as the whole family would be out in town for an occasion. It did not happen every day, but this would happen whenever and wherever, when a couple of busybodies would pass me and my father walking down Main Street, or when we went into the ice cream parlor, or when I went with my father to the dime store, and it always made me feel very strange and vaguely sad, like I had no real reason to be sad but was anyway.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


That summer of 1954, I was a bit older, maybe a bit wiser than when Carl first insulted my estranged mother. I was eleven years old, and David was my equal, my sidekick. Feeling less like a kid, I tried not to boss him too much, and he tried not to be too smart in front of me. I held my own, though, had my own intelligence, but my smarts were more like street smarts. After all, I had Carl to deal with.

David seemed destined for something better in life. My life seemed like it would always be the same, like my feet were planted in heavy mud. David and I would talk about the places we would loved go to, but David would mark them on a map and track them out like his plans would really come to fruition. I never liked to dream that big. Sure, I would love to go somewhere exciting, somewhere where I’d never have to see Carl again, or some of the kids at school, but I knew why I had a reason to stay. I respected my father. That is why I did not wish to leave. And David respected his father. That is why he knew he had to leave.

David Ito’s father was a tailor. David’s parents came from Japan, and they hoped for a good life in their new country. Little did they know what would be in store for them. After the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, their lives, with many other Japanese Americans, were soon turned upside down. David was born in an internment camp designed to isolate Japanese people from the nation once Americans declared war on Germany and their allies. David and I were both born in 1943, and since the war ended two years later, David had no memories of the internment camp experience. Even so, David was impacted by it, because the memories haunted his parents.

There was no getting around it. David and I, as different as we were, liked each other. Still, neither he nor I felt any silly kind of puppy love attraction. David had still thought of girls as mushy and silly, and that is why he liked me. I was not mushy or silly, and I could shoot a sling shot better than he did. David loved the sling shot his parents bought him for his last birthday. They allowed him to have it just as long as he never shot it at anyone.

David Ito, being the oldest child in his family, and the only son, allowed him to feel quite special, a very prized boy for just that reason. Mr. Ito worked two jobs to support his family, and Mrs. Ito took in laundry and cooked for the locals who could not cook their own meals. Mrs. Ito was an excellent cook. Whatever they had to give their children, David was first in line to receive it.

The majority of those in my town of Prichard respected Mr. Ito, at least those who did business with him. He was not only able to get good tailoring business in town, but some of the neighboring towns gave him a bit of work, too. When he was not working in the textile factory, Mr. Ito was busy with his measuring tape and sewing machine.  

Even though Mr. Ito gained the respect of the townspeople, he still was not one of us. I am sure he knew it, too. Yet Mr. Ito lived in America most of his life. He was only nine-years-old when his parents came here with their children. Like David, Mr. Ito certainly knew he was Japanese. The mirror told him that every day. But he also knew felt an internal tug-of war that America was his country more than Japan was, even when he was proud of his roots, even though he was once locked up in that camp, and even when some people felt that he did not belong here.

If David was called an unkind name, I felt it insulted, too, for our friendship meant that much to me. How many times I got in trouble for fighting at school! My father would be called into the principal’s office, and I was asked by Mr. Murray to explain why I would act in such an undignified way. “They called David a ***** ***”, I exclaimed. “David is my friend!”

Because David and I were best buddies, we heard lots of jeering remarks. “Josie loves a ***! Josie loves a ***!” some of the children taunted. And Carl, with his meanness, loved to be head of the line to pick on us. He once said to me, “It figures that the only friend you can get is a scrawny ***!”

In spite of my troubles at school, Father greatly admired David and his father, and he thought that David and I were good for each other’s company. Mr. Ito greatly respected my father, in return, not only for his business but because my dad could fix any car with just about any problem. Jim Dunn was not only a brilliant man, in my eyes, but the best mechanic in town. When Mr. Ito needed work done on his car, my father was right there for him. It was an even exchange of paid work and admiration.

Both my father and David’s father felt our relationship was harmless. After all, everyone in David’s family knew and expected that he would marry a nice Japanese girl. There was no question about it. Where he would find one was not too important for a boy of his age. Neither of us experienced puberty yet and, under the watchful eye of my father, we would just be the best of buddies.

David pretended like the remarks said about him never bothered him, but I knew differently. I knew he hated Carl, and we avoided him as much as possible. David was nothing like me in this respect—he was not a fighter. Truly, he did not have a fighting bone in his body, not one that picked up a sword to stab it in the heart of someone else. It was not that David was not brave, for he was, but he knew the ugliness of war without ever even having to go to battle. Nevertheless, he used his intellect to fight off any of the racist remarks made about him or his family. He had to face it—the war had only ended nine years prior and a few of the war veterans in town fought in the Pacific.      

Because of the taunts David had experienced in school, I was not surprised what David’s father had in store for his beloved son.  Mr. Ito could barely afford to send one child to private school, but he was about to send one. David was about to be that child. When David told me that when school resumed he would be going to a boy’s school in Chicago, my heart sank. Why? Why did he have to go? I would never see him again!

“You will see me in the summer”, he reassured me. He looked at me as I tried to appear brave. I sat cross-legged on the grass and stared straight ahead like I never even heard him. I had a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit, and my lips felt like they were quivering.

We were both using old pop bottles for target practice. They sat in a row on an old tree stump shining in the evening sun. David was shooting at them with his prized slingshot. I had a makeshift one that I created out of a tree branch and a rubber band.

“You won’t even remember me”, I complained.

“I will to”, he insisted. “I remember everything.”

“Oh, sure you will”, I said sarcastically. “You’ll be super duper smart and I will just be a dummy”. In anger, I rose up my slingshot, and I hit all three bottles, one by one, then I threw the slingshot to the ground. David missed all the shots he took earlier.

David threw his slingshot down, too. “For being a girl, you are pretty smart!” he shouted. “You are too smart for your own good! The reason I like you is because you are better than anyone I ever met in my entire life. Well…not better than my parents, but you are the neatest girl I ever knew in my life!”

For a while, we didn’t talk. We just sat there and let the warm, summer breeze do our talking for us. I pulle

Like noble, wooden soldiers
Are the lovely autumn trees
How I love those autumn trees!
How I love their brilliant leaves!

Not able to walk,
Not able to talk,
But those Autumn trees
Stand there,
Stoically,
Silently,
And they speak
And move just the same
I can hear their tale
In my heart,
In my soul,
For there within rings the message of
Rennaissance and renewal

They are rooted in place
Like guards of the land
Their grand colors,
As Autumn showers
Of fiery rain,
Yet harmless and peaceful
As the leaves descend
To the ground for their final destination
The earth now becomes
A patchwork quilt
From the release of Fall foliage

They truly are like royalty,
Adorned in fine fitting robes
That have been splashed with
Nature's paintbrush of  
Gold, scarlett and blazing orange,
A kaleidoscope of stylish colors
A dazzling tapestry to behold!

But they must now shed
Their Fall finery
In an ancient tradition
The cycle of the seasons
They've endured throughout the ages

Their leaves become as
Paper to the wind
Yet they shall not suffer loss,
For soon they shall be
Blanketed in glorious white,
Like a luxurious fur
To clothe them once again
In Winter's fashion

To endure all that the weather
Has to throw at them
The tempests, the droughts--
We humans can glean
The seeds of the wellspring of life
Harvested from these trees
These days of Autumn's reign,
That have reaped the seasons of growth
From Spring and Summer

Autumn helps to instruct me
To keep my eye out on the horizon,
Watching and waiting
For life has not adandoned us in this season
But will return to us all in Spring,
On that you can fully rely upon

The nature of the trees--
Harboring birds,
And other creatures,
Sheltering the land,
Is one of kindness
I never tire of their beauty,
Their majestic branches
That spread out in
Growing abundance,
Bearing life-sustaining fruit

After all their leaves
Have finally left them
They stand there,
Now naked and eerily haunting,
Like upside-down brooms
sweeping the endless skies
And we mortals, in turn,
Sweep and rake away
The remnants of their Fall spectacle
From the layering of the land

The children realize the Autumn gift
As their playful hearts gather up
The leaves to freely jump into
The cushioning piles,
Into the mounds of fading colors


Why do I love Fall so much?
With all those dark, cloudy days?
With the sun becoming scarce?

I love Fall so much
Because it reminds me of hope,
Of what will eventually grow once more,
Not just of the obvious loss of green leaves
I see the fragility of life,
And the strength of it, too,
As the leaves descend to the ground
Shrivel up into brown decay
And crunch beneath our feet

No, Fall is only a temporary moment
Of nature readying itself for slumber
It must make way for Winter
The grandfather of the year to come,
To replace these days of Autmn trees...
Where nothing can ever grow,
Where the land is now barren,
Where the ice and snow take over,
And survival is never taken for granted

But Winter shall make way for Spring,
Where the cold, hard, lifeless ground
Warms up to nurture the tender seeds
Of flowers that have withered and died
For it is a time for another chance
The land awakening to embrace life again

Without such seasons of life how do we
Dream of brand new beginnings?
We clearly see that life must succeed death
Nature is surely our teacher
If only we look for its lessons

Snakes strike with venom
Scorpions can be killers
Human stings are worse

Dear Santa

I know you don't exist
So I've no requests on a list
You see, my parents had me believing
And I never thought they'd be deceiving!
My mom confessed to me, one time
Oh, the shock that blew my mind!

No, I'm not- for good- traumatized
I just don't care much for lies!
Truly, I'm sick of all the attention
Nauseating, and really much to mention
A jolly, fat guy parading through the sky
Has been nothing but a childhood lie!
You're as bad as the tooth fairy
Suit of red and white--AND hairy!

Godlike powers to know who's been bad or good
And reindeer taking you to every neighborhood!
Come on, hey!
I say, "No way!"
Sure, there is a kernel of truth I can pick
A generous man of old - St. Nick!
He really gave gifts to pass around.
For his kindness, he was found.
So get lost, Santa Claus, just go!
I'm cynical, yes, I know!
Kids might hate me!
They might berate me!
But when they grow up, they'll get my drift
That you are nothing but a myth!!!

Okay, it's off my chest
I can give it a rest!
So, really, why do you dominate the Xmas scene?
Makes me wonder what it really means.
Is it really for the children or the child inside?
Who's it truly for, the simple fun it provides?
Yeah, I do get it, your silly charm.
Actually, it's done me no harm.
I long for what Christmas should stand for.
Love for others, the needy and the poor.
But I think you get in the way!
Shopping up a debt isn't right, I say!
Comprehending a love that came here on earth.
Two millennium ago, that wondrous birth.
That gets lost in the hurry
All the frenzy and the scurry!
Cliche-but I've just pinpointed the reason
At least for me, for this season.  

Quite sincerely
Dorothy

P. S. Merry Christmas, everyone!

I got news for you
I ain't your fool
Who are you anyway?
The wicked things that you say
You tell me I'm no good
That you'd choke me if you could
I try to tell you that you're a liar
But your words sting me just like fire
Who are you anyway?
The wicked things that you say
Yeah, I know who you are
Want proof just see my scars
You're the demons inside
But you can't hide
You're the demons within
But you can't win
I belong to Him
I belong to Him

I can't take it anymore
This pain is overwhelming
Why go on?

Keep on going

I'm so  tired
All I want to do
Is go to sleep and not wake up

This pain will subside

I feel all alone
Nobody understands or cares
This is killing me on the inside

Keep reaching out to others

Everything in my life seems wrong
Life has no meaning
I just don't see the point

*I gave you life, and it does have meaning

I see that plane in the sky
Like a big, mechanical bird
It makes its way onward

Where's it going?
Where's it headed for?

In my car
Waiting for the train
To finish crossing the tracks

Where's it going?
Where's it headed for?

That bicyclist
Looks like he's on a mission
Two-wheeled, manpowered movement

Where's he going?
Where's he headed for?

Their destinations are unknown to me
But I'm often a traveler in my imagination
Good ones, mostly, I embark upon

Where am I going?
Where am I headed for

I've seen a fair amount
Of different, actual places
New faces, abundant

I'm still gonna go somewhere
Still heading for yet another destination

Alive, and breathing
Dreaming hasn't stopped
And destinations still beckon

I was born there
I hummed its famous tunes,
those unique harmonies and melodies
I drove its cars
Didn't everyone want one?
Those wheels were built by people like us
My father elevated his lot in life,
a Chrysler man by trade

In time, my parents fled its borders
to join up with the other suburban dwellers
This was before I was born
Few of us stayed behind,
the rest of my kin,
too poor or too proud or too scared to leave

I wish it could rise above its troubles
I wish I could brag about it instead
of feeling like a stranger to it
I can't call it home,
but I can claim it as my birth right
Nobody can take that away from me
Detroit, the place where I was born

Excuse me if my edges are a bit jagged
If they cut and scrape you, I am sorry
I really didin't mean it, you know

You might think I'm an eyesore
Not worth all that much or very useful
But I fooled you, didn't I?

For I'm simply a chunk of coal,
Seemingly dark, rough and lumpy
But you know what happens to coal, don't you?

It takes a heck of a lot of pressure
And it sure takes quite a while
But in the end it is a diamond, clear as crystal

Its many facets shine up in illumination
A valuable, precious gem to behold
As many of us are refined to become

Did you ever feel
the need to apologize
for even being alive?

You may not have
actually said these words
but you acted like it
Perhaps?

Thoughts buried down
deeply inside you
That you were a bother
That you were in the way

No parent is perfect
And most don't wake up each day
Saying, "How can I mess up
my child's life today?"

So we need to forgive them
for falling short,
for hurting us
instead of loving us
the way we were meant to be loved

Hey, fellow people
There's something on my mind
I've something to share
So I'm going to tell you
While also making it known to myself
For I'm nobody special
And I need daily reminders
I'm no less vulnerable than you

Do you know of the darkness?
Do you know of the fear?
Have you had those engulfing experiences?
Have they put a strangle hold on you?  
Stopped you dead in your tracks?
Your hope scarce?
Your life on hold?

Well, there's a satisfying solution

Where there's Light,
Darkness cannot coexist.
Where there's Faith
Fear must back away
I stand unashamed
To speak of God
My faith in Jesus
In spite of living in a world
That often scoffs
For He not only gave me life
He saved my life

There is no better cure
Than God's light
And putting my trust in Him
Soothing all my anxieties
So where now is the darkness?
Where now is the fear?
This is what it is...

It's dispeled

Don't write to please others
It won't be the truth anyway

Don't write to be edgy
If it means you don't even believe what you just said

Don't write to be popular
For popularity doesn't always mean quality

Don't try to write what you think someone wants to hear
Dare to be yourself

Don't say nice things after I die.
Don't write a pretty eulogy of what I meant to you.
Don't go on and on with words I won't hear.
Don't wait til I'm gone.
Say them now.
And I'll try to heed my own advice
And do likewise.

Do you believe in fairy tales?
Does the prince always rescue the maiden in distress?
Does the guy always get the girl?
Do they always live "happily ever after"?
Do you believe?

I thought I did

Do you believe in Hollywood endings?
Where the bad guy always loses?
Where the good guy always wins?
Where all his problems are solved in two hours?
Do you believe?

I thought I did

It all satisfied my most inner longings
It deeply touched my heart
But time went by
And age shed  away my innocence
Do I really believe?

I thought I did

Oh, Clock
Do you ever tire of the incessant ticking,
Desiring your busy hands to relax, at least once, from of the endless telling of time?

Oh, Sun
Does it ever cross your mind to feel like quenching your fiery furnace
To relieve your sweat and live discretely among the coolness of the shadows?

Oh, Earth
Do you feel the need to be the imperfect dancer
To cease to spin in exquisite precision and simply stand still in thought ?

Oh, Death
Do you not grow weary of the troubling grief and suffering you force upon us
And consider surrendering your demand, your need for the all-consuming end to the beating of our hearts?

Do you?

To each and every one that reads these words
I don't know you, but I care about you
You were made in the image of God
No matter what you've done
No matter how you feel about yourself
That doesn't seem to amount to much
Hear what I'm saying
I'm not just writing this because
It may sound profound
No, I wish to convey this with all sincerity
You were made in the image of God

In your past, something may haunt you
God can forgive, is ready and willing
You need to do your part and
Take it to the cross
Where sins have been paid for
By the blood of the Lamb
Do you believe in the Son?

To each and every one that reads these words
Perhaps, you are hurting
Perhaps, you don't feel much of anything
Perhaps, you are confused beyond comprehension
Take it to the Everlasting Father
Reach out to Him
He cares about you
He cares about me
He wants to hear from us
A vital connection in prayer
But it's up to us to reach out
For God's reach is only a prayer away
Not miles and miles and miles away
His love is vast as the ocean

Spread the message

Emptiness is
akin to starvation
boring through your growling stomach
a gaping, horrible hole
trying to penetrate your soul

I want to be everybody's darling
Everybody's literary delight
I want to be America's sweetheart
Like a neon light

I want to be a lady
Who imprints you like a magnet
One in whom once you meet
You shall never forget

I don't want much, you know
But only constant applause
Forgive my bold shamelessness
For, perhaps, I am love starved

I know what it is like to be a survivor. I know what means to be redeemed. I have fallen down with a hard crash, but I can walk, today.   I've experienced hate, but also love. Indifference has gained plenty of territory in this age, and fatigue is no stranger. I've grown weary of the daily grind and sometimes feel like a pretender. Nevertheless, I have found much to be passionate about, and I'm glad to be a part of the Beating Heart Association-also known as "alive".

We are warriors in a battlefield, because there is a war going on out there. I've wanted to shake hands and call a truce, for I've needed the peace and quiet. I needed to take hold of my thinking, for I think my punches were landing back onto me. I'm often guilty of self-deprecation, so don't look for lemonade from me. I'd just as well hand out lemons.

Sure, I love happy endings, for it is a distraction from many harsh realities.  This planet surely contains conundrums.  There are many amazing things in the world as well as there are many things that are far too perplexing. I have had plenty of doubts in God, others and myself, but still manage to maintain a flicker of faith. How it gets rekindled is what makes it divine. Everything else in this world will end up old, useless and discarded, but such intangibles have staying power.

Visions of hope make this world possible.  An existence without flux is an existence most stagnant. To conclude, throwing in the towel just cannot be an option. So take note: You can still see me walking down that Yellow Brick Road, experiencing the journey that is full of bumps, twists, turns and surprises.

Why do I run from you?
And not to you?
Like a helpless newborn
I want the comfort of Your arms
But I find myself acting
like a confident, self-sufficient soul

Lord, please forgive me for such foolishness

I admit I cannot live without You
That I am more scared than I am brave
In my utter weaknesses, I know I stand defenseless
Because there are many battles to be won
And my life feels ragged and war-torn from the conflicts

So, Lord, I embrace you once again
As your precious child
Calling you Abba Father
Our earthly fathers may forsake us
and fail us shamefully
But I am forever grateful
that You love me forever
and that You have made me

Yours

It's the Grim Reaper
It's the Boogie Man
It's the wolf in the closet
It's the monster under the bed
It's the phantom that's chasing you in your dreams
It's the madman who dances delightfully in your brain matter
It's the poison in your coffee
Paralyzing
Petrifying and penetrating
A flesh eating
Bone chomping
Soul *******
Grave robbing Ghoul
Right within the halls of your head
Grotesque and greedy, it is
Gloom everywhere
An anxiety production line
Breeding anguish
Bleeding you out
Windpipe choking
Werewolf watching
Witches brewing
It's dreadful and dooming
It's horror at every corner
It's a newspaper dripping in disaster
It's a future forecasting fatalities
Your obituary in every new edition

BUT IT'S NOT REAL

The shortest of months
Warm, red hearts in cold winter
The time of my birth

Backed in a corner...
No way out...
Find a way

I guess it's "no" this time
I cannot accomplish my dream
Find a way

It will never find me
It does not have legs
But God willing
And I am still in the running

I will find a way

Green is the valley
Spring's youthfulness has arrived
New leaves in soft breeze

There are lobster fisherman
There are those who catch many fish
with big commercial boats and big nets
Many like to fish for the sport of it
for trout
for bass
for perch

But the only catch I like
on the end of my line
are compliments
That's right
Maybe I never got enough praise
A shy, nerdy kid with the low self-esteem
Maybe it's just a narcissistic need
to be noticed

I can sit there for a while
in my sea of creativity
Sometimes I might snag  
an old boot
an old tire
a glob of seaweed
or a message in a bottle that says
"YAWN!"

Kidding aside
I write because it keeps me sane
Whether or not I have an audience of one
and that audience is me
or whether I can entertain others
I cannot stop or start the flow of my pen
for any reason but the love of writing

They say one man's junk
is another man's treasure
So when I feel that tug
on the end of my fishing line
with the paperless technology
we have to express ourselves
I know someone was hooked
onto the end of my invisible pen

So I am not too proud to admit it
I toss "modesty" out of my boat
for a bigger, shameless fishing experience  
Grabbing my pole to reel in
the sweetness of those kind words
and I say, "Thank you!"

With great recollection, there were a few things in life that Ivy Jankauskas would always remember—always.

She would never forget where she was when 9/11 happened; she was in her algebra class, doodling a picture on a piece of notebook paper of her dog, Zoey—bored out of her mind by Mr. Zabbo’s lecture—when she first heard the shocking news. Certainly, she could remember when she first properly fell in love; she was fresh into college when she knew that she loved Trevor Littlefield—the day after they agreed to get back together, right after the day they decided to split up—after she finally realized that she really loved him, much more than she ever, really, consciously thought. She would forever remember when her parents first took her to Disneyland; she was seven and got her picture taken with Snow White and Mickey Mouse, and she instantly decided that she wanted to become a professional Tinkerbelle when she grew up.

And, like it or not, she could remember her very first kiss. She had just turned five, and it was at her birthday party. How could she ever forget those silly paper hats, and all her little playmates wearing them? They were a good sized group of children, mostly from the neighborhood and her kindergarten class, which watched her open present after present. Ivy remembered her cherry cake, with white frosting, and the stain she had when she dropped a piece on her pretty, new dress that her mother had bought her just for the occasion.  

It was later that day, behind her garage, that Gordon Zachary Durand, the Third, a boy her same age, planted one on her. It was a strange sensation, she recalled—icky, wet and sloppy, and Gordon nearly missed her mouth. Not expecting it, Ivy made a face, puckering up her lips—but not for another kiss—as if she had just ****** on a spoiled lemon. Ever since then, it was the beginning of the dislike she had for Gordon Zachary Durand, the Third. She didn’t exactly know why—there was just something about him that bugged her from then on.

There grew to be several reasons why Ivy knew that Gordon was a ****, something she first sensed at her birthday party behind the garage. Since about third grade, children picked on Ivy’s name, teasing her by calling her “Poison Ivy”.  And the one who seemed to be the loudest and most obnoxious of the name callers, chiming in with the other bullies, was Gordon Zachary Durand, the Third.  Ivy was proud of her name up until then, but the taunts made her self conscious. Her mother told her to be proud of her name, for it was unique and different, as she was unique and an individual. Still, Ivy felt uncomfortable with her name for quite a while. Only in adulthood, did she feel somewhat better about it.

A bit of a tomboy back then in school, she would have loved to punch Gordon right in the nose. If only she could get away with it! What a joke! Who would name their child Gordon anyway? She had thought it was far worse than hers.

So to counter his verbal assaults to her name, Ivy called Gordon, “Flash Gordon”, after the science fiction hero from TV and the comics. But Gordon was no hero to her. He was more of a villain, creepy, vile, and just plain mean!

Soon, new name of him caught on, and other kids were joining her. She had a smug sense of satisfaction that Gordon grew furious of the title, for it stuck to him like glue.

Gordon’s family lived right around the block, just minutes away from where Ivy lived. Ivy’s mom, Gail, and Gordon’s mom, Lucy, both went to the same Lithuanian club, and both encouraged their children to take up Lithuanian folk dancing. Ivy remembered she was eight-years-old when she began dancing. It was three years of Hell, she had thought, wearing those costumes, with long, flowery skirts, frilly blouses, aprons, caps and laced vests, and performing for all the parents and families in attendance. Worst of all, she often had to dance with Gordon, and he was one of only three boys that was dragged into taking up folk dancing by their mothers. Probably all of those boys went into it kicking and screaming, so Ivy had thought.

Many years have came and gone since those days. Ivy was now a lovely, young woman, tall and dark blonde, and with a Master’s degree in sociology, working as a social worker in the prison system. Ivy’s parents would never have imagined that she would work in a field, in such places, but she found it quite rewarding, helping those who often wished for or were in need of redemption.    

When Ivy came over to visit her mom one day, her mother had told her some news. “Gordon Durand’s mother passed away”, Gail announced. It was quite disturbing.

“What? When?” Ivy replied, her face full of shock.

“Well, it must have been a few days ago. I saw the obituary in the paper, and a couple of people from the Lithuanian club called me to tell me. The funeral will be Friday. Why, I didn’t even know she was sick! She must have hid from just about everyone. If only I knew, I would have gone to see her and make sure she know I cared”.

It had been a long time since Ivy saw Gordon, ever since high school. Now, they were both twenty-six-years-old. It never occurred to her to ever think of Gordon, to have him fixed in her mind like a fond memory from the past.

“Could of, would of, should of—don’t beat yourself up, Mom” Ivy told her "I guess I should go pay my respects”. But Ivy was not sure if she really should do it, or really if she wanted to do it. “Mrs. Durand was a nice lady. Sometimes, it is the nice ones that die young. What did she die of anyway?”

Ivy’s mom was pouring herself and her daughter a cup of coffee. “I believe it was leukemia. In the obituary, it asks for donations to be made to the Leukemia Society of America”.

Ivy shook her head in disbelief.  As she was sitting down with her mother at the kitchen table, drinking her coffee, her mom shocked her even more. Gail said, “Only twenty-six, same as you, and now Gordon has no mother or father! How tragic to lose your parents at such a young age! It breaks my heart to think of him without his parents, even though he is a grown up man now!”

“What?!” Ivy shouted in disbelief. “When did Gordon’s dad die?!”

Gail sipped on her coffee mug. “Oh, a few years ago, I believe. Time sure flies, so maybe it was longer than I think”. Gail had a far away look on her face like she was earnestly calculating the time in her mind.

“He died? You never told me that! How come you never told me?”

Under normal circumstances, the thought of Gordon Zachary Durand, the Third, would almost want to make Ivy cringe. But now Ivy was feeling very sad for him.  

“I did!” Gail defended herself. “You just don’t remember, or you weren’t listening. I am sure I told you!”

Gail was a round faced woman, with light, crystal blue eyes that always seemed warm in spite of their icy color. Ivy was quite close to her mother, her parents’ only child. She was grateful that her dad, Max, was still around, too, unlike the thought of Gordon’s dad dying. She felt that she could not have asked for better parents. They loved her and built her up to be who she was, and she felt that they could be proud of how she turned out, not the stereotypically spoiled, only child, not entitled to have everything, but one who was willing to do her share in life.  

“I would have remembered, Mom!” Ivy insisted. “I would remember a thing like that! What happened to him? Did you go to the funeral home?”

“I think he had a heart attack”, Gail replied, tapping her finger on her temple to indicate that she remembered. “I did go…oh, wait a minute. You were in Europe with your friends. It was the year after you graduated from high school, I believe. You couldn’t possibly have gone to the funeral home at that time”.

Since Gail did not want to go to Daytona Beach, in Florida, for her senior trip, her parents saved up the money for her to go to Germany and Italy. Ivy wasn’t into being a bikini clad sun goddess, nor was she thrilled by the rowdy behavior of crowds of *** craved teens—a choice that her parents were quite grateful that she chose, level headed as she was.

Since she was a little girl, Ivy dreamed of going to Europe. Her parents, both grandchildren of Lithuanian immigrants, would have loved for her to go to Lithuania, but Ivy and two of her friends had found a safe, escorted trip to go elsewhere,  on to where Ivy always dreamed of going—to see the Sistine Chapel and to visit her pen pal of eleven years, Ursula Friedrich, in Munich.  

Now, Ivy was available to visit the funeral home for Gordon’s mother, and she had decided to go with her mother. Not seeing Gordon in years, Ivy had her misgivings, not knowing what to expect when encountering him. Perhaps, he would be different now, but maybe he would prove to be quite the ****.

As she came, she noticed Gordon’s sister, Deirdre, and she gave her a hug. “I’m so sorry to hear about your mom. She was so nice”, Ivy told Deirdre. She felt uncomfortable talking to Deirdre, for she did not know what to say other than the usual, I am sorry for your loss. It was “sympathy card” talk, and Ivy felt like she was quoting something contrived from a Hallmark store.    

Deirdre was two years older than Gordon. She slightly smiled at Ivy and sighed. She must have said just about the same thing all day long, “It is good of you to come. Thank you for your kind support. Mom would appreciate it”.

Ivy looked around the room. There were many flowers, in vases and baskets, and people surrounding the casket. Ivy could not see Mrs. Durand in the coffin, for people were in the way, her mother included. She was glad she couldn’t see the body from her view.

Funeral homes gave her the creeps, ever since she was thirteen years old and her grandmother died, her father’s mother, and she had to stay at the funeral home all day long. Even a whiff of some, certain flowers was not pleasant to smell. They reminded her of being at a place like this, certainly not evoking thoughts of joy.          

Ivy looked around the room. “Where is Gordon?” she asked Deirdre.

Deirdre sighed again. “Gordon cannot handle death very well”, she admitted. “Go outside and look. He has been hanging around the building outside, getting some fresh air and insisting he needs a big break from all this.”

Ivy shook her head and smirked. “That sounds like Gordon, I must say”  

“Yeah”, Deirdre agreed, as she looked like Gordon’s help to her was a lost cause. “And he’s leaving me to do all the important work—talking to people who come in while he goes away and escapes from reality”.

Ivy went outside to search for Gordon. Sure enough, she found him by the side of the building, under a broad, shady tree. He was having a cigarette, standing all by himself, when he saw her approach.

Gordon looked the same—wavy brown hair and freckles, but much more grown up and sophisticated, his suit jacked off and his tie loosened up. Ivy knew that he always hated wearing ties. She knew that when both her mom and his mom convinced them to go out with each other—a huge twist of their arms—to the Fall Fest Dance in ninth grade and in junior high school. Gordon’s mom bribed him to go with her by promising to double his allowance for the month, and Ivy actually had a silly crush on Gordon’s cousin, Ben, hoping that she might get to talk to him if she went with Gordon to the dance.

Ivy glanced at Gordon’s cigarette, and he noticed. “Been trying to quit”, Gordon told her as she approached. He dropped it on the sidewalk and stepped on it to put it out. His face was somber as he added without any emotion, as if parroting his own voice, “Ivy Jankauskas—how the hell have you been?” It sounded like he had just seen her in a matter of months instead of years.

Well, at least he had no problem identifying her or remembering her name. She must not have changed that drastically—and hopefully for the better.

Ivy stood there before him, as he looked her down from head to toe. Same old Gordon! She thought he was probably giving her “the inspection”. She thought he almost looked handsome in his brown suit vest and pants—almost—with a sharp look of sophistication that Gordon probably wasn’t accustomed to. Surely, Ivy had no real respect for him.

“I’m well”, she responded. “But the question is more like…how are you doing?” Ivy studied Gordon’s blank expression. “No—really. I’d like to know how you are coping”.

Gordon stood there looking at the ground, his hands in his pants pockets, like he never heard her. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk”

“Here? Now?”

“Just a short work, around the block”, he told her. He already started walking, and Ivy contemplated what to do before she decided to follow up with him to join him.

They walked together in silence for a while. From anyone passing by, they surely would have looked like a couple, a well-paired couple that truly enjoyed each other’s company. Ivy could not believe she was actually walking with him. Gordon Zachary Durand, the Third? Of all people!

“You haven’t answered my question”, Ivy said. “How are you coping? You know I really liked your mom a lot. She always was pleasant to me”.

She wanted to add, “Unlike you”, but it certainly was not the right time or the right place. She felt a twinge of guilt for thinking such a thing. Under more pleasant circumstances, she would have jabbed him a little. That was just how they always communicated, not necessarily in a mean-spirited way, but in a brotherly and sisterly way that involved plenty of teasing.

Gordon thought a moment before he answered. “Yeah, it’s hard. But what can I do? I lost my dad. I lost my mom. Period. End of discussion. I’m too old to be an orphan…but I kind of feel like one anyhow. That’s my answer, in a nutshell”.

“And I wish I knew about your dad”, Ivy said, with a great tone of remorse. “I was in Europe at the time, and I couldn’t have possibly gone to the funeral”.

“Europe? Wow! Aren’t you the jet setter? Who else gets to do that kind of stuff but you, Ivy?”

Now that was the Gordon she always knew! It did not take long for the true Gordon to come forth and show himself.

“No! I don’t have all kinds of money!” she quickly defended herself. “I actually helped pay for some of that trip by working all summer after we graduated from high school. Plus, it was the trip of a lifetime. I may never get the chance to go again on a trip like that again”.  

Ivy was a bit perturbed that Gordon seemed to imply that she was pampered by her parents. He accused her of that before, just because she was an only child.

Autumn was approaching, but summer was still in the air. It was Ivy’s favorite time of year, with the late summer and early autumn, all at the same time.  The trees were just starting to turn colors, but the sun felt nice and warm upon her as Ivy walked along. It was surely an Indian summer day, one that wouldn’t last forever. She wore a light sweater over her sleeveless, cotton dress, and took it off to experience more of the sun.

“It has been ages since I’ve seen you”, Gordon admitted. “Since high school. So what became of you? Did you ever go to college?”

“I did and I work as a social worker…I work in various prisons”

Gordon laughed out loud, and Ivy gave him a stern look. “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

“I just can’t picture you going in the slammer, even if you aren’t wearing an orange suit”, he said in between laughing. He looked at Ivy, and she had quite a frown on her face. He changed his tune. “I was only joking, Ivy. I think you’d probably do good work at your job”.  

“And where do you work?” she asked, a devilish expression on her face. “At the circus?”

Ivy caught herself becoming snarky to Gordon. It did not take long. She opened her mouth to apologize, but Gordon, sensing her need to be sorry, stopped her.

Laughing even more, he said, “Good one! You are sharp and fast on your feet! You always have been! I work for an insurance agency. I work for Triple A”.

“Oh, really? Do you like your job?” Ivy asked. Her interest was genuine.

“It pays the bills. But, hey! I am going back to college in January. I just have an Associate’s degree right now. I am not sure what I want to take up, but I want to go back and at least get a Bachelor’s”.

“That’s great!” Ivy exclaimed. “I think you should keep on learning and keep on moving forward. That is a great goa

It is often the
most difficult task,
to forgive
Could you agree?

I am not very good
at it, I will admit
When all you want
is to get even
or to make the other(s)
hurt just as badly
as they hurt you...
that fuels the grudge

What is forgiveness?
Is it letting someone
off the hook?
Is forgivness
simply forgetting?
Is it saying the wrong
perpetrated upon us
is now OK?
That it really did not
hurt or offend us after all?

No, it is so much more
Forgiveness is not an act
of the emotions,
for they seem unable
to ever come to reason
and they often betray us

It is an act of the will,
a release not just for the other
but for ourselves
from the prison of
resentment and anger

Do we need to hear
an apology
to forgive?
No

Do we need to make sure
the other or others
receive justice?
No

What we need is to make that choice
To forgive even if we don't feel like it
To wait till we "feel like it" is a lie
It is like holding on to a poison that
only destroys ourselves
and not the ones we intended
for it to torment

Forgiveness doesn't mean
we now have amnesia
about the wrong
inflicted upon us
It just means
all resentment
and bitterness
no longer have us in
a vice-like grip

And if we refuse to forgive one
who is begging us for it
that person is stuck in a *******, too
Sometimes, we find it is us
that is in need of forgiveness
and sometimes it is
that very thing
that we need to
extend to ourselves  
so we can enjoy
being in our own skin

I am nobody to instruct another
about how to forgive
I am writing this partly for myself
It is one of the hardest things
for me,
to forgive
But when I am on the receiving end
it feels so beautiful and so freeing

To err is truly human
And to forgive is truly divine
It is not of our human nature
to simply forgive
but is a gift from God above
Even under the worst
of cruel situations
true forgiveness is possible

Sometimes, writing a poem seems fairly easy
Everything just clicks together
You can see something worthwhile reading
With each, little keystroke
Or jot of the pen
So you write away feverishly and freely
And as if your hands were possessed
By Shakespeare himself
You have little desire to stop a good thing

Sometimes, writing a poem is fantastically frustrating
You work at it and work at it
Go over it and over it and over it - again and again
The lumps and the kinks and the lack of quality
Searching hard for that Wow factor
But it is just pretty much off center no matter what you do
And you feel so inadequate to fix it up right
So you either settle for it being less than hoped for
Or trash it in absolute surrender
Obliterating the work for good

Sometimes, I write
And I sit back with a sense of accomplishment and pride
Other times, I write
And I want to bang my head
On the most convenient, hard surface I can find
Preferably one with jarring pain
For the inspiration for good writing is rather weak and blah
Highly disappointing and distressing
As my literary brain feels out of order
The struggle to scribble out an idea in my head
Just won't quite translate well onto paper

For, I guess, such is the life of a writer
I fear my glory days of writing poems are over
That the best of my abilities are far behind me
And my story writing will soon grow redundant
Like yesterday's newspaper
But if I have surprised myself before
And the winding road of life and the ticking away of time
Manage to provide me food for thought
I may eventually encounter fresh, new inspiration
My talent not used up after all
Can I allow myself that hope?

For such a life is a writer


P.S.  
For such is life.........period

Make friends with yourself
For a lifetime is too long
To be your own worst enemy

It is said
that if you have no rain,
then no rainbow

I look outside my window
at the wintry storm
and I see frozen rain
descending from the skies
like a flurry of furry butterflies

Inside my little, haven,
my humble home,
where I am safe and warm,
I see the snow
falling gently down,
like soft, white feathers from above
and accumulating upon the ground
like a collection of cold diamonds

What a dreamer am I!  

I guess it beats having the winter blues

I am not Eve
Not paradise
I live in this world
Many troubles I have seen
Yet hatchling sparrows
in the pottery gourd
I have set up outside
by my kitchen door
have reminded me of simplicity

As squirrels come by to beg
for a scrap of food,
my two cats
lazing in the sun inside my home.

Is this how it feels in
the Garden of Eden?
Tending the animals I love so much,
providing shelter and food for others
that belong to the wild
If just for a moment or two,
no worries, no struggles,
no sadness, no doubts
A complete feeling of joy
at nature outside and inside my door

I opened the closet
and yelled at all the skeletons:

Get out of my closet!

I don't want your secrets!
I don't want your shame!
I don't want your ***** laundry!
You have been in here long enough!

I started tossing out the junk,
ridding myself of the mess,
like ruins in an old tomb,
Garbage that I have been trying to contain,
useless things flying everywhere:
Unfulfilled dreams,
unresolved anger,
old sadness,
unhappy childhood
etc, etc, etc....

Those bony beings started
making their way out,
grumbling because of
their harsh eviction,
clanking away down the stairs
and out of the house

Well, that felt lots better
but I'm not sure if they
all left for good

It will be time to do more house cleaning soon

A lifelong Michigander
I've endured my share of brutal winters
The ones that seem to thoroughly freeze you
Right into the cracks of your armor
You know, the toughness that you show the world
Deeper experiences than your skin, reaching past and
Down right to your bones

A woman seemingly designed for melancholy
I struggle and have to beware of making it my identity
For I am much more than that sorrow which has shaped me
I've endured my share of hardship and pain
You know, the kind that bandages cannot reach
And pain can feel like a gnawing within
Like the winters that penetrate you
Ones that reach your bones
And bone crushing, they do feel

But I'm no fool
And I use the pain
For in vain I won't let it become
For spring could not be so glorious, it seems
Without the show of its flip-side...a frozen reality

Joy would be meaningless to me
Without understanding the truth of
Disappointment, sorrow, hurt, loneliness...
gut-wrenching misery that all must face
At least once in their lives

Maybe it sounds cliche but....
The rain might seem dismal and unpleasant
But surely you bask in the green of its fulfillment
A birth might be agonizing for the mother
But surely the life brought into the world is the beautiful result

These are some of my thoughts, lately
The conceiving and jotting down of them
Help me to hold on when life doesn't seem right
Help me to grow beyond my comforts to reach up and beyond
Challenging me to stretch my faith into a bigger dimension  
While getting through the tempests of life