February 14th comes around once again
And once again I’m by myself
Am I supposed to be depressed?
All by myself crying and dreaming of a day when I’m wanted every minute of every ******* day…no thank you.
So yes, it’s ******* Valentine’s Day
And all I have to show for it is a card from my mom
Does that mean that my life is over?
No it does not.
I know that someday, someone will see me
As more than just a talking meat suit
More than a one-time endeavor
Someone will look beneath my skin
And see who I really am and who I wish I could be
I will show this person the darkest corners of my personality
And they will not turn away
And until that person comes along
I am not settling for second best
Or second rate
Just so I can have a date
For someone who is all-right
For someone who simply thinks I look nice
Or that I’m kinda funny
Or that I will do for now
Because I respect myself more than that
I respect myself enough to wait for the right one to come along
And someday, when I’ve got the white-picket fence and the rest of the American dream grasped tightly to my chest
I will thank the Lord that I did not waste my time
Crying every time I found myself alone.

These halls I’ve walked so many times before have changed
The familiar feeling of a home I used to know has gone away
Is it this place that’s always changing?
Or is it the man who wants it all to stay the same?
We used to laugh about the past
But now the past has lead us here
To a present I don’t even recognize
While time continues to take each moment
As retribution for all the time I’ve wasted
Trying to figure out what I wanted the future to look like
Was it worth worrying about the days to come?
When they have now become days gone by,
I realize I wasted every one of them
I could have done so much more, become so much more
If I hadn’t worried on the future,
And lived for the day I had.

it’s dark
and the heater is humming
too loud for me to hear if she’s
sleeping soundly or
lying awake
waiting for
me

either way
she says my bed
is not nearly as comfortable
without me

that’s a good thing to hear
and it means a lot to me,
it really does,
but it doesn’t do much
to stave off the
doubts

who am I?
to have her sleep
in my bed like
we’re all
grown up

who am I?
to dive right back into love
after suffering through
such a catastrophic failure of love
that most sane men
would swear off it for
life

who am I?
to stare into her eyes
and pretend I am good
enough for
her

nobody is without fault
but I am with too many

greed, envy, shame,
wrath, hatred,
self-hatred,
sloth, guilt,
delusion, dishonesty,
lying,
and a laundry list
of pettier sins

while she has only been the victim
and had to cope the best she could

I know
she’s waiting for me
to work this
out

for me
to come to bed
with a fresh smile
and a clear head
full of love
and passion
and confidence

but I know none of those things
and I’m afraid it’s too late to learn
them

so don’t wait too long,
my dearest of all dears,
this old dog may well
be destined to die alone

take what you need from me
and fly off with a better soul

Look back at who you used to be:
A boy who walked the straight and narrow
Afraid of your own shadow
A child who made promises unto himself
Swearing you’d never give in
Swearing you’d cling to your dream
Swearing you would be strong enough to stand high on the mountain of morality
Out of reach of their harsh words
And too far away to see the blinding lights of reality
That hoped to knock you down

Now look at who you’ve become:
You call yourself a man
Because you’ve been exposed to the elements
You claim to have “grown-up”
Since you’ve traded in your morals for a ribbon of approval from your friends
You let the words of others sting you
And you change your personality to cover the wounds
You are a disgrace
You’ve cast off pieces of yourself
And glazed over your flaws
To be a mindless piece of perfection
That society won’t reject.
Good for you.

Grandma read her Bible every day. She cherished those words of Psalm Twenty-three. With delight, I find that she provided a way for us to physically cling to those words in the days and weeks and months and years to come.
Grandma loved flowers, she loved her church, she loved her dogs, she loved her family and she loved to sew. For each of her children and their children, and their children, and other family and friends she made dolls, potholders, and… quilts. Each one pieced together by her hand. She worked on her last quilt at age 96.
Into each of those quilts we find the words of that psalm symbolically emblazoned. Those words were part of all she did, as God so lovingly knit them into her heart over the years; with every fresh sunrise and stunning sunset, with each beaming smile and falling tear, every sparkling joy and shadowing sorrow, each blossoming flower and obstinate ****, every delightful birth and parting death, and each victory and defeat.

“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want”
So she takes some cloth - scraps from favorite dresses of sunshine yellow, powder blue and rose pink, and with experienced hands stitches patches of provision and contentment into the heart of that quilt that is ours.    

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures...”
In go some bits of green with a little floral print and we have something to wrap up in for moments of rest in the midst of our tumultuous lives.

“He leadeth me beside still waters...”
She picks up some clear bright blue strips and with them provides some satisfaction amidst all of our frustrations.

“He restoreth my soul...”
She understands that so, she makes sure the quilt is just the right size and lets us know that we are worth the effort and time and love that God focused on her throughout the years.  

She stitches and sews the words...
“He leadeth me in the path of righteousness for His name sake...”
As she joins each piece to another and then to another until they make a square, and one square to another until she has a block, and one block to another until the quilt needs a border; and with that border, she frames for us a picture of what happens when there is a plan. She wants us to know that God has a plan for each of us, that there is a right way.

With the words...
“Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me...”
She adds piece upon piece until that quilt is part of who she is, and then she gives it to us, each one, and we have a part of her that tells us who we are. That she is with us, as God is with her. No matter where we go or how far we range, how high we soar or how low we fall, her quilt reminds us that she is part of who we are. She wants us to know that she found her security in her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.  Grandma wants each of us to be that secure.

“Your rod and your staff, they comfort me...”
It is amazing how soft and full and pleasant Grandma’s quilts are to the touch. They are quilts of substance.  All those many different pieces of cloth of diverse sources and materials come together to make a quilt that brings us comfort while laying across our lap, or when we curl up in it when a chill is in the air.  Her quilt comforts us because it gives us a boundary that is safe. We are wrapped up safe and warm in here, and the cold world is out there. In the same way Grandma found that God gives that same sense of comfort - boundaries that we are safe within. Comfort comes for each of us when we wrap ourselves up within the boundaries that God has prepared for us.

“You prepareth a table before me in the presence of my enemies,
you anoint my head with oil, my cup runneth over,
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life...”
Grandma learned long before she began her hundredth year that, as bad as things often got and as bleak as the future often seemed; in proper perspective, God had abundantly and mercifully blessed her. In all those years that she lived alone and independently, she found that God was ever present with her. He was her constant companion. Her quilt provides us now with that sense of her abiding love and presence in our lives, and points to God’s constant presence in hers.  When we wrap ourselves up in our quilts made by Grandma’s own two hands, we can put things into perspective; realizing anew that we, indeed, have been blessed. If nothing else, we can know that we have been touched in such a special way as to have someone who loves us make us each our own personal quilt.

“And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
Alleluia! To know that Grandma today is safe and secure in the arms of God is a comfort that we cherish. That body, worn down by a century of living here on earth, God will make fit for eternity.
How does that relate to her quilts? It’s all about belonging. She has an eternal home. She belongs there, now. Having been given a quilt by someone who made it especially for you, you can know a little about the sense of belonging that she is experiencing with the saints today. It says that you are part of the person who made it and that they are part of you. You belong.
     There are many, many people in this world who do not know and will never know what it means to belong. Your mama, grandmother, great grandmother has given you that gift; the gift of belonging. She also wants you to know that only God, through Jesus Christ, can give you that gift for eternity.
     More than anything else today Grandma’s prayer for you is that you will find the quilt of God’s love that is found in Jesus Christ. Her hope for you, in the days, weeks, months and years to come, is that you will find contentment, rest, satisfaction, renewal, security, perspective, comfort - and belonging; as you curl up with the quilt she made, just for you.

©2001 Michael S. Davis, An Eulogy by her Grandson
In Memory of Grandma,
Mrs. Beulah Bachman Bradley
December 29, 1901 - August 2, 2001

I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate,
I saw an aged, aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?" I said.
"And how is it you live?"
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.

He said, "I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat;
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men," he said,
"Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread--
A trifle, if you please."

But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said,
I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"
And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale;
He said, "I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowland's Macassar Oil--
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil."

But I was thinking of a way
To feed one's self on batter,
And so go on from day to day
Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,
Until his face was blue,
"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,
"And what it is you do!"

He said, "I hunt for haddocks' eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat-buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or coin of silvery shine,
But for a copper halfpenny,
And that will purchase nine.

"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
Or set limed twigs for *****;
I sometimes search the grassy knolls
For wheels of hansom-cabs.
And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
"By which I get my wealth--
And very gladly will I drink
Your honor's noble health."

I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked him much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health.

And now, if e'er by chance I put
My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know--
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo--
That summer evening long ago,
A-sitting on a gate.

Numbness eats through my soul
I feel her toxins in my veins
solidifying and immobilizing me
In deep sleep I'm falling through
Apathy is oh so popular
Wishing never accomplishes
Neat death is slowly slipping
I see her countenance once again
This is it, I am dead
Wait
A slight brush on my cheek
Your sweet touch wakes me

A mist lingers,

Haunting and cruel.

Carrying with it the fountain of youth.

Filled with lies,

Advertised with truth.

Clouding our senses,

Tempting defenses,

All in attempt to keep us defenseless.

Blind to lust,

Overt trust,

Miscommunication becoming our crutch.

Victims to the stereotypical dream,

Swindled by the constant need to be.

Bound by such inconstancy,

Which leads to our fleeting authenticity.

Sharing connection,

But never attention.

Festering wounds destroying retention.

Yet somehow,

I still see forever.

A mist lingers,

But then again,

It never quite left.

Deepen trust,
Excellence begins.
The tempered genesis of the warrior within.
Fervent reckoning of judgemental sin.
Endlessly imaginative,
Conscious without additive,
Process enlightens the child within.
Patience with dis-tempered grace,
Wisdom expanding through space.
Scarred and burned of previous dismay,
Humbled by generations play.
Laughter soothes the master within.
Tormented,
Defeated,
Synonyms endless for the ones who’ve retreated.
Death be chosen,
We are born again.
Thinking of stories only a child can tell,
Open to trusting our journey back from hell.
Having the will to laugh at ourselves.

Double standards,

Syntax will answer.

Trifling the line between innocence and trouble.

The consequences render my psyche to rubble,

Debris piling up,

Skin tattered and tough,

Immensely rough.

Scars leave memories of when it was all too much.

Burned by your touch,

Branded,

With slanted vengeance,

Consistency begins with us.

Ends in dust,

Dismantling trust,

Allowing the hollowed frame to whither and rust.

The cyclic meaning of meaning,

Bending rhyme to reason,

A change for all the seasons,

Now we’re meeting with forced greetings.

Definitions make new traditions,

Twisting and contorting to situation.

Adapting while reacting,

Showcasing deformed acting.

We sit in the back laughing,

Understanding the change that’s happening,

The inevitability of our apathy,

Prolonged by a resistance to sever a fading destiny.

Forever is terminology,

Syntax,

Created in reverie,

A place we can’t go back.

Standards bring order,

Where chaos is prevalent.

Double the standard,

Order is irrelevant.

Contradiction,

Insecurity flourished with tortured intention.