His talking faster now for he knows his time is shorter than before. He flies from the Law to fresh words of grace and I struggle to keep pace with his passion that threatens to overwhelm his frail, well-travelled frame. Words that inspire, even as they are inspired, fired thick and fast, finding their target, embeded in my inscription as I seek the gift of accurate Word-made-flesh-made-word on paper transcription.
And now as I sit with fingers quivering, taking time out while I can while he's sleeping, I pray that the inspiration for the words that he's speaking will be equalled by my quick ears and matched by my quicker scrawling so that the church will hear just what the Lord is saying and can read the truth that is their's for the believing.

I love my mother's joy:
fleeting yet intense in its feeling
as she finds and holds a life belt
only to lose it once more
and so turns to me for my hand.

The prince and I are not friends,
though he seems a nice enough guy
and I respect him and I value the role he plays.

However my uncle,
my father's big brother,
knew him better
and fed him snacks.

As a boy
the prince would slip into the palace kitchen
between meals.
Sometimes he would persuade
his big sister too.
And my uncle would sit them down
and find a snack for him
and perhaps for his sister
and he would make them laugh.

I know this because of the prince's note.

The prince sent a note to my aunt
and it was read at the family gathering
following my uncle's funeral.

A cheeky boy from Catford,
a kitchen worker,
and later the royal chef,
laughing and showing kindness to the young prince
and to the future princess royal;
now remembered and valued by family
and also by royalty.

What do you think of that?

A change in complexion
A different choice of race
A cross of border union
A wider palate of taste

A shake-up down in Sussex
A paler skin exception
A dilution of the line
A pallid revolution

Neither Gentile nor Jew
neither captive nor free,
neither female nor male,
you're all Abram's seed,

all one in Christ Jesus
to him you belong,
all promised heirs
equal parts of the song,

singing out your own "Abba,"
getting childishly closer,
as his Spirit within you
cries out louder,
"Father".

A slow English Sunday must include
a brewing *** of Darjeeling tea,
hot toast with Anchor butter
and plenty of smoked Danish bacon.
Oh, yes - and Heinz tomato ketchup.
It makes you proud of your heritage.

Everything
you've heard about me
is true.
- Apart from that thing with L3.
We were just friends.
Honest.