That Secret Space

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That secret space;

The place I go alone to seek His face;

A quiet, questioning encounter in His safe embrace;

Silent, still, and list’ning there I go.

 

Music there;

Notes unknown and known play sweet and pure;

They float and fly above imagination without care;

Then rest and speak a language no one knows.

 

 

I linger long;

To understand wisdom that I thought gone;

His tender voice carries a message needed, soft and strong;

A molecule and mountain always there.

 

 

Original poetry by Connie Pease; Images: pexels-valiphotos-589816.jpg; lake-at-sunset-pexels-photo-248800.jpeg; bird-s-eye-photography-of-mountain-1624496.jpg

I Was Sure of It (conclusion)

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I traveled ahead and then left as I was sure I should. At what I guessed was hour two, I stopped for a bottle of apple Snapple (it really is the best flavor) and sipped it in my truck as I considered my options. I didn’t care to return home since I’d invested time and gas at this point. Was I headed the right direction? I was so sure. Maybe I should say I had been so sure. The problem with being sure – very sure – is that unless the Good Lord, Himself, has told you, there’s a remote possibility you could be wrong, emphasis on remote. I hate to even admit it. I’m sure you can understand.

The sun was definitely high in the sky and trekking downward. Pulling into a gas station, I swallowed my pride, and inquired, then walked out the door to the sound of laughter a little too loud for my taste.

Anyway, that’s how I ended up spending the night in my truck under the stars, having turned myself completely around and reaching my destination after it closed. Fortunately, there was another auction nearby the following day, and I didn’t care to return home and risk a late arrival not to mention wear and tear on my truck. It was the first time I’d ever parked in the first space in a parking lot.

By the time I woke up and found a row of porta-potties, a few food trucks had begun to arrive. I have to say, my favorite thing about auctions, or anything else for that matter, is the food. I nourished myself with a bag of mini donuts and cup of coffee.

I was kind of glad I missed my intended auction and ended up at this one instead. It was a rowdy bunch and I met some interesting people, one who expressed interest in my truck. I know. Right?

As the day wore on, I was routinely outbid and came up empty. I figured I’d try one more time before I left, though by now the bids were for boxes of things unknown – kind of like a grab bag at a candy store. I got one! Actually two, since the woman taking my money shoved a second one at me for free. I think she was worn out. I paid the princely sum of $15.00 and took them to my truck to see if there was anything of value. They held some pictures taken around the 1920’s I guessed, an old set of encyclopedias, an interesting variety of electronics, and a few things I thought maybe I could sell on FBMP.

My friend arrived Monday to return my laptop. I invited her in and, after hearing about her research paper, I dug around in one of the auction boxes.

“Ah! Here it is,” I said, handing her a laptop. It was a Dell.

“I checked it out. It seems to be in good condition. Anyway, since I have one, I thought maybe you could use it.”

She nearly squeezed the breath out of me, and her expressions of thanks were nearly as rowdy as the auction had been. I started craving mini donuts.

I’m sitting here now, tapping the end table with the card the guy who was interested in my truck gave me. He wrote his phone number on it. Should I call him? I’m leaning toward what I’m sure should be yes. Maybe.

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I Was Sure of It

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“No, no. It’s fine,” I said shoving my laptop into her hands.

“Are you sure? I can go to the library,” answered my friend.

“And we know how dependable those computers can be,” I replied, recalling the last time she’d done so and lost half of the research paper she had been working on leading to her being docked a grade for lateness.

“Go.” I insisted.

She went. That was two days ago. Her paper was due on Monday and I assumed she would get it back to me by then. Yes, I know what they say about assuming things, but she’s my friend.

Why doesn’t she have her own laptop? I don’t know. I figure being poor can do that to you. Because she is; not the kind of poor that qualifies for free stuff, but the kind of poor that is enough to make life inconvenient and slightly uncomfortable.

I was up early Saturday morning, plan in my head and truck keys in my hand. It was north – actually northeast – and I knew that if I traveled ahead and then left, I would reach the place within an hour. Maybe two. Maybe three. (Okay, so estimations have never been my forte, and let’s admit some vehicles are more dependable than others which, of course, makes a difference in times of arrival.) But of the direction and distance? I was sure of it.

So certain was I that I left without my watch, the band being uncomfortable, and a compass, because who uses a compass besides the military and orienteering buffs? (Oh yes. I had one. I displayed it on a small round end table along with an Adelaide Hurricane lamp and an old copy of A Message to Garcia. It was a gift I valued because of the giver, but never used.)

You’re thinking I should just GPS it on my phone. Of course you are. I agree, but I had dropped my phone in the community pool the day before while I was trying to find the link for my suit that a new acquaintance admired and asked for, and it was currently spending the day in a package of uncooked rice. (I have to admit my swimming suit is amazing.) No, I couldn’t map quest it on my laptop, which, as you’ll recall was in the possession of my friend.

Some people collect old pickups. Let’s just say they wouldn’t want mine. I started it and set out.

By hour two I was beginning to feel slightly unsettled. Feeling undone would come later.

to be continued . . .

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Let’s Talk

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I had a 7th grade English teacher who was a favorite of everyone – well, most everyone. In addition to delivering some pretty solid teaching, she liked to have fun with the kids. One day she brought caramels (those individually wrapped Kraft caramel squares) to class so we could all enjoy one or two. One of the boys in the class had gotten braces the day before and it was her joke on him. In those days, most people enjoyed jokes, even if they were on them. He thought it was funny, she thought it was funny, we all laughed.

Sometimes people talk to the elderly like they’re small children. I suppose they get used to it, considering it’s probably a well-meaning effort to be kind. I hope no one ever talks to me that way.

People who are abusive can be downright mean in their comments. But they can also be silky smooth and convincing. It depends on what type of abuser they are.

In a war, opposing sides are not likely to be polite to each other. Each side is defending something or someone. Are demoralizing comments appropriate? What about name-calling? What about harsh answers that don’t turn away wrath? Is war a time to point out bad things about the opponent?

Most of us favor easy-listening speech. We cringe a bit at words that we don’t typically use, ourselves, although I’ve noticed that human nature sometimes prefers to ignore or even agree with ad hominem attacks rather than discussing the matter of argument. We’d rather repeat that attack than actually argue a valid point. Some people are suggesting yesterday’s assassination attempt could be the fault of the one who offends some folks with some pretty tough words. I thought of some crusty prophets who offended kings and I thought of Jesus who garnered the hate of plenty of people. Still does.

But it’s our responsibility to examine what situation someone’s words are used in. I don’t suppose a dentist has a bowl of caramels in the waiting room. And if you don’t understand that our nation (and world) is and has been in a war for a long time, a war to save a whole lot of people who are sold and sacrificed, a war to defend our nation’s freedoms, and a war of influence in which some folks are doing whatever they can to keep things from going kinetic, you might criticize words and phrases used more in war than, for instance, typical political speech. You would be wrong.

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the . . .

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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

When I first read the book, A Tale of Two Cities and later,The Scarlet Pimpernel, I hadn’t made the connection between the American Revolution and the French Revolution. In fact, although a school teacher may have thrown it out for consideration, I apparently didn’t catch it. Fortunately, those two classics made that connection for me.

Here we are this July 4th celebrating, as we do every year, the independence of our nation. Those American Patriots, French soldiers, and Native and African Americans making up the Continental Army fought some of their own countrymen: American Loyalists and Native and African Americans joining British soldiers. Imagine, if you will, disagreeing with your own countrymen over politics. And it didn’t happen over a year or two, or even four, but it was nearly nine years before the official end of the war.

It was an important disagreement.

That July 4, 1776 Declaration of Independence from Great Britain wasn’t a sudden decision. Years of tension between our 13 colonies and King George reached an irrevocable conflict. Think of it: Being taxed for all printed material, i.e. newspapers, legal documents, and pamphlets; not to mention playing cards and dice! Methinks a boundary was overstepped with the Stamp Act. Then, something most of us recall – the tea tax (3 cents per pound) – led to the “enough’s enough” action of the Boston Tea Party. It wasn’t really a party. We should commend those early Americans for fighting for our independence. Republicanism was a new thought, and the effort succeeded. It occurs to me that we should borrow some of that “enough’s enough” attitude from our forefathers. Tea isn’t the only thing we’re taxed for now.

The interesting thing is that, with our revolution, revolutions all over the globe erupted. The French Revolution, of course, which we remember, in part, due to its morbid guillotine; but also the Haitian revolution. Brazil, Greece, Argentina, Chile, Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, Venezuela, and Mexico all hopped on board the revolution train, seeking to replace monarchies with republics. Not democracies. Republics.

Are you seeing any similarities yet? It does seem, doesn’t it, that we are witnessing something akin to the upheaval from history over 200 years ago. The question for the United States for America, of course, is found in Benjamin Franklin’s famous answer to Elizabeth Willing Powel’s question on the final day of the Constitutional Convention: “Well, Doctor, what have we got? A republic or a monarchy?” to which he answered, “A republic, if you can keep it.”

A republic if your can keep it. God help us keep it.

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. 1859. Published by Chapman and Hall; https://www.history.com/news/american-revolution-independence-movements; https://www.thecleverteacher.com/the-ultimate-guide-to-teaching-the-revolutionary-war/; https://courses.lumenlearning.com/suny-fmcc-boundless-worldhistory/chapter/the-south-american-revolutions/; https://www.prageru.com/video/the-difference-between-a-democracy-and-a-republic

Underneath

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Underneath the rubble of a tempest through the night;

Downed, a giant tree that stood through many a windy day;

Tangled branches on one side, roots loosed its former height;

Tell passersby a story of a heavy price to pay.

It stood, the tree, for centuries a sentry and a friend;

And greeted friend and foe alike with equal, measured pace;

And those who passed received the shade its branches would extend;

And felt, somehow, of something more of beauty, love, and grace.

But storms must take what they demand: a messy sort of wage;

Yet what is seen is only half the picture – more a sheath;

For that unseen is buried deep beneath the stormy stage;

Life undeterred, a treasure, is the glory underneath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Original poem: myfiresidechat.com; *https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/pace: “The Latin word pace is a form of pax, meaning “peace” or “permission,” and when used sincerely the word does indeed suggest a desire for both.”; Images: pexels-jplenio-1118869.jpg; pexels-lindsey-k-846449-1731457.jpg; Acer_tataricum_twig-wikimedia-commons.jpg

Treasure in Jars of Clay

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Hear Our Prayer, O Lord

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An old hymn, more of a prayer, really, popped into my mind this morning as I was making coffee. I have not heard or sung this tune in nearly sixty years – maybe longer. I sang it this morning over and over before a weekly prayer call I have with a friend.

Then I paged through some of my old hymnals, failing to find it. I looked in another location and found it, but only the last line since the first had been torn out; no doubt to facilitate a quick transition for some long-ago church service. On a whim, with little hope and much doubt, I perused my latest hymnal. There it was!

It’s simple request is one we need to make to God in heaven right now. Join me?

Image: Hear Our Prayer, O Lord taken from Psalm 143:1 by George Whelpton, The Celebration Hymnal, copyright 1997 by Word/Integrity

The Why

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Can you imagine having a picnic in a cemetery? It was fairly common in the late 1800s, and I’ve read that it’s making a comeback. For some of you who associate graveyards with ghosts, I suppose a ham sandwich with chips and lemonade on a blanket there would lose its appeal.

But others apparently desire the connection with or honor of their dear departed by including their gravesite in a warm-weather outdoor lunch.

Originally called Decoration Day, what is now named Memorial Day was observed to honor those who died in the Civil War. It made sense to celebrate it in May when the first flowers of spring could be gathered to decorate their graves.

I remember when Congress changed some holidays to Mondays so people could have an excuse for a three-day weekend. They wanted that long weekend and figured people wouldn’t care about, for instance, Washington or Lincoln’s real birthday. I cared. I still do, and it still bothers me, but I do not doubt I’m in the minority.* Anyway, that’s why we celebrate Memorial Day the last Monday in May.

Regardless of whether you’ve supported a war or even agree with the idea of war in general, we hold an obligation to honor those who died in good faith for their country. We can honor those who did something we have not done. Why did they do it? They stood for freedom. They dug deep into a belief: Duty, Honor, Country.

Depending on what you think is going on in our world just now, I don’t know whether you’ve thought about dying for a cause like soldiers must do. They are required to get their affairs in order. Write a will. Assign an executor. Get their “hero picture” taken. But you can do something easier. Just for this Memorial Day, you might attend a ceremony or parade. You might read a list of fatalities or, perhaps more palatable, a story of a soldier. In fact, I try to include a post on this very blog each year about Memorial Day. Whatever it is that you do, I hope you remember the why. Enjoy your picnic.

https://connectingdirectors.com/55122-cemetery-picnics; evangelina-silina-BzLUmuRDMWE-unsplash-scaled.jpg; *Do you think people even wonder whose birthdays are celebrated on Presidents Day? What a convenient way to diminish another element of our national history; philippa-rose-tite-XLlBh-SQZCA-unsplash.jpg; https://www.myfiresidechat.com/?s=memorial+day&submit=Search

Free and Convenient (conclusion)

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I spent the better part of an hour nosing around by the meter. I even opened the boxes I had moved for the meter readers, examining every single item which I removed piece by piece. It was a good thing I’d changed out of my pajamas and had a decent pair of shoes on or I would have lost a toenail over a large set of old Star Trek DVDs that slipped from my grasp as I unloaded it. I found nothing in the boxes, but the intermittent beeping continued.

Time slipped away and I would have to figure things out later. I had the luxury of a remote job, but that didn’t mean I could ignore my computer all morning.

The beeping couldn’t be heard on the main floor, and as I mulled it over while frying a small steak and broiling cut-up potatoes sprinkled liberally with seasoning salt, I realized that I probably wouldn’t have noticed it without the visit from Remer Electric’s annoying meter readers because I wouldn’t have been in the basement in the first place. I wouldn’t have noticed it this time, either, but for the boxes I had hurriedly carried down there a couple of weeks ago.

I’d done a little research over my lunch break and discovered the probable source of the beeping, though I could hardly believe it. So after supper, I went outside and squatted to examine the side of my house. There it was: a patched hole in the wall where my meter was installed. Someone had attached the wires (barely covered by shallow trench I should have noticed) from their own home to my circuits!

I marched over to the neighbor closest to that side of my house – he had moved in last August to my recollection – who, after a stuttering denial, admitted he had planned to only temporarily borrow some electricity when he first moved in, but that time had gotten away from him. How convenient.

“Electricity shouldn’t cost anything, anyway,” he continued, “You’re probably unaware of this, but an inventor named . . .”

“Tesla. Nikola Tesla. Yes, I know.”

My neighbor’s eyes lit up.

“No no no no,” I interrupted his excuse. “Tesla is dead . . .”

“As far as you know . . .”

Heaven help me. I had a nerd of the highest order next door. I hurried to get us back on track before he wandered into a wormhole.

“Someone, in fact, is paying for it regardless, and that someone is me. And I have enough keeping up with my bills without paying for yours, too!”

“Only the electricity.”

“Change it back to your house and change it by morning, or I’m reporting you.”

He held up his hand. “Has it occurred to you the sound from your meter could align your entrainment?” In explanation, he added, “I’m a neurologist.”

“I don’t care if you’re a circus clown! Besides, you’ve no need to borrow anything from me with what your paycheck must be.”

“It started out as temporary, remember? I had no intention of stealing anything from you. Please. Let’s discuss this like two reasonable adults.”

Nothing seemed reasonable at the moment: not smart meters, not pesky meter readers tromping through my house, and not sneaky neighbors.

He opened his door wider and motioned me in. Why did I go in? It was an automatic response.

A person should check automatic responses in herself every once in awhile, I realized, as I sipped on an excellent cup of tea and enjoyed a macaron.

It was midnight by the time I returned to my house. My neighbor had turned out to be knowledgeable in more than neurology. Before this, I hadn’t noticed him much. I thought he was an accountant. We ended up having an intriguing discussion bordering on nerdiness of the highest order. It would’ve been embarrassing had anyone listened in. Which they didn’t. That I knew of.

My neighbor must have stayed up into the wee hours because when I woke up and checked, the beeping was gone and the shallow trench had been dug up and covered over again.

It’s been six months. Six months of the pesky meter readers interrupting my first cup of coffee once a month. Six months of lower electric bills. And six months of talking over the fence, shared dinners, and a surprising comradery with my neighbor. And I’ve decided that free and convenient in some things isn’t so bad after all.

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