Type and Time with Dr. Suess

This man of mine,

This man of mine;

I do so love this man of mine.

With spine of godly steel and mirth,

What greater treasure have I on earth?

And I can trust him in a slump,

And he abides through life bump

No manied hand, or daisy word

The precepts of God's truth, thought ward-

In times like these, of nilly tide,

The chasm grows now ever wide-

Between the men with chests

And them, that have no Godward heart within,

This man of mine,

This man of mine;

I do so need this man of mine.

With chasten'n word or purpose stout,

A refuge from the world without.

No mammon agenda, tho' dusty he be,

With stalwart heart he leadth me.

Unto the Well of Life, and then

Asks me to spill it forth again.

Not woman of a runway - me,

But grounded, lovely, gracious, free,

To follow as he follows Christ.

Against the self identified-

It is not him, or me, or them,

That made that evil lie therein.

If we do live for "I" alone,

We find this world a paltry  home.

In dying first; first him, then me

We 'flect a type of Christ and see

It is redemption's plan set forth

The gain is freedom and much more

So less than that, no bargain be-

As is the wage of living "me".

This man of mine,

This man of mine:

A gift of God, this man of mine.

To set a pace, toward heaven we go.

Yet, ancient rival still a foe.

He,  crushed fully in the cross,

Amid blood stains, his power lost.

Tho', frail he is - this man I see,

Yet, he is but a type for me-

Of One True Man came down in time,

That binds us to Kingdom Divine.

-JN

 

Life in Paradox

A paradox to us is told,

In blood, split scarlet through-

The center of Story old

For us, nary is left to do.

 

Of binds that tie and hold

us fast, in Love, abides and will

recoil the curse, bring to the fold

all earth, and His' as well.

 

We hope in what we cannot see,

Hold fast to Whom we know

He dawned this dust, in Him we be

Our paradoxical abode.

-JN

 

Paradox fascinates me.  Light and darkness, death and life, joy and sadness - they ask the question that begs for an answer or least a stop in day to day subsistence.

 

My daughter is a gentle and true critic.  Her comments, "You've improved your rhyme and diction, that's really great, Mom. Poetry is about painting a picture not preaching a sermon."  She then pulled out one of Flannery O'Connor's essays.  She chose a few excerpts.  I leafed through and chose one of mine own.

 

The idea of being a writer attracts a good many shiftless people, those who are merely burdened with poetic feelings or afflicted with sensibility. - F.  O'Conner, Mystery and Manners, p.85

This is one of Kel's excerpts that was in short followed up with this sentence, "When you write a poem are you starting with the grand idea that you want to tell people about or are you starting with an object you want to describe to them?"

The longer you look at one object, the more of the world you see in it; - ibid p.77

My thoughts on that mirror in thankfulness one of O'Conner's comments at the end of "The Nature and Aim of Fiction"-

I believe the teacher's work is largely negative, that it is largely a matter of saying "This doesn't work because..." or "This does work because...."  The because is very important.  The teacher can help you understand the nature of your medium, he can guide you in your reading. ibid, p.86

 Diction - getting better- check.  Rhyme - improving- yeah! Studying the spider on my front porch - homework!

Chasm

There is a great chasm,
And sacred it be,
That separates kin and
friendship, from knowledge of Thee.

For it is by Your Spirit
Translating me near,
And no one, save You
Dwells with me there.

The Fortress of Psalter,
The Rock of the Age,
The Foundation of all Good-
And Stripper of assuage.

I realized through tears,
When I'd nothing dust left,
That heaven is better -
So broken, bereft

"Twas there in the silence,
Your Spirit did swell;
And filled with new glories
Of Presence and well -

"This world is a fetter,
All vanity be."
When resting by Spirit,
Past chasm, I'm free.
-J.N. Early July, Early Morn, Back Patio, Nampa, Id.


Funny word, chasm- so close to chiasm - that's a favorite of mine.  In my wit, I wanted to whip out a chiasm on chasm, but maybe the joy of chasm is best told through paradox.
And isn't all of life a paradox? In that very paradox is the widening of the chasm - it screams the truth, that it does, in fact, exist. Mulling in the paradox you find the chasm ever growing wider.

The death you die, dyes the life you live.
  Joy holds you, but don't hold joy.


Just kindercare attempts at understanding a truth that has been wiggling around my noggin.  The idea of death and resurrection - what does that look like?  We die to ourselves, to live in Him.  We do this a thousand times a day, and we don't do this a thousand times a day. To the extent by His grace towards obedience we die, we see glimmers of glory in letting go and actually tasting the goodness of all this vanity the temporal has to offer- in obedience it goes through Him first. - letting Joy hold us  vs. trying to hold the joy.
 But then the moments pass, the thoughts in my grown girl's head discussed and she is off  to work, my grandone goes home and in the wake of ringing of laughter - a silent din, the ministrations of my husband is shuffled into the necessary schedule for subsistence.
It passes - everything passes; yet He,   only   He    remains.
Therein is the great chasm that grows  bigger and bigger as we enjoy life more and more.  He holds on to us, we hold onto nothing, we are dust, and anything we try to hold is dust, too.
That premonition of Joy that reminds of a grain of Truth, that percolates into a pebbles of HIS promises, is cemented as our Rock of Salvation and our Refuge- that is the only, real, lasting, sustainable thing.  But the sustenance in from Him and His will and Word, He alone is solid - everlasting, unwithered. We act only as we are acted upon.  Everything, a passing flutter, just a little shadow that points to Jesus, our Joy, as Paul would intimate to those at Philipi..






So

On Any Given Lord's Day

The Lord's Day

The secret of the Bride come near,
And happy the faces gathered here.
We are many, we are one,
Bound in Him - Eternal Son.

So whether tired or sorrow filled,
That we come, this is His will.
Beckoned here by His own call,
And by His grace do we enter all,

In chapel small or cathedral grand,
'Tis  round God's throne bared we stand.
In mercies sweet, and forgiveness full,
Eminent Anthem of Life - You rule.
-J.N. 7/7/13 Messiah Lutheran, Nampa ID

I jotted this down a few weeks ago as I watched the people mill and listened to the preceding music to the Introit.  Precious families with cherub faced babies and ones with teens sitting next to their Moms and Dads.  There was a baptism of three daughters, 4,6, &12 and their first communion later in service.
I'd been at my Mom's for almost three months and had visited three churches - where I went depended on times and health constraints.  This was a later, "contemporary service" I had chaffed at going to, but with circumstances it was my only safe choice as it was just an hour long and two minutes away. 
During the Table, I watched as these precious families went forward and received the table. The Lord again put His sword on my pride and I sat there in complete admonishment and complete joy concurrently. As the Holy Spirit knocked my noggin at each blessing, my heart swelled with thanksgiving and a knowing I was right where He wanted me.
I'm am thankful to be home. Sitting with my husband and our great-nephew yesterday as we took the elements, I remembered.  The Bride sits on rows, and on benches, on floors, in houses, in chapels, in great buildings, and He is there, He is the Center, He rules.  Blessed be His name.



Hope Springs in Every Breast

The old days, the old days, how oft the poets sing,

The days of hope at dewy morn, the days of early spring,

The days when every mead was fair, and every heart was true,

And every maiden wore a smile, and every sky was blue

The days when dreams were golden and every night brought rest,

The old, old days of youth and love, the days they say were best

But I--I sing the new days, the days that lie before,

The days of hope and fancy, the days that I adore.

The new days, the new days, the selfsame days they are;

The selfsame sunshine heralds them, the selfsame evening star

Shines out to light them on their way unto the Bygone Land,

And with the selfsame arch of blue the world to-day is spanned.

The new days, the new days, when friends are just as true,

And maidens smile upon us all, the way they used to do,

Dreams we know are golden dreams, hope springs in every breast;

It cheers us in the dewy morn and soothes us when we rest.

The new days, the new days, of them I want to sing,

The new days with the fancies and the golden dreams they bring;

The old days had their pleasures, but likewise have the new

The gardens with their roses and the meadows bright with dew;

We love to-day the selfsame way they loved in days of old;

The world is bathed in beauty and it isn't growing cold;

There's joy for us a-plenty, there are tasks for us to do,

And life is worth the living, for the friends we know are true.

-Edgar Guest "The New Days" from Just Folks

I, like many, are concerned, or rather mulling, over the our nation's decisions of the last few days. But I was reminded as I sat on the back patio and looked out over the field, with horses wagging the trees to itch a scratch and the beautiful blackbird adorned in bright orange and yellow shoulder pads, how lovely is the world and all her passing vanities.

The days are dark, but haven't they always been? But then again, on that one truly dark day, our Lover pushed back and it -  the insemination of all light, of all hope,and the very end of all story. 

I remind myself, He's got this, His birds are chirping away at the wonder of His Glory. 

Numerberless Fathers are True

You think that the failures are many,

    You think the successes are few,

But you judge by the rule of the penny,

    And not by the good that men do.

You judge men by standards of treasure

    That merely obtain upon earth,

When the brother you're snubbing may measure

    Full-length to God's standard of worth.

The failures are not in the ditches,

    The failures are not in the ranks,

They have missed the acquirement of riches,

    Their fortunes are not in the banks.

Their virtues are never paraded,

    Their worth is not always in view,

But they're fighting their battles unaided,

    And fighting them honestly, too.

There are failures to-day in high places

    The failures aren't all in the low;

There are rich men with scorn in their faces

    Whose homes are but castles of woe.

The homes that are happy are many,

    And numberless fathers are true;

And this is the standard, if any,

    By which we must judge what men do.

Wherever loved ones are awaiting

    The toiler to kiss and caress,

Though in Bradstreet's he hasn't a rating,

    He still is a splendid success.

If the dear ones who gather about him

    And know what he's striving to do

Have never a reason to doubt him,

    Is he less successful than you?

You think that the failures are many,

    You judge by men's profits in gold;

You judge by the rule of the penny--

    In this true success isn't told.

This falsely man's story is telling,

    For wealth often brings on distress,

But wherever love brightens a dwelling,

    There lives; rich or poor, a success.

-Edgar Guest, "Just Folks" 

Their virtues are never paraded,

    Their worth is not always in view,...

The homes that are happy are many,

    And numberless fathers are true;

But wherever love brightens a dwelling,

    There lives; rich or poor, a success.

I am going out to pluck rose for Daddy's grave off one of the bushes he and Momma planted when they moved here. This poem is in honor of him, but even more so for my daughter's father.

Giving thanks for fathers who earnestly seek to walk in the gargantuan footsteps of the Father of All. Blessed be His Name.

Written, the Days, When as Yet There Were None of Them

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back, 
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten.  I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.

"The Writer" - Richard Wilbur

My darlin daughter,Kelsey, is 19 today. I called and she, her Dad and a friend were out out a Waffle House having breakfast - one of her favs.  

 I thank my God in all my remembrance of you, always in every prayer with joy, ...And I am sure of this, that He who began a good work in you will bring it completion at the day of Jesus Christ.  ... And it is my prayer that your love may abound more and more with knowledge and all discernment, so that you may approve what is excellent, and so be pure and blameless for the the day of Christ, to the glory and praise of God.