Total Transformation
In time, a caterpillar becomes
The butterfly
To rise, float thru
Bluest skies
An infant becomes
A man
Meant to reach upward
For God’s hand
Both created by the
Same generous
Loving Father
Desiring, waiting
All nature again to gather
To Himself
Allow yourself to follow
That inner instinct
That interior pulling
That deepest urge
Toward this
Christ & Lord
It can be the Undoing
In your life, the total Purge
Of satan’s evil darkness
The Screen
The screen
That presence
So widely seen
In our homes
Offices,
Carried in
Our hands
Worldwide
In every land
Mobile
Or desktop
Laptop
Servers galore
In their memories
They can store
Anything
And they do
Spit out
Whatever gets
Put into them
By us
Coming thru
Our hands
The minds &
Hearts of man
That screen
That influence
I have seen
Thick or lean
Large or small
Speaks & calls
To us all
Thru the light
Of that flickering
Screen
Images of good
Images of bad
Calling our names
Playing their games
With everyone
Angels & demons
Portrayed in fantastical
Images
It’s really so sad
Because both do exist
In the midst
Of the lives of man
So be careful what
You allow
To be fed into
Your mind
Look for truth
Elsewhere
& learn
to wisely turn from that
Invasive Screen!
Curl up with a blanket and cup of hot chocolate to spend a cold day reading in your favorite chair. My firsts novel WHEN HEAVEN SIGHS is for sell on Amazon.com http://www.amazon.com/dp/0578663902
Read the first two (2) chapters for free below:
Chapter One
He stared at his bare feet on the hot, rough surface of the sidewalk. The skin on the top of each foot was stained a dark brown from the summer sun and the dirt of the streets. It was almost as brown as shoe leather would have been if he had been wearing any shoes. Still looking down, he could not miss the half-moons of black dirt encrusted underneath each chipped and brittle toenail and wondered how he could have let himself sink to such a low level. Feeling a pang of guilt, he was glad his mother could not see him. She would not recognize him, and if she had, she would have become hysterical over the sight of him in his current condition.
A slow, single drop of sweat rolled off his forehead and fell to become a wet blotch on the dry surface of the sidewalk. For what seemed longer than rationally possible, the liquid blob sat and sizzled on the blistering concrete as the heat boiled up in waves to hit his already overheated face. On this hot, dry August afternoon, walking along the sidewalks of downtown Nashville felt like walking through a hot oven.
I need to get medical help. If I can just get to the mission, but am I going the right way was all his confused mind could manage to spit out. He knew he needed to stop and ask for help with finding the downtown homeless shelter, but the last time he had stopped to ask for directions, it had almost cost him his life. That had been in the port of a foreign city.
He was still cognitive enough to realize the disease attacking his body contributed to his mental state, but since that dangerous encounter, his fear and paranoia had increased with each passing day. Now heart racing panic set in if a stranger on the sidewalk turned to glance at him for one split second longer than what he felt they should. He had covered his trail as well as he could but knew he was no professional in evading detection from the type of people that were looking for him and what he was carrying. His pursuers could not be too far behind.
Trying not to be overcome by the weakness and tremors caused by his fever, he leaned one hand against the hot brick of an old building. Taking two slow steps forward and bracing himself against its wall, he managed to move into the shadow afforded by the railroad overpass right above his head. He looked both ways down the four lanes of Eighth Avenue and recognized the tall red brick buildings of Cannery Row.
His mind slipped back to the last time he had been there. It had been for a concert inside its large Ballroom. Although it seemed like a lifetime ago, it had only been this past April. Since then, the upheaval and obliteration of his old life had been so total and complete that he knew he would never be able to reclaim the naïve innocent world he had once lived in and realized he had only himself to blame. He had been the one to set the wheels in motion that had resulted in his situation being what it was at this moment.
I’m going the wrong way. He wiped one dirty hand across his burning forehead. He shook his head, and shoulder-length, curly black hair swung around his face. A few strands stuck to one wet cheek. As another intense tremor took hold of his body, he lost control of himself and for a few minutes could only lean against the bricks until it had run its course. The chills and fever had been going on now for the last two days. The only warm places left on his body were the burning soles of his feet and the pulsating fire in his temples.
I must get help. Can’t let them find me and the papers before I get them to where they belong. I can’t give up. Everything depends on me getting the papers into the right hands. Just need to get to the mission. I can rest there. He patted the front of his chest. A small piece of paper rustled inside his shirt pocket.
He turned around to walk back the way he had come. Again, a chill shook his body, and the fever he had been waging war against finally won and sent him down head first into the hard gray of the concrete sidewalk. Lying face down, the last thing he saw were the tires of a car going down Eighth before the dark unconsciousness of the fever overwhelmed him. Like vultures circling a newly dead body, a few homeless men standing outside the nearby free medical clinic moved forward to pick at his still warm body to claim any prizes they thought might be left behind.
As the small group huddled over the still form of the young man on the hot concrete, pockets were searched, and the backpack he had been carrying was fought over until it was claimed by the winner of a small scuffle waged on the sidewalk. Without warning, a shrill voice interrupted their foraging.
“Get away from him. I’m calling the police!”
A brave, blue-jean clad young woman elbowed her way through the small group to bend over the motionless form of the young man lying in the hot afternoon sun. All of the men scattered unwilling to face an afternoon encounter with the Metro Police Department. Fumbling in her purse, she pulled out a cellphone and dialed 911.
“I’m on Eighth Avenue South. There’s a man down on the sidewalk. I’m not sure if he’s even still breathing. Please hurry. I don’t know how much longer he can hold on.”
Some of the men had backed away when the young girl first arrived but now moved a few inches closer to watch and make sure there would be no more treasures to retrieve off the body. The woman leaned over the young man until the sound of a siren assured her that help was on its way. Only one older man hesitated for a few minutes then slipped off by himself through the alley.
Red lights flashing, a Metro ambulance pulled up to her position on the sidewalk. A well-built young paramedic jumped out to take her place. She stood up and moved out of the way.
“What happened here?”
“I don’t know. I found him like this.”
“Have you touched him?”
“Only his shoulder.”
“Good. He looks contagious. Pete, bring the IV with you. He needs fluids. He’s burning up.”
A second paramedic brought the IV. The first turned their patient onto his back. A small trickle of blood started to ooze from his nose. He moaned and gave one small cough. After a second cough, the young man lifted his head, started gagging and then projectile vomited red bloody fluid over the paramedic’s chest and arms. Both ambulance workers backed away, but as a massive seizure took control of their young patient’s body, they placed him on a waiting gurney and heaved him through the back doors of the ambulance. The last thing the young man’s sidewalk savior saw of him was his still twitching feet before the door of the ambulance was slammed in her face. She stood watching the flashing red lights fade into the distance through the Saturday afternoon traffic.
Chapter Two
“Father Tom, I’m through typing the manuscript. I’m going to go on home.” The shrill voice of the woman carried with an echo over the young priest’s cellphone.
“All right, Margaret. I appreciate you staying over tonight to help me get these last pages ready for the publisher. I’ll have the extra check in your box tomorrow morning. Since it’s so late, can I walk you out to your car?”
“No thanks, Father. My husband’s waiting outside. He’ll follow me to my car.”
“Great. Thanks again for helping this procrastinator out.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. Your tea is ready in the kitchen. I thought you might want some before you left for the night.”
“Thanks for remembering. I don’t know what Father Robert and I would have done without you. I’ll help myself on my way out.”
“Good night. See you tomorrow in mass.”
“Good night. You and your husband be careful on the way home.”
The young priest tapped on the glowing screen of his cellphone and watched it turn black. He rubbed his aching forehead. I shouldn’t put this type of thing off until the last minute. I’ve got to get some sleep.
He stood up and walked over to a small mirror hanging beside the door. Glancing at himself, he realized the dark shadows of fatigue under his eyes would be very obvious to his audience during his Sunday morning mass and resisted the small pricks of the urge to stay and work for another hour. Perfectionism had always been one of his faults that had often impeded his ability to finish things, and the manuscript was complete just the way it was. So, passing his hand through his thick brown hair and jingling car keys in his pocket, he forced himself to step out of the room and close the squeaky, old oak door behind him.
He walked through the main body of the church and could not help but admire the statuary and artwork above the altar. I was blessed to have Saint Angela’s as my first assignment. I could not have started out at a better place.
He continued crossing the front of the large room and slowed down only to linger in front of the wooden figure of Christ on the cross in the small alcove to the side of the main sanctuary. This particular rendition seemed to him to be a cross between Picasso’s cubism and art deco styles with the large chevron shapes in the background behind the cross. The sharp angels in the wood made the Christ look abnormal, but he supposed after almost being beaten to death, his Savior’s abused body might have looked rather deformed. Still, he admired the contemporary style of the young artist.
St. Angela’s was built in the early 1920’s, but in September of 2006, a voracious fire had destroyed the front of the building. The regional diocese had approved a rebuild of the front structures in a more contemporary style of architecture. It was to match the growing influx of young families and millennials into the Belmont Avenue area and the remodeling of older homes with a more modern take on the neighborhood’s recreation.
As was the young priest’s custom, the result for him of standing before the crucified form of Christ on the cross was a deep sense of peace. Others in seminary had not had the same experience of the representation of Christ’s last hours on earth, but it had always sent shivers of awe and wonder down his spine. At times while praying before the figure, the presence of Christ in the room with him had been so real, it felt as if at any moment a hand would be placed upon his shoulder in comfort if he just concentrated and focused hard enough.
He stopped his late-night rambling and fell to both knees in front of the life-size wooden figure. After giving the sign of the cross, he bowed his head and began his prayer. However, this night’s late hour worship did not have its usual effect. The peaceful sense of being filled up or made complete did not come.
The further he got into his praise the stronger a sense of dread and anxiety started to fall around his shoulders. This was not normal for him. Taking a deep breath, he stopped and tried to start over. His sense of anxiety only intensified. A few beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. Was there another presence in the room besides just him and his Savior?
With his concentration now broken, he turned to look behind him. I really do need some sleep he thought. Again, he tried to start another prayer. This time his reverie was interrupted by what he thought was the sound of footsteps at the back of the sanctuary crossing from one side of the large room to the other. Was it his imagination or did he catch out of the corner of his eye the dark shadowy form of a man darting between the columns close to the Belmont Avenue entrance of the cathedral? That was not good. No one should be in here at this hour. The place was supposed to be locked up tighter than a drum. He rose from his kneeling position and turned to try and catch the culprit.
“Hello, hello. Who’s there? Is anyone there?”
Only a dead, empty silence answered the wavering echoes of his inquiry as his words bounced from one wall to another. Attempting to make as little noise as possible, he moved toward the front entrance and passed between each tall column seeing and hearing nothing and no one. Again, he thought I really do need sleep. I had better get out of here.
He rubbed at the fatigue in his eyes and shook his head to dispel the dark atmosphere that had enveloped him from the first second he had entered the open expanse of the sanctuary. Moving once again, the sound of each step he took on the cold marble floor trailed behind his progress across the large inner space. He could not help but keep looking back over his shoulder until he reached the safe confines of the smaller kitchen. He stopped and took a deep breath.
There exactly as Margaret had said it would be was his tea in an old insulated thermos sitting on the counter beside the stove. He reached up into the cupboard, pulled out his chipped coffee mug with the large black letters TOM and with hands shaking, poured a large dose of the steaming liquid. He gulped down the full cup and poured more into the empty hollow of the porcelain vessel then sank back into one of the wooden ladderback chairs to finish off a second cup. Now too tired to even try to keep his eyes open, he felt his body relax, almost going numb, and let his chin fall to his chest.
# # #
With a sudden jolt, Father Tom’s head snapped upward. The only sounds present were the scritch, scritch of the soft slippers on his feet grating on the heavy grey tiles of the cathedral’s roof. He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, blinking to try and clear his blurred vision. Where am I? Oh yes, he remembered now.
He shook his head and swayed trying to keep his balance on the sharp angles of the church’s dark roof. Yes, the voices had told him to go out tonight, to get up on the roof and show the world what a wonderful, saving God we all have. He is a god so full of wonder and ecstasy that He could make even a lowly young novice like himself be able to fly. He could fly high above the cares and everyday problems of this world to soar out into the unknown with nothing but Christ to hold him up.
Yes, Father, you can do this. Flying with Christ should be no problem for someone such as yourself. Remember, He loves and cares for you and will catch you if you fall. Take flight now Father and trust in God. From somewhere deep inside a very dark place, the insidious, sly voices spoke to him again. Fly, Father, fly!
The young priest spread out his arms and looked to the full moon hanging large and heavy in the dark summer sky over Nashville. The day had been unusually hot with no air moving at all. Dust and humidity had created a thick, yellow circle around the moon’s white, crusty edge.
Teetering on the crest of the roof, he stood trying to keep his balance as he breathed in the warm humid air covering everything like a sticky, moist blanket that could not be shaken off. Again, the soft sound of the slippers on his feet was the only noise to catch his attention. He looked down at his feet. Father Robert would have wanted him to go flying in his old house shoes. That would be a fitting tribute to the man himself. They were only worn, flat sandals, but the soft cotton kept the tiles from hurting his feet. His eyes traveled up his body and took in the white robe he had taken from his closet below. It would be only proper to go flying in the full vestments of his priestly office.
I just need to get to the front edge of the roof. That would be the best spot. He had managed to make his way to the front of the cathedral’s roof. The only thing separating him from success was the large concrete statue of the archangel Michael overlooking Belmont Avenue below. Keeping a delicate balance on the sharp angle of the roof, he leaned against the angel’s back and threw one arm around it as he manipulated his way around its edge. He inched his way around it cautiously, fingers clinging to whatever he could manage to find to grasp on its hard, curved surfaces. Sweating and with legs trembling from his efforts, the young priest stopped and leaned backward against the front of the angel’s chest. From here, he could still see the huge yellow moon suspended in the thick summer night’s air.
There is almost no traffic. It must be very late. Balancing himself with one hand on the angel’s large sword, he leaned closer to the front edge of the sanctuary’s roof to stare at the empty street below. Now would be his one perfect moment.
Yes, Father, yes. Now you can show your faith to the world. Fly, Father, fly the soft, dark voices inside his head whispered. Black snakes of deceit or trust – he could no longer tell the difference – they coiled and slithered through his mind entangled so tightly he knew he would never loosen their grip which was threatening his existence.
I must show my faith. Now is my one great opportunity. Father Tom let go of the safety of the angel and spread his arms outward lifting them upward toward the arch of the celestial spheres above still glowing with the city’s lights. Nashville would be no lackluster place tonight!
“Tonight, you will shine with more than man-made light. Tonight, you will shine with the glory of God.”
After speaking those few last words, he made one forward lunge and took his last step into the thin air lying just beyond the roof’s edge. With arms and legs flailing at the empty air for support, the last sounds Father Tom heard were the loud screech of a car’s brakes and a young woman’s scream as she witnessed his white robes fluttering down and smacking against the hard, black asphalt of the street below.
You See Me
(God)
You see me
I am known
In You I may
Grow
Become
More
Of What
You See
Me to be
A daughter
A son
With this thought
May I run
Be Still
Let you fill
My
Empty Hollows
Monday Prayer
Jesus,
You own
Your world
You made
It
Only You can
Save
It
And us
From ourselves
So please
Won’t You
Come dwell
Within us,
Me
So I may see
You,
Father,
Holy Spirit
As You really are
Come to know you
Better
Watch you as you
Scatter
Yourself and gifts
To us
I need you
Come walk
Around inside
my life
to end the
strife
between us
So it is not I
But you that
Lives in me
Thank you for
Showing me
Your way
So straight
As You fling
Open Heaven’s
Gates.
Praise You
Lord Jesus
Forgive me.
In your name
Amen
Still Walking
The world
Is dead
But up &
Still walking
Around
Working,
Playing
They sound
Alive
But. . .
Without Christ
God, their Father
Anyone like
That
Is dead
Already
In their heads,
Hearts,
Denying their
God
They just don’t know it.
So many living
Without Christ
So spiritually, totally
Dead
So Sad
But, with that said,
should we not warn
Them?
To keep them
from:
The outer darkness,
Weeping, wailing
Gnashing of teeth
Worms that never
Die
Fire that is never
Quenched
More than just
Once
These things
Are described
Prophets,
Christ Himself,
Not to be denied
Said out of love
For Us
It is our
Responsibility
To Warn
Not with a tongue
So glib
But with Loving Hearts
& Words
As Christ
Himself Did
Out of
His Great Love
For Us
He warned
As you would
Warn any child
Its hand to keep,
Avoid,
Not to seek
That deadly fire
& its
Unspeakable Pain.
Matt. 13:49 -50 This is how it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come and separate the wicked from the righteous and throw them into the blazing furnace where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Mark 9:47-49 And if your eye causes you to stumble, pluck it out. It is better for you to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into hell where,
the worms that eat them do not die
and the fire is not quenched
Everyone will be salted with fire.
Isaiah 66:24 And they will go out and look on the dead bodies of those who rebelled against me; the worms that eat them will not die, the fire that burns them will not be quenched, and they will be loathsome to all mankind.”
Exposure
So I will lay myself
Bare
I do not care
If they stare
If a glimpse into
My soul
Will bring them
Into your fold
then God, Let it be
If looking into
My heart
Will get them to
Start
Seeing you better
If it be ever so clever
Of
You to begin
then may You win
them on their journey
closer to your Son
bright, blazing glory
of your face
joy unbounded
found only
in the grounding
of each soul
in your great power
and self!
Startle Me
Startle me,
Wake me,
On a shelf
I’ve been
Too long
Now seems
The perfect time
For a newer song
So . . .
Wake me
Shake me
Do it again
King Jesus
As you did it then
On those dusty streets
Of old Jerusalem
Flow thru us
Live through us
Your power shining,
Exploding
As to your world
Your beauty
You’re showing
So, come
Lord Jesus
Come
Legions of angels
Behind you
To tromp,
Stomp
On this
Shallow dirt,
This clay
Quake the earth
As you did before
Awaken your church
Let it arise
At your bidding
As this dark war
Assuredly you will
Be winning
Let us not be afraid
To get our hands dirty
Comfort, convenience
Never wins the day
So do it,
Again
King Jesus
Do it Again
Awaken once
more our spirits
to call us your
Steadfast Soldiers
& Friends!