I Say, Son.

VBS went great last week. I was stellar on the tech team. At one point during each opening presentation a foghorn was required. The first day we skipped over it. The second day a sixteen year old showed me how to retrieve the sound effect from the Internet, and the kids fell out laughing. Wednesday, I found a sound effect site and made the necessary arrangements. My finger poised for the one job the team felt I was capable of preforming - the cue came, I hit the button, and "I say. I say, son, it's Foghorn Leghorn here."

I blew it. But I say, son, it was a learning experience!

(No child was injured in the performance and process of this event.)

No Moss Growin On This Sissy

Last week a recluse, this week a volunteer. My yearly dose of Vacation Bible School taken every morning until GONE.

VBS isn't for sissies.
I agreed to work the sound board this year. This is high tech fun with three interactive DVD's. Now those of you who've read this blog know my aptitude for all things technical, and you might be thinking this wasn't a very kind and charitable thing to do to the young woman coordinating the program. You might even whisper, "She doesn't want them to ask her next year," but I figured, how much do little kids notice screw ups anyway? I'll let you know.
Here's a poem from my files...

A Rolling Stone

Unh, unh,

patches of mildew,
gray shadows on the north side,
moving like clouds up my leg.

Unh, unh,

bright green fuzzies
grow roots in wrinkle lines
along hands frozen by time.

Unh, unh,

sandbag levees,
acrid shrines to middle age,
brace against creative failure.

Unh, unh,

rolling stones once,
now inertia
at the bottom of an hour glass.

Recluse

Hermit Crab

I balance my shell, this borrowed security so easily plucked. Why do they poke and prod – curious enemies? Scurry. Tide’s out, time to clean house. Push out the sand, unload the baggage, move on – hurry to the next hole.

Safety shell I carry, a cool space with curved edges, lit with grace. This pen – my sanity – my self place, a broom to sweep away the sand and dirt. Mercy massages my tired thoughts, sooths my aches.

This shell, sometimes heavy, other times turned up – a buoy, I ride the waves. Uncertainties splash, and I retreat inside. My umbilical ink to the Spirit provides nutrients of inspiration.

The sand it irritates me, now. Cramped – my shell, it doesn’t seem to fit. I’ve grown and didn’t notice.  I must move on to something bigger. It’s scary to leave, but Faith insists. She lives in here with me. She cleans the corners of doubt. Mercy, too, crowds in. I must find a larger shell – my guests insist we move.

I grab my pen, closets full of stuff, we leave to find a larger view.

Truth in Packaging

Looking through a notebook, I found this piece I wrote in a class I took last year. The class was fun and stretched me. (I need another one.)

Reality of Grace

Mayhem – I love the T.V. commercial with that slick, quick-witted character, who preys on our fears. The commercial is funny, because it so characterizes our society’s thinking – you can’t trust people and disaster is right around the corner.

But I’m here to tell you, it’s not true.

The Open Door
Re-entry Center
Changing one life at a time

This past weekend I had the honor to work along-side over a hundred people from different faiths and backgrounds who came together and gave of themselves – their time, talents, and money to benefit those who are incarcerated and hoping to leave jail never to make the same mistakes.

The event was The Hogs and Dogs 3^rd Annual Benefit Ride, and the proceeds went to The Open Door prison ministry where I volunteer. Not a trendy or popular topic to benefit, the event was a success for one reason, the people. We are all children of this Earth and fall short of our designed purpose, but last weekend we worked for the common goal of ‘Restoring Hope’ to those who desire to change but need a helping hand. Watch-out, Mayhem, Faith is going to get ya.

Poetry of Grace

I'm still celebrating National Poetry Month. Some of the most beautiful and beloved poetry are the Psalms of the Bible. The Shepherd of Psalm 23 has lead and guided the reader down quiet paths, restoring souls for centuries, but the verses have come alive to me lately. "You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies."

I have volunteered myself into a job beyond my expertise. That is part of my nature, to 'barrel-in" as my mother would say. Years ago, I was told you know an idea is great and of God when it's scary. Knowing it's out of your control, you have to rely on Him to succeed.

Well, the table is set with a feast of blessings, and my enemies are heckling me all around. Fear is under the table, and she won't come out because it's dark. Self-righteous Indignation is on my right, banging her fork on the table. Perfection sits next to Jesus, her elbow defiantly on the table, starring with intense blue eyes, silently trying to egg him into a stare down. He just laughs. "Don't worry," he says to me, "Goodness and Mercy will be her soon, and we'll say grace." Thank God!

April - Poetry Month

April , if you have not been informed, is National Poetry Month. Only two weeks into this month and it has been full to overflowing, ALREADY. A few days ago, I planted our little garden patch, and I'm living on Ibuprophen. Hallalujah, Spring has Sprung (my back).

But it's a beautiful time of year, especially in Southwest Louisiana. Because of my many committments, I'm finding little time to ply my trade of writing, and I'm hungry. Poetry is what I need--verse compacted, a good measure, tamped down, spilling over and covering the junk that needs to be done. My good friend, Marsha Kushner reommended www.poets.org . I went this morning and had a fiest. Enjoy.

Poetry in Progress...,

My mind cloudy,
floating, white, puffy
mass of moist possibility.
Imagination molocules
rise through the formless void.

Linear thoughts
obstruct the view,
vaporized per chance to dream.
Awesome wonder decorates
my clouded mind.