Wednesday, November 25, 2020


 I haven't penned many poems about the holiday season upon us. One of my favorites is called "Three Words". I offer it to you now as a gift of Thanksgivings. Gratitude for your friendship, your loyal following and reading my back porch musings. I hope you like "Three Words". You can get my latest collection of poetry at Barnes & Noble or on Amazon by clicking the links on top of the page.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Three Words

As precious as gold

Your bronze skin shimmers under the crystal lights

Too many nights I have longed

To again inhale your sweet bouquet

Where have you been?

The fragrant marrow flows past those

gathered to steal just one glance at you

I inhale deeply, igniting memories of our past.

You lay waiting

Your golden skin concealed beneath the alabaster blanket

Just as this night, I inhaled your toxins

I longed to feel your golden flesh

To taste your moistness

To hear those three words

Sung one more time

Where have you been?

I have waited too long

I spy the one who has brought you here tonight

He stands, speaking meaningless words

They have come for you

Not his pointless pondering

I have come for you

To hear those three words

Sung one more time


I see what the others cannot

I know your skin trembles in anticipation

Two united once again

The crystal lights dance,

reflected in the cold steel

He holds in his calloused hand

With lightning speed, the razor-sharp edge comes down

Slicing through your beauty

I see the amber fluids flow

And then they come

Just three words…

"Pass the gravy"


Wednesday, November 11, 2020



 Download your copy of "The Voiceless Quill" today.

The Voiceless Quill


woke

day one

you woke

everything you thought you were before you closed your eyes and inhaled the dreams of your twisted line,

is discovered to be a lie

a falsehood, trickery, fabrication

disappearing behind a cloak of aberration

crawling on hands stuck to scarred wrists

pilfering life from dumpsters of deception

avoiding the glares of incandescent veneer

snubbing red streaked orbs within the mirror


Monday, November 9, 2020



The Voiceless Quill

 From "The Voiceless Quill" now available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble-


Her

May I tell you about her?

Someone will need to remember

My memories are dying quicker than I

May I tell you about her?

Please, before they are gone

She wasn’t supposed to be first

She was to care for me

The first-time I saw her, I loved her

Her hair was the color of the sun

Her eyes as blue as crystals at the bottom of the sea

Her laughter was a symphony composed by angels

Her skin was the silk of gods

Her face...


I can’t remember her face

It hurts in my heart

I don’t want to cry tonight

But if I cry tomorrow

I won’t remember why


May I tell you about her?

When her pain came

She would take my hand, leaning close

Whispering fantasies

I could taste her lips

She kissed away my sorrows

Whispering words of…


I can’t remember


Who is that?

Can you tell me about her?

The one in the photo

Resting upon my nightstand

Do you know her?


Her hair is the eye of heaven

Alabaster skin I long to touch

Her smile is sad

She is beautiful

Please, Will you...tell me about her

Before I’m gone


Monday, October 12, 2020

Yes Virginia, there is privilege

Earlier today, I read a post on social media from a man who identified himself as a nurse. An E.R. nurse. An emergency room nightingale. A noble profession indeed. In his post, perhaps better described as a rant, the nurse whined about the treatment our President received while in the hospital after testing positive for the Virus. The nurse complained about everything from the treatment the President received, to the cost of treatments, to the lack of available treatment for others. He ended his post by writing, “That, my friends, is privilege.” I assume he was referring to the President’s treatment and not everything else he belly-ached about.

Well, this E.R. nurse is correct. The President of the United States, the most power office on the face of the earth, held by Donald J. Trump, received treatment in a manner that can only be described as privileged. As he should.

He received this benefit in the same way the E.R. Nurse obtained the privilege to add to his title, the words E.R. Nurse, or R.N if so earned. Or in the manner a Doctor of Medicine can carry the tittle of M.D, or Ph.D. Lawyers display the title Esq., accountants, C.P.A., engineers, P.E. Each of these are privileges bestowed upon individuals. A father who is granted the privilege to walk his daughter down the aisle. A soldier wearing an insignia of rank, or medals upon chest, a police officer wearing a badge, a football team hoisting the Lombardi Trophy, are all privileges that stem from determination, hard work, blood, sweat, tears and immeasurable sacrifice. 

Privilege is not given or earned because of the color of your skin, your gender, who you were born to, or where you were born. Don’t be shocked, but you had nothing do with any of these. If you consider yourself as privileged because you have a silver spoon in your mouth, you have lily white skin, or a set of testicles between your legs, you are wrong. You are not privileged… you are ignorant.

You are just as ignorant when you think someone else’s privilege stems from genetics.

The President has privileges you or I do not have. Call it White (house) Privilege if you must color it. This privilege comes at a great cost. It is deserving of the office and of the occupant. The ranting E.R. Nurse has another set of privileges that I or even the President do not have. They too, came at a cost.

It is time to wake up and realize we are not all the same. There are those that are better than you, smarter than you, stronger than you, or have more money than you. If you want what they have, go earn it! Dry your pitiful tears and silence your annoying moans, nobody is listening. We are out discovering the means to our own privilege.

I would think an educated person like a nurse would understand, privilege exists.

I would be negligent when speaking of privilege if I omitted the greatest privilege of all. A privilege that does not require your blood or sweat. It does not require your sacrifice. These were all accomplished for you by someone else hanging on a cross on a hill called Calvary. The privilege I speak of is to be called a Child of God. I could not earn this title, couldn’t buy it, steal it, or forge it. It is the privilege given by God when He chose me. Even as His own son, Jesus Christ was dying.

He chose you too. Have you met Him?

Thank your for listening. It has been my privilege.

God Bless


Thursday, September 17, 2020

My Bucket List


 September 17, 2020-


I have shared this story every year for a decade now. Each year I re-read it and maybe make an adjustment or two. In this most unusual year, adding to a Bucket List anything beyond the obvious of survival or the extinction of paper masks would seem frivolous. So, I offer, for your reading enjoyment, the rudimentary Bucket List.

My Bucket List

I turned 63 years old today. I had a thought early this morning, what if this is my last birthday? What if 63 is all I have?

Throughout the day I pondered over my Bucket List. There wasn’t much pondering, you see I have never had a Bucket List. So, the task, ten years past on my 53rd birthday, was to create my Bucket List.
I scratched my head and put teeth marks in the proverbial pencil as I mused over what would be number one on my list. Minutes then hours passed with nothing rising to the surface. So, I changed strategies, I thought about the things that I have already accomplished or have been blessed with, things that may have been on a Bucket List if I hadn’t already experienced them.  

Family always comes first to mind. I was born into the most incredible family 63 years ago. I still see them every week, we still talk and hug, and we laugh and cry together. We grow old together.

I have lived in the Great Northwest, the South Pacific, the east coast and the great state of Texas. I have fished for rainbows in the Russian River and went snorkeling along the Coral Reef.

I have left my footprints in the sand of Hawaii’s North Shore and boot prints in the frozen snow of Alaska’s North Pole.

I had hair past my shoulders and was called a Hippie.

I have served my country and been called a U.S. Marine.

I went to school with Mark Twain and Thomas Edison and tasted college for a short while. I have read Tolstoy, Dickens, Stephen King and the Bible.

I have eaten at the Ritz Carlton and Taco Bell, both on the same day.

I have had money in the bank and I have sold Coke bottles to scrape up enough to buy a pack of smokes.

I have had cancer, chemo and misery.

I have had remission, recurrence and rejoice that I am still alive.

I have been high and I have been low, so low that all I could see was the bottom.

I have run marathons and I have crawled across the cold floor on hands and knees, unable to stand because of pain.

I have gone from a 34 waist to a 38 waist and back to a 34 waist. (it is okay to applaud here)

My favorite teams have won the Super Bowl, the Stanley Cup and the World Series. I have watched a perfect game and caught a foul ball.

I have listened to Vivaldi, Miles Davis and ZZ Top, all in the same afternoon.

I have tasted Opus One in Napa Valley and drank a Lone Star beer with Willie Nelson and Mickey Gilley while sitting in the Recovery Room.

I have seen every episode of Seinfeld at least three times.

I’ve published a novel, a short story and have tucked away in the back of my imagination the Great American Novel.

I have fallen in love and out of love.

I have made love on a beach and on a mountain top.

I have had two wives, two ex-wives and six children. (Maximized the limit on both!)

I was with four of my children when they took their first breath.

I was with my father when he took his last.

I have done everything I want to do... almost. At the end of the day my Bucket List only had one thing written on it… you.

I figure if you are reading these words then you and I have at least met somewhere along the way. And I don’t know if I have ever told you the story about Jesus. You see, He is the reason I made it to 63. I know without Him I wouldn’t be here today.

So, on my Bucket List I wrote just one thing,

Today, tell someone about Jesus.

I think that someone is you, so here goes-

God loves you and me so much; He has since the very beginning of time. God knows everything from the beginning to the end; everything, every day and everybody by name. He knows your name.

God knew that we would never love Him as He loves us. He knew until we loved Him as he loves us we would be separated forever and ever. But we can't love like that because...because we are hooked on sin.

So, God sent His son down from the heavens, down to earth. We called Him Jesus, teacher, King and Messiah...

and then we killed Him.

And when He died, He took all your sins and all my sins. And from a wooden cross on Calvary, He paid the cost in full. He paid the price of our admission to an eternity with God. He did it for you and me. He unhooked us!

And then, incredibly, He told us, all you must do is believe, He has done the rest. It is finished.

If you were the only one in the entire world, He would have done it all for you.

Do you believe?

Thanks for listening. Thanks for helping me finish my Bucket List.

Wednesday, September 9, 2020

Woke


 day one

you woke 

everything you thought you were,

before you closed your eyes and inhaled the dreams of your twisted line,

is discovered to be a lie

a falsehood, trickery, fabrication

disappearing behind a cloak of aberration

crawling on hands stuck to scarred wrists

pilfering life from dumpsters of deception

avoiding the glares of incandescent veneer

snubbing red streaked orbs within the mirror


you woke

purity of thoughts

not meant to be shifted, changed, sliced, diced, redefined, realigned 

altered by a syringe of soiled crystalline

caressing an ignorant conscious 

boasting to change God’s perfect design


you woke

celestial spirits scraping scales from your denying eyes

looking down to discover god created you

to look up


day one

you woke

sober


Wednesday, August 5, 2020

A Day When...



Sevenscore and ten days
(that would be one-hundred and fifty, Gen-Xers)
sitting behind blackout curtains veiled from the Summer’s sun and paper masked people exhaling too loudly
Counting and recounting the coins in my old fat wine jar
Sanitizing nickels, dimes, quarters, and the pennies too (so many pennies)
Just in case, you know
Eating ramen and miniature weenies floating in fruity beans
Drinking milk three, now four, days beyond the good date
On special nights, an onion sandwich (on a single slice of bread for one must act sparingly, miserly if you prefer, and drink lumpy milk when one is counting copper coins)
Fruity beans, onions, and curdled milk
No one to offend but myself sitting behind blackout curtains
With only the metallic Alexa to listen to my moans
Alexa, should I worry?
Her answer never comes (she is capricious at times) into the dark and lonely room where I sit waiting for the day when they flatten the fattening curve when red numbers turn to black numbers… 
A day when I pull away the blackout curtains and open the door
Standing on my porch, inhaling without a mask hiding my smile
A day when I sit beneath the Friday Night Lights listening to helmet on helmet, brass horns and beating drums, cheerleaders cheering meaningless words
A day when Autumn coaxes colorful leaves to fly away to the
hustle and bustle of the holiday season as I stand on overcrowded peopley escalators, up and down, inhaling the aroma of too expensive perfumes and salty pretzels without an expiration date
A day when…
Alexa, should I hope
for the world I remember?

Tuesday, July 21, 2020

I Can't Do This



I can’t do this today

Peering through dirty windows at citizens hiding

behind shells made of unconvincing paper

Masking unspoken fears, unshaven faces, and unrealized hope

As I sip on day old coffee 


Listening to church bells ring meaningless summons

And politicians compete to weave the biggest lie

As the forgotten ones stand in lines separated by social space

To acquire food with borrowed money on borrowed time

From vendors looted the night before

Under the glow of burning cars, burning buildings, burning life

Streets filled with hate for brothers and sisters whose skin is

Darker, whiter, different

I can’t do this again

Sitting hour after hour

Watching, waiting


Alone

Behind broken memories

Wondering where you are

Everywhere I look

You are not there

I can’t do this 


Tuesday, July 14, 2020

They Called Him Teacher

                                                                             
They Call Him Teacher

The Word became flesh—

He could have been anything
A mighty warrior upon a great white stallion
A stalwart silhouette against the morning sun
A king adorned in fine purple robes 
With red rubies mounted on a crown of gold
Poised at the head of a boundless table carved in oak
Overflowing with delicacies from foreign lands
A rich man with Solomon’s treasure underfoot…

Rabbi
They beckon him
A name of honor
They sit upon the hills to hear his words
They crowd the streets to breathe his wisdom 
They touch his robe
They call him Teacher

She could have been anything
She sits upon an injured chair
behind the pinewood desk
Cold coffee and stale pastry scattered to and fro
Her dress dusted in chalk
Ill-matched shoes bite her feet
She came before the sun touched the sky
She will stay long after the children are gone
She could have been…
They call her Teacher

Tuesday, June 30, 2020

One Question, God



    
                                                            One Question, God

Sunday morning comes, I open your book and read

Standing before believers, teaching your words

Giving answers to their questions, silently praying I understand

Week after week, year after year, I praise you, lifting up your Name

Realization is real, you are my reason, I am your servant

Truth is Truth

 

The night comes,

I bow my head

One question, God

Grant me an answer, please

Before my eyes close

Why do you watch a mother cry?

Her son forever remembered

Faded photographs, empty spaces, agonizing remembrances

A son forever gone

His mother cries tonight

 

You are God, it didn’t have to be

You created mountains without end

Rivers to feed the seas

The night and the day

The moon and the stars

The beginning and the end

 It didn’t have to be

Youthful years stolen by the Reaper’s breath

A son gasps

A heart stops

A mother cries

A heart breaks

You watch

Why, God?


Grant me one answer before the morning calls

Would your world have been incomplete

Without her tears?

I wonder, God

Do you hear her tears?

Do you feel her pain?

My anger burns without your answer

 

Morning comes

A son dies

On a cross

To dry a mother’s tears


Monday, June 15, 2020

You Don't Matter

This Matters


“We hold these truths to be true… all men are created equal…”
The word “created,” implies belief in a Creator. Believe it or not. 

“that they are endowed by the Creator with certain unalienable rights…”
There He is, “Creator…

“that are among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

I believe this. Every single word and thought penned by Thomas Jefferson in the wake of the greatest protest in America’s history. You and I were created by God. It is God, not man, who grants us unalienable rights. The right to life and liberty. The right to pursue dreams. The right to voice our opinions boldly or with meekness. The right to choose.

To choose what? Our gender? The life or death of an unborn child? Who will be our lovers? Our mate?

For three decades I have believed in Christ as my Savior. My Creator. I read the Bible and believe His word. I believe that being a Christian meant I could not consider as unalienable rights the choice to change who and what God created. Man is man. Woman is woman. Male and female. Husband and wife. Mother and father. Life begins at conception. No one, not man nor woman, have the right to abort what God created.

I was comfortable with my beliefs. Even when they made someone else uncomfortable.

God has His ways of working on and in His creation.

A year ago, He placed upon my heart a verse from the book of Galatians, the third chapter, twenty-eighth verse—
"There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ.”

Hours upon hours, I studied this verse, and the passages preceding and following. Searching for meaning and application in our lives — my life — today. Was the Apostle saying what Jefferson would pen eighteen hundred years later? All men are created equal, by God. All lives matter.

Today, I still struggle understanding choices made antithetical to my beliefs. I think it may be easier for me to understand God than it is to understand man. But like another fisherman, one named Peter, I truly understand God shows no partiality. Do not take my revelation as an endorsement of behaviors I disagree with. Some people enjoy ketchup on their burgers, I believe it is the waste of a fine tomato. But I understand and respect your choices; made while standing or kneeling.

If God does not show partiality, then why do we? At the core of partiality, we will often find hatred nestled in the darkness. Hatred because someone’s choice does not agree with ours. Hatred for someone elected because he or she did not earn our vote. Hatred because of the uniform someone wears, donning it each morning before going into our streets to protect us. To serve us. Hating because they do not believe in the same God as you do. Hating because of the color of their skin. Hatred that drives the scum of the world into our neighborhoods to destroy and wreak havoc in the name of equality. 

Dear Haters,
Listen carefully,
Hatred is your choice. It is not something you were born with. You cannot blame it on your parents, your wherewithal, the color of your skin, or your sorry, pitiful life. It is a conscience choice you make. An unalienable right. But know this—when you exercise your right to hate, you surrender all your other rights. Your right to opinion is drowned out by the screams of your hatred. Your right to assemble is made meaningless by your venom and destructive behavior. Your right to freedom will be squelched by slamming of a jail cell.

Your right to matter?

You do not matter.

Respectfully,
Jim Hirtle 



Tuesday, June 2, 2020

I Can't Breathe


I Can’t Breathe

 I close my eyes

Images go by

Colorless-

White on black- black on white

I bow my head to pray

The images linger, stealing my words, muting my God thoughts

Monochrome Black White

One Color?

One kneels to kill

One prays to breathe

One laughs One dies

Beyond my eyes, chaotic silence

Dreary eddies overflow

Images Mister Leary would covet

Ten thousand shadows march over broken asphalt

Holding his name high, seeking justice for the oppressed one

Tears fall from faceless minions

 

Beyond my eyes, chaotic stillness

Darkness unfolds

Colorless fire and ebony clouds fill the night

Cities burn

Shattered glass flashes hues of black and white

Faceless faces scream

Stores looted Pockets filled

No one cries

They have forgotten why they came

Forsaking his memory for a new TV

 

I close my eyes

I can’t breathe


Sunday, May 31, 2020

I am Alone





I am Alone

 In the beginning, it was not too bad

Stay at home

Do not travel out

If you must stray, mask your identity

Distance yourself socially, seventy-two inches

An arbitrary amount

No visitors allowed

Lock your doors

My silver hair reveals my risk

Essentially, I am not needed

I am alone

It was not too bad, in the beginning

Hidden in my favorite chair with a bottomless mug at my side

My fingers flash across the keyboard

Dreaming the Great American Novel

Sans endless interruptions

Straying from favored chair to over-stuffed sofa

I binge watch romantic comedies,

(Tell no one, I plea)

and apocalyptic sagas

 Until now becomes tomorrow

Potato chip dust covers my shirt

Being alone, pants are optional

Alexa serenades me with golden oldies

As I eat breakfast for supper

Meat without veggies

Chocolate morsels topping every meal

Two glasses of brandy

Shame on me

It is not too bad 

Being alone

Days grow into weeks

Sunday or Monday

Who really knows?

My novel untouched, glares accusingly at the vacant chair

In my remoteness, I have misplaced the remote

No images

No sounds

Alexa left me too

My cupboard is bare

I wander out, donned in anonymity

Seventy-two inches has never looked so far

No meat

Heaps of veggies

If I must

I return Home

Carrying my bag, wearing my disguise

Shuffle, shuffle

Day seventy-two

Alone begot Loneliness

Painless labor

It was not too bad

Before


Monday, May 25, 2020

The Stone Carver




The Stone Carver

Rested upon their backs
A burden of memories
They traverse a river of tears
Seeking his skilled hands
To memorialize the fallen one
He is the Stone Carver

Silently, the artisan listens
As their story unfolds
 laced in anguish
For the one now forever gone
Taken from them in a distant land
Draped by an emerald jungle
Rugged mountains
Or blankets of sand
Fighting for freedom 
A sacrifice too young

The carver bids them farewell
As their story ends
Sitting at his workbench
His artistry begins 

Calloused hands touch a canvas
Of white granite stone
Hammer and chisel carving each letter
Declaring the name of a hero unknown


Droplets of sweat and forlorn tears
 mingle with dust
Recalling the names
Of the ones carved over the years

Never has he seen their faces
Or heard their call
Chiseled into his heart
The reason they fall

Toiling beneath a yellow light
Sounds of silence fill the night
As the name of a hero is given life
Eternally ascribed on a field of white

He is the Stone Carver

Sunday, May 10, 2020

As a Running River





As a River Runs

 

A babe cries in the night

Lumbering through weary eyes

She comes whispering lullabies

Cradled in loving arms, he suckles her comfort

Hushing twilight’s call

 

As a river runs,

 the years pass by

Standing side by side, holding his small hand

Before entwined shadows

A mountain of bricks loom

Overflowing with colorful quills,

picture books, 

new-found friends, and hopeful promises

He lets go

A mother cries

 

As a river runs, 

the years pass by

Scraped knees

Blackened eyes

Busted elbows

Broken hearts

She will mend each one

With a mother’s care

 

As a river runs,

 the years pass by

A babe cries his first breath

A new name

Grandma

She shows her son how to hold his

 

As a river runs,

 the years pass by

Chocolate chips

Peppermint candies

Cake for breakfast

Secret words

She delivers each one

With a grandmother’s care

 

As a river runs,

 the years pass by

A fractured family stands hand in hand

A gilded casket filled with memories

A drape of sorrowful flowers

Wet with morning mist

A babe cries


Friday, May 8, 2020

A Red Dress Night


 Excerpt from my latest collection of short stories-"Guinevere’s Lovers"

“He will kill you.” She whispers. The ancient stone walls hide her words, capturing her rapid breath sounds, and I pray, concealing my pounding heart. Through a narrow cleft, I can see him pacing — pacing endlessly.  Across the great chamber, the King’s guardians, in contradiction to his incessant wandering, stand motionless, one stationed on each side of the veranda’s entryway. There are no suggestions that her words have revealed our hiding place.
Her trembling hand falls upon my shoulder. Looking to her, I can only detect the contours of her face; the darkness of the small antechamber so thick it presses against her skin. She speaks again. Fearing he will hear this time, I place my fingers upon her lips, shaking my head. Struggling to restrain my quavering hand but failing to do so, I quickly retreat. She must not share my fear, although he will cause her no harm. This despot of nature, who has murdered so many, melts in her presence like a hoary waxed candle. Patient! I pray she hears my thoughts. He will soon depart. Battlegrounds beckon his royal presence.
From the King’s chamber, a disturbance pierces my heart! Soldiers have burst into the room; their cumbrous armor clanging loudly with each stride, resounding from wall to wall. Medraut addresses the King, his hurried words muffled by my hidden sanctuary. In the antechamber, our breathing has become one — we wait. Moments later, the King, flanked by the soldiers and my brother, at last set off.
“You must go now,” I whisper, still fearing detection. “He will bring you no harm. You are his wife.”
“And you are his son,” she speaks as if no other could hear, “he will kill you.”
“I would lie beneath the dark soil of Camlann before he shares his bed with you again.” Taking her in my arms, I kiss her lips. Her bouquet fills my mind with remembrances of our beginning. A time before the King… before my father knew her beauty. I long for her to be mine.  “You must go now before he returns.”
“What did Medraut tell him?” she asks, her face pressed against my chest. “Do they prepare for battle without you?”
“It matters not to him. My brother’s desire for the throne is no secret. He will entice the King to ride into battle, ignoring my father’s infirmities. We need you, my King, he will boast. But Medraut knows I will not allow such danger to fall upon my father. In my absence he plans the death of the King. I swear on my life, I will stop him.” 
“You love your father,” she whispers. “and yet you would die to keep him from me?”
“I would die to keep any man from you, dear Guinevere. My father’s kingdom is in peril, but to see him die at the hands of my brother...”
“It shall never be.” She searches for my eyes, hidden by the darkness. “It is you who must go now. You must stop Medraut. Halt his evil plans. I will never love your father, but I cannot see his kingdom fall.” She stands, “He is old and nearing his natural death. I will wait for the day that you, my true love, sits upon England’s throne.” Placing her hand upon my cheek, “Go, find Lancelot. He will help you. You must kill Medraut.”

You can find this and other books by J Hirtle at https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B005RQ45S0



 

Sunday, April 19, 2020

Pandemic Musing

Two poems is wrote in the midst of COVID19. I pray you are all doing well.



Social Spacing
Don’t touch
your face
your friend
Purify your
all
You can’t buy that
today or
tomorrow
Stay out of the
bars
restaurants
church
schools
restraints
Turn off
cable news
talking heads
scary shit
your
feelings
Shut your
doors
your eyes
and pray then pray again

No problem
I tell
me
I can do this
Except…

Social
Spacing
Six feet
Too far

I want to inhale your essence
To touch you
To hold you 
close
To feel your weary heartbeat

Before
it stops

------------------
the eyes of a nation

Above the fields of barren white
sparkling orbs appear
Searching for comfort
in the hidden shadows
of a dark pandemic

Beneath the sterile masks
silence lingers
Strange surroundings
mute our prayers
Where are the pews
the crosses
the holy men

Behind your clandestine disguise
Arid lips sculpt a frown
How long will it linger?
Before I see your
Smile

the eyes of a nation
wait

Saturday, March 14, 2020

Testing Faith

The author of Hebrews wrote, “not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as is the manner of some, but exhorting one another, and so much the more as you see the Day approaching”. There is much to explore in this biblical principal, but I am not writing this morning as a Bible teacher but as a churchgoer whose heart is troubled by the events of the day.
The Corona virus has momentarily changed the way we live. The way we assemble. How we come together as neighbors, friends and family, has been changed because of the unknown. This morning, I learned the far-reaching tentacles of this virus is a respecter of none. The senior pastor of my church, Trinity Baptist Church, went to social media to announce changes in worship schedules because of the threat the virus carries. Some services and ministries were cancelled for the week. Pastor encouraged us to live stream services on Sunday morning instead of assembling in God’s house to worship.
Bible study classes are cancelled.
My heart is broken.

I understand precautions are required when disorder is tainted by fear. But every Sunday for so many years, I listened for words that encourage our faith in God, spoken from the pulpit of Trinity Baptist Church. Words about trusting that He is sovereign and loving and everywhere! I believe God's words written throughout scripture that command us to trust Him, to love Him, and to worship Him. I believe His words when he said do not forsake the assembling of ourselves…for when we do, we move our trust from Him to trust in man.

Today we are experiencing is a testing of our faith.

I believe God’s got this! The moment I stop believing is the moment I run away from Him. I believe He hears my prayers. I prayed, as I am certain many of you have, God would be among us as we battle this virus. My words of prayer are wasted if I don’t believe the One hearing them is faithful in His promises.
I am not suggesting you or I be careless in our behavior. The science has shown that most are at very low risk. Those who are at higher levels of risk should take every precaution to avoid exposure. But the choice should be ours.
Life will go on. So should our worship of God. The doors to our churches should be open. Our voices should be lifted to God, our hands raised to the heavens. Our faith can, if we allow it to, withstand every test.
Trust Him.
See you Sunday.

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