Posts Tagged With: death

Blessed Be


Blessed be the bed sores
That make them notice
That I exist
And give me those fifteen minutes of humanity.

Blessed be the medication
that falls from my hand
to the cold tiles
Forcing them to touch me.

Blessed be the little children
who actually see me
Even if
they don’t understand. “What’s wrong with her, Mommy?”

Blessed be the well-wishers
who utter empty platitudes
and then leave
But don’t send them back, please.

Blessed be the dirty floors
and the janitor
and laughter
that echoes past the sound of the mop

Blessed be the flowers from who-knows-where
That sit by my table
and fill the room
with sunshine reflecting on tiles.

Blessed be my daughter
and forgive her
and my sons
They mean to come more often, I am sure.

Blessed be.

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Categories: Poetry | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

Kindled – 1


They said of him, “His light went out.”

No-one was supposed to ask where–like all things related to death, it was taboo.

Of course, taboos were made to be broken.

“Where did his light go, mommy?” The child’s voice pierced through all the low murmuring, bringing red to the cheeks of his mother as every eye turned inexorably in their direction.

“Well, Thomas,” she stuttered, trying to avoid making eye contact with the judgmental mourners, “we don’t talk about that, okay? We’re supposed to be being respectful and quiet. Can you be quiet?”

“But I want to know!” The childish pout and the sincere curiosity did nothing to soften the faux pas; the undertone of voices turned sharp, bitter.

“We don’t know!” she hissed finally, trying to deflect the glares. “It just did. Now be quiet!”

Though his voice was silenced, his mind continued working away at the problem. He never asked his mother the question again; the embarrassing incident at the wake fell to the back of her mind. Thomas went elsewhere to find the answers. Continue reading

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The I AM


Jesus is God.

If you are saying, “Well, duh,” hang with me.

Jesus was God. He lived on earth for thirty-odd years, and walked and talked and sang and laughed and cried. I’m sure at times he seemed very… ordinary.

But He was still God.

His disciples must have been very confused. He was so very man, and so very God. How is that even possible? (Answer: With God.)

And if His disciples were confused, everyone else must have been utterly baffled. On the one hand, this Man teaches things from God. On the other, He blasphemes and claims to be God.

The I AM statements were especially shocking.

In fact, every time I read one of them in Scripture, I imagine the ground shaking.

Matthew 16:15
He said to them, “But who do you say that I am?”

And the ground rumbles. And Peter replies, “You are the Christ, Son of the Living God.”

Matthew 22:32
‘I AM THE GOD OF ABRAHAM, AND THE GOD OF ISAAC, AND THE GOD OF JACOB’? He is not the God of the dead but of the living.”

And the ground shakes. And the crowds are astonished at His teaching.

Matthew 27:43
HE TRUSTS IN GOD; LET GOD RESCUE Him now, IF HE  DELIGHTS IN HIM; for He said, ‘I am the Son of God.’”

And the ground shakes in fury and sorrow. And men are oblivious.

Matthew 28:20
teaching them to observe all that I commanded you; and lo,  I am with you  always, even to  the end of the age.”

And the grounds dances, in eager expectation of the day when it will be remade to God’s glory.

But for now, all creation groans, and men wend their heedless way past the signs of the times and the marks of sorrow.

The all-powerful God of Creation opens his mouth, and shares Truth with men, and they heed it not, nor do they esteem it, because they have a paper due Thursday and their boss will fire them if they’re late again and they have to meet their friends at a coffeeshop and there is a sale at the mall and why can’t God just be content with the four hours they give Him every Sunday?

And God says, “I AM.” But it’s not convenient right now, so the revelation can wait.

And God says, “Be still.” But if they are still, then they might hear things that require a response, and they don’t have time to respond and they would just like God to answer their checklist with yeses and be on His way.

And God says, “Give me your burdens.” But they are MY burdens, and I can take care of them just fine because I am capable and confident and cool and I don’t need help.

And God says, “I love you.” But love is invasive, and love is uncomfortable, and I would rather just be acquaintances, God, because I don’t have time for drama and I don’t need it anyway so why don’t you go give your love to someone who needs it, like orphans in Haiti?

And God says, “Come.” But I need to do this one thing, and this other thing, and I’ll come when I have time, God. But I’m busy right now. Don’t you understand? I don’t have time.

And God says, “I AM.”

And the ground shakes, and the trees bow, and there is nowhere left to hide from the raging, relentless mercy and justice of the Living God.

Don’t wait too long. Don’t wait another second. The time is short, the time is now, and the Spirit and the Bride say, “Come.” And let the one who hears say, “Come.” And let the one who is thirsty come.

And bow before the only One who can truly say, “I AM.”

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The Old Guard


The bar was quiet, its patrons huddled in small clusters. At first glance it would appear… ordinary, at least for a small town bar.

It was not.

A second glance would reveal that the people within shared certain… characteristics… with those in their cluster. One group was comprised solely of bearded, tanned old men that were distinctly muscular and feral-looking. Another, more–aristrocratic, had slim fingered, pale, dark-haired, sickly young gentlemen.

Apparently.

The animosity in the bar was a palpable thing, silent but present, old and deepseated/

They sat in silence, as if waiting for the first person to make a move. The aristocrats started a game of poker.

The door opened.

The man who walked in was possessed of unearthly beauty. His teeth sparkled, his hair–gleamed, his pale skin glowed. The tension in the room rose several degrees. He strode over to the bar. After it became apparent that the barkeeper was ignoring him, he spoke up.

“What is there to drink?”

Glancing at the mirror, the barkeeper answered, “What do you want?”

One of the bearded men growled, then smiled ferally and said, “He’ll have what we’re having, Joe. On me.”

Joe glanced at him doubtfully, but said nothing. Reaching under the counter, he extracted a green bottle and glass.

“You want this whiskeyed down, boy?’

“What?”

Joe glanced at the man in the corner, and pulled out the whiskey. The entire bar watched, on edge, as the barkeeper poured equal amounts of whiskey and the brown sludge that came out of the bottle into a tumbler. He pushed it towards the newcomer and muttered, “I’ll be out back.”

He raised the cup and drained it–

“Aaargh! What was that?”

One of the cultured gentlemen rose from the poker table and stalked over. “It’s a drug. Did you think we wouldn’t recognize you, child? Did you think we wouldn’t care? Our brotherhood has lasted for millenia, only to be perverted by people like you.”

Hoarse laughter came from the hairy men. “We used to have a glorious rivalry, boy, but thanks to people like you, we’re nonexistent. Washed-up. Has-beens. It was a pleasure to help them with their problem.”

He glanced around, wildly, looking for a friendly face. He found none.

“But why do you hate me so much? What have I done to you?”

The gentleman raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know? We, those of us you see here, are the last of the true vampires. And they are the last werewolves. There is nothing beautiful, or kind, or sexy about us. Only cruelty and death. And we shall dispose of you.”

……

There is a country road. Few can find it. It leads to a city of death, for none who enter return. There wait the nightmares, the horrors of the human race, pure and unadulterated.

You thought you could change us, but you have only changed your perception.

What will you do when we escape?

Categories: Musings, Oh really?, The story | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Red


The car was red.

He remembered that much.

A little red station wagon, with a little girl in the backseat. She had ribbons in her hair.

The light was red, too. That meant something. Something… important. He couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember?!

Breath. One, two.

Pain. He could see red. Red car. Red light. Red blood.

Blood?

The little girl. Ribbons. The ribbons were white, right? Why did he remember red?

The call. He was a busy man. If he couldn’t multitask, nothing would ever get done. Lots of people use cells while driving. It’s not that dangerous. It was his wife. Red. Anger.

He was a busy man. He couldn’t drop everything for her. Other people needed him. Why couldn’t she see that?

The red station wagon. He was too fast. The little girl. The white ribbons. Why were they red?

Unbidden, the thought invaded his mind like a sickening miasma. Blood makes things red.

And she hit her head–

In a hospital room, a red light is flashing. A man sits on the bed, sobbing.

I killed the little girl.

Red roses at a funeral.

I KILLED HER.

And a woman grieves for her child.

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