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Saturday, August 12, 2017


            Life at the Spice of Life Greeting Cards warehouse was anything but living for Bentley Wordsworthy.  Driving the same old forklift day after day, year after year, of what would soon be over two decades of spiceless boredom had eroded the mind, if not the soul of Bentley.  Bentley Wordsworthy, the dreamer who longed to be a coiner of phrases, even a bard of adages.  If only he could get recognition from just one of the Spice of Life Greeting Card Editors.

            But alas, Bentley Wordsworthy possessed no wordsmith flair.  Seldom is a kind way of saying never did Bentley Wordsworthy surpass the rudimentary roses are red, violets are blue level of poetic expression. And worse, Bentley was the untalented failure of the Wordsworthy family, which included over two centuries of poets, authors, editors and publishing house masters.  Indeed Bentley himself often sighed, "I'm the last and the dead end of the Wordsworthy clan.  That's me, just being all a failure can be."  Be...

            Until one faithful day...  the boredom bent mind of Bentley over indulged in an oft visited daydream.  High through the sky, Bentley Wordsworthy did fly, super hero of the greeting card world.  From his shoulders fluttered the cape of bard-dom and across his chest emanated the magnificent letter "A," standing for ADAGEMAN!! Actually the letter "A" should have been two letters, A.D., standing for ATTENTION DEFICITMAN.  Driving a forklift laden with crates full of greeting cards is no time to dream, let alone fly around a corner a tad too sharp.  From forklift seat ADAGEMAN stomped on the brake a bit too late.  The crates on the forklift remained stable, but the mile high stack the forklift bumped into shook violently. Bentley's hardhat fell off as he craned neck back to see the last rock of the teetering crate on top.  Bentley gasped, "Jesus, save me!!!"  Down plummeted that faith guided missile right between the safety glass wearing eyes of Bentley...

            "Is he dead?" asked foreman Fred.

            No one wanted to know more than Bentley.  So from the concrete floor, flat on his back, Bentley Wordsworthy  opened his mouth and instantly breathed out greeting card gold, "Life is like a box of chocolate armadillos: all slippery, scratchy and none too happy about being dipped in molten chocolate."

            Bentley wrote it down.  Bentley turned it in to the editors of Spice of Life Greeting Cards.  Bentley garnered a new gig.  A coiner of phrases he had become.  ADAGEMAN... MAN... MAN... AN... AN... N born!  Yet, died...

            For the Lord above had up-up-and away far greater heights for Bentley Wordsworthy to fly.  Not only did Bentley live to master the seemingly absurd and funny side of greeting cards, but there were sympathy cards, get well cards, birthday, wedding, friendship, Mothers Day, Fathers Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas cards to compose.  Indeed His favorite of all were scripturally inspired.  Cards like:  Better a hole in the sock; than a hole in the soul.  Cards like:  The flames of youth, the ashes of regret, the if only of what can never be... Jesus heals it all...

            Yes, ADAGEMAN had died, but Bentley Wordsworthy reigned alive and well as the bard of Spice of Life Greeting Cards.  He even authored a few novels.  But in the life of Bentley, the waters of success never flooded over the banks of humbletude.  "Don't be too proud;" Bentley would say, "the chocolate coating of riches does not a life make; for of faded wisps, once whirlwinds, the dust whispers without thirst." He more than often added, "The spice of life, the very essence of living:  Love the LORD continually; share his love with all; enjoy his every gift.  For who else can turn even a bump on the head into blessing."

            Oh, and in the chair of the bard, the new fantasy of Bentley twas a job well done, driving a forklift...

            (Mark 8:36; Isaiah 29:4) (James 1:17; Colossians 3:17) (Romans 10:13)





Saturday, August 5, 2017


            The squeals of children playing sang through the kitchen window of the old farm house.  Inside Grammy and Pawpaw sat at oaken table, listening, watching, drinking a not usual afternoon mug of coffee.

            "Thank the Lord for coffee," Grammy took another sip.

            "Yep," Pawpaw reflected. "Caffeine is about the only way to fend off our normal afternoon snooze. Sure could use a nap, but we need to keep tabs on those little rascals." He chuckled.  He and precious wife held hands cross that table, turned gaze from each others eyes to the children outside.

            At the edge of the yard, little Christin pointed past fence up the hill. "Flower," she tugged on older cousin Kirk's sleeve.  "Flower," she repeated.

            The good Kirk smiled.  Since her birth, Kirk had loved his little cousin.  Her whim had always been his command in deed.  He followed her finger pointing.  Saw what he thought was the most beautiful white flower on the hill between white picket fence and the cross of snow on the mountain beyond.

            "Flower," little Christin urged.

            Kirk hopped the white picket fence, raced up the hill...

            Pawpaw had just taken deep sip of too hot coffee.  He swallowed fast and hard, yelled out kitchen window, "Kirk, stop!!!"

            The flower possessed the eyes of Kirk, closed his ears by its pretty.  For the only sound Kirk heard was the whisper of white flower's beauty, "Pick me... for I am the jewel of all delights.  Pick me... little Christin awaits..."

            Kirk reached out to possess the possessor, grasped white flower's stem tight.  From his palm the pain screamed up his arm, tore through spine, seared brain, roared from throat...

            Pawpaw turned over chair, tore out the kitchen door.  With resolute purpose Grammy rose, went to the pantry, prayed, "The poultice most be prepared.  Please bless it and bless Kirk, dear Heavenly Father; I ask in Jesus precious name..."

            At the table Grammy sat stirring baking soda into honey with tad of water, as Pawpaw carried a whimpering Kirk through kitchen door.  A train of grandkids followed.  Pawpaw sat Kirk in chair next to Grammy.  Grammy waited for her husband to retrieve duct tape from lower cabinet.  She gently placed Kirk's hand palm up on the table.  As Pawpaw applied the duct tape to the wound, all six of the other grandchildren gathered round.  Little Christin held on tight to Kirk's arm.

            To the children Pawpaw explained, "The tape will pull out the poisonous hairs of the bull nettle."  Pawpaw peeled off the tape from the palm of Kirk's hand and out came the thin hair like spears of the bull nettle in the stick-um.  Grammy began applying the cool poultice of honey and baking soda.  With each dab the whimpering of Kirk subsided.

            "A lesson for us all," Pawpaw taught.  "Not all... that is beautiful... is harmless."  The ears of the children's hearts opened wide.  "Long, long ago in heaven above, a certain angel thought himself so beautiful that he sought to steal the throne of God.  For this, he and the angels on his side were cast out of heaven. Ever since he has seethed hate and trod the earth seeking to trap away any he can from our Heavenly Father. One of his favorite tricks is to disguise himself or one of his servants as attractive or good or moral. This evil prince of darkness even at times disguises himself as an angel of light, perhaps as a politician or false person of religion or false teacher, or even just one of us.  So do his servants also, as they have learned from him.  ...And such is through yon kitchen window, 'where the white flower grows,' but a hill of stinging bull nettle, that tries to separate those within the white picket fence from the cross of snow on the mountain beyond."

            All eyes of the children peered through kitchen window past white picket fence ...to where the white flower grows.  Scarcely had they noticed the exit of Pawpaw, till they saw him carrying the hoe up that hill...
                                                 2nd Corinthians 11:13-15

            Without our Heavenly Father we are like children without guidance, who play in the nettles that sting...                                                    
                                                     Allegory & Scripture


Sunday, July 30, 2017


            Nestled in ethereal mist twixt Texas hill country and Geezer Mesa lay the sleepy dwellings of Geezerville, Texas.  Geezerville, a town transitioning much like its geography.  Geezerville, on the very edge of the dessert an oasis of natural springs, a valley of water abundant, a plethora of flora and fauna, and this very evening, as most evenings, a town in motion, all be it, slow motion.  The heat of Texas day did dictate this daily ritual.  Not many of the towns elderly residents functioned well in hundred degree mid-day heat, but late evening, each late evening for years and decades and even over a century, as the sun drifted low behind lofty Geezer Mesa, the mesa from which the town got its name, in the fingers of the mighty mesa's cool shadow, life began to move.  Few of those movers were not elderly.  Geezers they were, with canes, with walkers, men and women slowly moving, shuffling along in a sidewalk waltz, transitioning to last tango in Geezerville.

            All crawled along splendidly well in Geezerville.  Well until the town's unwell and only pastor passed away.  A replacement had to be found.  So with non-denominational geezerdom prerequisite the town of many faiths, but only one church, sought and found their spiritual compass.  Or so they thought.  For this preacher, name of Rev. Bell Ringer, unexpectedly had change on the brain.  Change: only a good word to geezers when applied to contents of the pocket, not change on the sidewalk where one must actually bend over to pick it up, and especially not change of direction.

            Oh, there were groans and there were moans from the congregation when Pastor Bell Ringer preached; but certainly no open rebellion from folks just too tired to rebel.  Besides, most conceded, although a tad reluctantly, that yes, they did need to redirect their slow moving, their shuffling along, even that last tango.

            "No one!" Pastor Bell Ringer preached, "No one should shuffle off the edge of Geezer Mesa without Jesus.  In service to God and in service to one another spread the way, the truth and the life.  His name is Jesus.  With every last shuffle we got left in this dance called life, in joy shine forth the light and love our Savior."

            And that very Sunday morn, soaring oer the clearing mist, an eagle eye did see new life in the valley below.  Life blessed, life with purpose, even one time geezers sprouting wings to share the air above Geezer Mesa.

            From whence it came: Ecclesiastes Chapter 12; Isaiah 40:21-31; John 14:6                      

Thursday, July 20, 2017


Some will argue... there are no shortcuts to Forgotten...

            "The surgery will be canceled." Javan white knuckled steering wheel, pressed accelerator near floor.  As the dark road chariot of SUV sped down I-33, he lamented, "After fixing that flat tire, no matter how fast I drive, we are not getting to the hospital in time."

            "Sometimes," the slender neck of Svana DeGenade turned her eyes to face husband, "sometimes," she reached out, ran fingers thru his silver peppered hair, "sometimes, on the road... we meet more than expected."

            Even as worried as he was, even in the hurry of all his life, Javan calmed in what he had come to know as the 'Svana effect.' He let off accelerator a tad, reminisced, "I remember, remember not so long ago, our chance airplane seating, our first meeting.  There sat my Svana with skin like silk, the color of milk, and hair like eiderdown, pure as snow.  I had thought you an albino until that graceful neck of yours turned green emerald eyes to meet mine. Sometimes in the air we meet more than ever expected."

            "We shall see." Svana smiled. "Often does the way remind: before the shadow... shines the light."

            "Shortcut, Daddy." The wee voice of Epiphany DeGenade, Epi for short, spoke from dark leather rear seat. Wee and weak the voice came from one whose growth only grew more crooked her precious little body, til only wee and weak she could speak.

            "Yes," Javan grasped hope. "We can take Old Narrow Lane, the once main road to Forgotten lies near ahead."

            Soon Javan commanded the helm right, right on to Old Narrow Lane, passing under hanging moss of oak, passing over fallen down and faded sign: Road Closed.  Yet, on both sides of road beckoned the blue of forget-me-nots, wild flowers licked by inky swamp.  And lo that neglected lane forced Javan to go against his hie hurry grain, drive slow and punctuate with unsteady refrain, "Aptly named, this road, this Old Narrow Lane."

            And so on they drove, chasing from dry road perch more than one sliding gator, filthy claws ripping up by roots sad blue forget-me-nots, dragging flowers screaming neath dark waters swamp. Til before bayou bridge, the sign not fallen over read: Bridge Out.

            "Now what?" Javan bridged not frustration. "The road is way to narrow. I can not turn around."

            "Back up Daddy," Epi epiphanied again. "We won't be late.  We are right on time."

            Svana saw the tears well in Javan's eyes.  She placed hand upon his thigh, squeezed out assurance, "From the mouths of babes... remember what Jesus said."

            The Dad in Javan shifted gear to reverse.  He shifted in seat, turned head, saw so very far behind the sparkling sunlit reflections of vehicles as they passed by the head of the cross, where Old Narrow Lane met the outstretched arms of  I-33. He backed.  He backed up some more.  He backed up, but the intersection grew no closer.  He backed more, a whole lot more, then some more.  The further he backed, the further away I-33 seemed.  And yet, Javan backed the more.

            "Daddy," Epi labored to breathe..

            "Yes, sweetie," Javan answered.

            "Daddy be still; and know our Daddy," the wee weak voice of Epi whispered.

             Javan stopped SUV.

            On the shortcut to Forgotten, Javan was reminded to pray.  Daddy and Mommy reached into back seat, and held hands with precious daughter... And after prayer to Heavenly Father, asking in his son Jesus' precious name, Javan unbowed his head and beheld that Old Narrow Lane somehow seemed much broader now, even no longer a lane, but highway main.  He turned SUV around, soon passing under hanging moss of oak, passing over fallen down and faded sign at the head of the cross, where Old Narrow Lane joins the outstretched arms of I-33...

            ...The fallen lavender of crepe myrtles covered the concrete path from parking lot to the hospital.  Svana and Javan each held Epi hand... scarcely noticing that time right on time... scarcely noticing that healthy up and down of skipping between them, until child's strong voice road the wind of the near Forgotten... "I hope they got ice cream."

                                                ...Jeremiah 33:3...

Some will argue, there are no shortcuts to Forgotten... less there be flat tire...

Not every life story ends in Epi miracle, but for those who love Jesus... even when this life ends... glorious life in heaven begins... Unbound... in the out bound lane...

To understand this little story please read and be blessed by the totally awesome Bible readings: Psalm 46:10 with John 14:6 with Isaiah 35:8 then all Isaiah 35:1-10... Jesus loves you...

What's in a name: Svana DeGenade - Svana is Icelandic for Swan; De in French & Spanish means 'from' or  'of', and Genade is Dutch for Grace. (Proverbs 3:19-22 & 4:22)

Only one path exists for our short comings to be forgotten... to be forgiven... Jesus

                               ...Grace unto thy neck... Life unto thy soul...


Friday, July 7, 2017


                "A wacko a day keeps the shrink in pay," stealth in his mind sung the words to Dr. Adams audible hum.  He raised left eyebrow, flipped to blank second page of new patient history.  Why had the young woman, sitting before him, refused to fill out the form?  "What a way to start a New York Monday," escaped his lips.  He leaned a tad back in seat, flipped back to page one, stared at the one and only blank filled in.  "I see you listed your name as Apple, no middle name, no last name, jussst Apple."

                "Yes!!!" From toes to nose, Apple's whole body vibrated answer.

                "Are you a one name celebrity?" Dr. Adams did not smile.

                "Oh, no sir," Apple shook head. "Just the messenger," she nodded.

                Dr. Adams thought, "I'd like to shoot the messenger for not filling out this form!"  He could not just let it go, internally revenged, "This Apple got worms for brains."  He almost giggled past professional facade, but what he said was, "Messenger, in what way?"

                "Yes..." Apple's entire being danced in tune with the nod of her head, "yes, the messenger of dream, a reoccurring dream."

                "And in this dream?" Dr. Adams led, while mind inside sighed, "Not another dream!"

                "For three months now, in the dream I see myself sleeping, and in this sleep dreaming a dream... of insomnia.  I dream of rest... with no rest.  I dream of sleep... with no sleep.  I dream of you, Dr. Adams.  I dream of you, Dr. Alexsie from the Ukraine."

                As his diagnosis raced to obsessional delusion and probable schizophrenia, Dr. Adams brain screamed, "We should have checked her purse for sharp objects."  But his mouth carefully phrased, "And how do you know who I am and where I am from?"

                "By the dream within a dream of your insomnia, I see you in the Ukraine.  I see you as a child afore bed.  I see your Babushka rub her grandson's feet, sing sweet lullaby till he sleep.  And then I see your sleepless nights of now... how your thoughts have often been... if only I could... rewind the wind..."

                "But how did you know I changed my name, know of my insomnia... my Babushka?  Are you a psychic?" More than a tad of his inside shaking vibrated to the outside of Dr. Adams' skin.

                "No dark side here... only Jesus light... when you pray for answer... answer is God's delight..." Apple stretched arms, smiled sweet. "How many the times... have your times been... sleepless daydreams of often when..." As in the dream her arms drew to breast, cradled unseen child before her.  Her body rocked to old Ukraine Babushka lullaby... as Apple sang: "Dream O dream within the window.  Rock warm to sleep my little child.  Sleep O sleep little sparrow so mild.  Rest and grasp the snow without the window..." From cradled arms Apple raised her eyes to Adams...

                With tear in eye, the Doctor did reply, "And then, when she laid me down, when she tucked me in, my Babushka kissed my ear and whispered sweet breath so warm: 'All who rest... rest in Jesus...'"  And Dr. Adams relaxed for the first time in a very, very long time.

Find rest even unto your very soul... with Jesus... Matthew 11:28-30...

Saturday, June 17, 2017


                "Never fails," Kaffee mused, "always got to be at least one escapee in the bunch." Helplessly she watched errant olive roll across gray marbled counter top to edge, titter a tad, then plunge screaming toward red tile floor below. "AAAaaaahh!" Kaffee mocked, for no way could she save it from perilous plummet without spilling and scattering the tablespoon full of other olives in hand.

                "Just one of making dolmas little mishaps," Kaffee matter of facted as she dumped spoonful of olives into bowl next to knife and cutting board, the ill-fate of non escapee olives.  The Mediterranean skin tone of her arm and hand nearly matched that of the doomed olive, that she reached down to recapture; but orange claw and paw beat her to it, slapped tan green olive across red tile floor.

                "Duff, you silly cat, bring that olive back to me this instant!" Kaffee laughed.  As the olive rolled, Duff chased then swatted, belly scooted and slid, til round corner of kitchen island.

                "From cutting board to cat attack, that poor olive just can't win," Kaffee smirked.  Then as oft the habit, she tilted and turned her head, flicked long dark hair from bosom to back.  She returned attention to food prep plan. "Let's see, in the mixing bowl already added we have: sauteed ground lamb with herbs, boiled rice, dill, mint, pepper, sea salt, lemon, olive oil, and soon to be smidgeon or two of diced ripe olives."

                Kaffee sliced, she diced, she added olives, she stirred, sat down bowl to left of cutting board... "Let the dolma stuffin' begin." She smiled, set plate of palm sized grape leaves to the right of cutting board, selected top grape leaf, tested texture. "Parboiled to perfection, pliable but not too soft, just right to plop the mix onto and roll without tearing." And on the cutting board she laid leaf out, dolloped on the mixing bowl mix and rolled then tucked in the ends, rolled and tucked, rolled and tucked until... there a tight little package of gastronomical delight lay, the dolma. "One down, and only about a hundred or so to go." Kaffee sighed, placed first dolma in serving dish, a dish she would add layer after layer of dolmas to, brushing each layer with olive oil and lemon juice.

                And that night with dolma platter in hand, Kaffee did go to a mixer of the human kind, sponsored by lifelong protector and older sister, Alyx.  Alyx, who coaxed little sis, "Kaffee, stop hugging the snack table and find a manly arm to hug."

                "Oh, I've got plenty of time for that," Kaffee mildly protested. "The night is young," she added wisp of wist.

                "But..." under arm Alyx gathered Kaffee to side, "but some folks are entering that stale bread stage, just before turning moldy."

                "I am only thirty-two." Up and side-ways Kaffee's eyes mirrored into sister's.

                "Exactly!" Alyx nodded, then added, "Just sayin', you're not quite swimming up the rapids to spawn for the very last time, but those rocks and boulders are taking a toll..."

                "Get away from me!" Kaffee growled, "I am not a dying fish."

                "OK," Alyx pulled arm away. "Sorry, I ruffled your scales."

                "Ruffled my scales?" Kaffee burst out laughter in spite of hurt feelings.

                "That's the spirit, old girl.  Now swim out and find a fellow scaley man to share it with." Alyx fled before getting punched in the arm, a well remembered to avoid childhood Kaffee coping mechanism.

                Kaffee took deep breath, unclenched fist, let go ire mixed giggles, "That's my sis." She shrugged, lamented thought, "Not like I don't pray every night for a God fearing man to take my hand."

                Twas then that Kaffee activated yet another all too familiar coping mechanism... reached for food... clutched a pimento stuffed olive twixt index finger and thumb. "How long," Kaffee sighed, raised olive to eye level inches from nose, contemplated, "how long before my olive skin begins to sag, can no longer pushin-z-out zee baby?" She squished the olive just enough to make pimento baby pooch out before the whole olive squirted out of fingers onto table top and... "Roll baby roll," Kaffee accepted olive fate.  She watched it roll to table edge, titter a tad, then plunge screaming toward floor below, "AAAaaaahh!" Kaffee mocked.  Yet was it reflex or hope that her hand shot out to save olive from perilous babyless plight...

                ...No olive did Kaffee catch... but the hand of a man who rescued olive in the palm of his hand...  A gentle God fearing man, who said, "Night after night have I prayed to find you..."

                                                     Psalms 128:1-4


Thursday, June 8, 2017


                Forearm gainst kitchen door jamb, back of wrist to forehead, Kim yawned.  With  hand that cradled swollen tummy, she pulled over sized t-shirt up to her little pug nose, breathed deep. Her eyes closed.  His scent wafted warm.  She opened eyes.  "Well there he is the love of my life in the sunrise light."  She smiled, but shook her head.  "Every morning, every morning at that kitchen island," she sighed, "wearing another one of those kooky avocado t-shirts, cut-off jeans and that same frayed straw hat."  She paused, pulled out the front of  t-shirt from her bosom. Giant green avocado stared up at her.  She frowned.  "The man has got to be stopped!" She giggled.

                Oblivious to the plot hatching behind his back, Bob at kitchen island danced to Caribbean beat on the radio, while adding finishing touch to extra-early morning brunch.  "Simple, yet elegant, nothing like fresh avocado, lime, and..."

                ...Soft hands slid around his waist.  Bob looked down.  Something was boring hard under his right armpit.  It felt like a rib being taken.  Between arm and ribs, moppet haired head popped out. The attached nose crinkled, sniffed.  Her lips declared, "Why does lime, avocado, and fresh homemade tortilla chips haf-ta smell so good!"

                "Your craving, or baby's?"  Bob smiled.

                "Ooh, just one!"  Kim reached out, snagged chip.

                "Hey, you are eating my art!"  Bob complained.

                "It is pretty neat how you spiraled serving tray with chips, avocado and lime round poblano chiles."  Kim offered misdirection compliment, seized opportunity to snatch another tortilla chip.

                "You little sneak!"  Bob clamped her in head lock, kissed moppet head.

                Like a spotted owl twisting neck, Kim looked up at him, demanded, "On the lips, old man!"

                Bob bent over to comply.  Kim's warm breath caressed his face.  His lips brushed hers...

                ...Kim snitched hand full of chips, escaped, scampered out kitchen to balcony table.

                "You mischievous little twerp!  You wrecked the spiral!  It was gonna be my masterpiece on chirpagram."  Bob lamented, carried serving tray out to chip munching wife; sat down beside her.

                "Bob, Bob, your whimpering is not silent.  I can hear you."  Kim teased.  She bumped shoulder into his arm, added, "And since you are perturbed at me anyway, I might as well use this time to ask..."  Kim halted speech; knew, that like all typical men, Bob could not let unfinished business lie.

                Bob squeezed lime wedge over avocado slices and tortilla chips, combined the two.  In mid munch he mumbled,  "So, like what, Kim?"

                "Sweetie, you know I love you..."  Kim stopped again; hid half smirk with chip in hand; patted self on back with thought, "Mistress of manipulation, that's me."

                "...But?"  Bob bit.

                "But sweetie, we are about to bring a little Bob or Kimette into this over sized beach hut.  Should we not be a little more responsible?  Say, maybe consider giving up childlike fixation on all things avocado?  I mean, like are we going to dress our kid in avocado garb the rest of his or her life?  Come on!"  She tried to elbow a smile out of him... but Bob grew eerily silent, a tad too silent, tellingly silent, silence that screamed... "Bob!  You didn't!"  Kim whipped frayed straw hat from his head; frisbeed it from balcony into avocado garden below.  "You already bought avocado outfits for the baby, didn't cha, Bob?  How many, how many did you buy?"  Tears began to well in Kim's eyes.

                Bob hugged Kim close, rocked her in his arms, soothed, "Kimmie, let us never forget love is the best fertilizer for little avocados to grow in.  Us papa and momma avocados just gotta wrap 'em up in our branches, hide 'em from them beaky birds and marauding possums, until it's time for avocado pod to peel open and assimilate... Resistance is fruitless..."

                Kim burst into full blown fake sobbing... careened into belly laughter...

                Bob chuckled, observed, "Doctorette of male psychology meets match."

                "I have got to stop laughing before I pee myself!" Kim stifled chortle.

                The baby kicked...  Kim hugged her round tummy... Bob hugged Kim,,,

                Kim sighed, "Not just another avocado sunrise..."

                And looking east out over avocado garden and over the Caribbean waters beyond, Bob said, "Praise the LORD for three hearts beating as one..."

Genesis 2:22, "And the rib, which the LORD God had taken from man, He made into a woman, and brought her unto the man."






Sunday, May 28, 2017


            When Boudreaux wed Apasionada, dim' folk dun' had one-a-dim' paardees'.  Amid this fiesta-festival the marriage of zydeco and cumbia echoed through the Louisiana swamp.  To de' pound of de' music and de' stomp of de' feets: de' fishes leaped, de' bull frogs bellered, de' gators clapped der' jaws, even the heart of the bayou waters did beat.  Nine months later, little was the surprise, when one more excuse to celebrate arrived: the birth of brothers Pierre and Pedro.  And the brothers two, oh how they grew, all the while living la vida loco.  "No life without passion," they often proclaimed, "our undying motto."

            And from the passion of the two that grew flowed a love of food.  A love fulfilled in the twin's joint venture, The Chocolate Gator Grill, a cafe made famous by their signature entree: chocolate gator gumbo chili-mole'.  They cooked; they flourished; no way could folks get enough of that chocolate gator gumbo chili-mole'...

            Until one faithless day, national TV reporter/food critic, Creme Brule, into the blue bayou blew, to interview the chocolate toothed two.  And with mike in hand Creme gestured about the cafe to ice cream display, to rows of cake, to piles of de' pie, and with an eye for the eerie she did droolingly query, "All chocolate!  Everything, chocolate!  What's up with that?"

            With tear in the eye, Pierre did reply, "Ever since we was just little bitty babies down on the bayou, Ma Ma' Apasionada dun' us so guud'.  I remember like today, we watch de' Ma Ma' boil dat' water for our hot chocolate."          

            "Si," Pedro patted the shoulder of his choked up brother, "Ma Ma' pass last year.  But always before she go, she treat her boys a-alright.  In dat' boiling water, chunk after chunk of rich dark chocolate find home.  She add one ton cane sugar and boat load cream on top.  To us dat' hot chocolate mean no limit of love."

            No limit viral that interview got viewed.  Viral twas the love of the public for the two with no Ma Ma' and a legacy of chocolate.  Besides, the food was "A-alright," as Pierre often said, "beyond some-none-a-tall." Thus a new wave of rave swept the nation.  And on TV The Chocolate Gator Grill became the number one cooking show sensation.

            The intro to the show became cult classic: "Bonjour!" In sync the brothers chimed.  Then the twins introduced each other: "My brother right here with the hangy moss chin and head o' hair be Pierre.  And my brother right here with the hangy moss chin and head o' hair be Pedro."  In sync again, "And we brothers dun' be right here to chocolate you up!"  Could TV fare sink any lower...

            Well...  One faithless day two flat bottom boats down the bayou did float.  With camera crew in tow, reporter Creme Brule shadowed Pierre and Pedro into the swamp to reap the meaty ingredient for their chocolate gator gumbo chili-mole.  Pierre cast the baited tri-hook into dark waters...  Pierre retrieved the line, till no more it did went; then slowly pulled the boat toward the end of the line...  All stopped at that sunk tri-hook.  Pedro readied dat' bat for the gator's head to splat...  He peered over the side...  With one big swoosh the mother of all gators Pedro dun' took... Red boiled the blood of Pedro in bayou chocolate...

            After that moment tragic, and back on shore, "We should-a known some kind-a better!!!"  Pierre into the camera did squall.  "Too hot, too hot dat' dark water o' chocolate!  O' Ma Ma', what have you dun' dun' to you boys!  You should-a warn us!  Gotta be careful or de' food dun' eat you!!!"

            In the eye of camera, the bayou waters, that dark chocolate framed the figure of Creme Brule.  Into the mike Creme no words better than her tears did speak...  Till in mid weep Creme cried, cried out, "Obsession stinks!!"

                                              ...Boiling hot chocolate burns...

                                                       ...I guar-raun-tee...


            Jeremiah 17:9 KJ, "The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?"
            In a heart without Jesus, passion mutates to obsession. When passion becomes idol, obsession consumes.  So does in the pot on top of Ma Ma's stove, the hot chocolate grow; grow to the boiling chocolate waters of the whole bayou.  Chocolate makes a delicious drink, but if you drink it at boiling temp, you get burned.  Passion requires direction and limits.  Passion needs the correct temperature before it is drank. Who among us as a child has not burned the lips and tip of the tongue with too hot, hot chocolate.

                  ...Listen to the LORD, drink from the brook the living waters of Jesus...

                                  ...Drink not of the dark bayou of this world...                                                              

Monday, May 15, 2017


            Mr. I. B. Holder, born Ignatz Bertholemule Holder, Iggy, as his mother fondly called him, was for want of a better word, well let's just say it, not a handsome man.  Indeed, Iggy often said, "I'm just an ugly duckling with a no swan future."

            And yes, the face of Iggy was one, most did say only a mother could love.  Iggy's father had one day gone for a pack of cigarettes and vanished in smoke.  Iggy less often said, "The mirror image of his son, drove Dad to the other side of the mirror.  Wherever that is?"

            But Mrs. Holder loved him.  The best Mom could do was only exceeded by the more she did for Iggy.  "Thank you Lord, for a roof over our head and food to eat," twas familiar prayer at the Holder table.  But a roof over the head and food to eat left little for a school kids wardrobe.  Hand me downs and high water corduroy jeans became just one more excuse for classmates to clothe Iggy in the shame of ridicule.  "Ugly Iggy," they dubbed him, "the king of icky."

            The years passed by, and so had Mom.  But Mom had lived long enough to see Iggy start a tire repair service in an old feed store.  And as the town grew, so did Iggy's Tire Store from just repair to very successful sales also.  It seemed things had turned around for Iggy, especially since right before him stood a tire buyer, a new comer to town, one with blond flowing hair and skin so fair.  Molly she was and beautiful was her smile; for she liked the mild mannered and hard working man her 'eyes beheld.'  Sure he was six inches shorter than her, and kinda scrawny, and especially sweaty with all that hard work and all; but there was something about those big ears and buck teeth and silly bashful grin that just rocked her world.  Even at that very instant Molly fought the urge to hug him.  It would seem that ugly duckling destiny had found swan future.

            But lo, even alas, oh forsooth already, paradise interruptus:  a years of yore school bully walked through the door.  Four new tires he demanded, with yesterday his patience. But as clueless as the loud mouth was, even he picked up on the aroma of romance in Iggy's Tire Store.  "Well my oh my," he laughed, "Do my eyes deceive me?  Hot mama meets Ugly Iggy, the king of icky!  Can you imagine that?"

            Was it the disrespect to Molly? Was it the ridicule laughter?  Was it the life time of abandonment?  Was it the fact that this very bully was one in the same, who in school between each and every change of class room had wacked little Iggy's head with a textbook?  What ever it was... a tire tool found home in the right hand of Iggy.  And at high velocity that tire tool split air, halting only a fragment of an inch before the eye of the offensive beholder, who for a moment stood stiff, then stumbled backward, then fled out the door.

            Molly tried to comfort a trembling Iggy.  But he walked away into his office.  Molly followed, but the  door shut.  Molly heard the lock click.  Molly heard Iggy weep.  And Molly knew...

            The day was tomorrow.  The day was Sunday.  Iggy had found a pew.  And in Jesus name as Iggy prayed forgiveness for himself, his vanished dad, even the bully; the preacher said, "King David sang to the LORD in Psalm 17:8 & 15 KJ, 'Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings... As for me, I will behold thy face in righteousness: I shall be satisfied when I awake, with thy likeness." The preacher mused, "Who are righteous:  but the forgiven, who forgive.  How beautiful, the forgiven, are and shall be, in the eyes of The Great Beholder..."

            And with eyes still closed in prayer, Mr. I. B. Holder, Ugly Iggy the king of icky, felt next to him the pew cushion stir neath the weight of a swan; felt a soft hand take his; felt fair blond hair caress his cheek; beheld to his ear the touch of whispering lips, "You are beautiful to me."

                                            ...The LORD provides for the apple of his eye...

                                                           Psalm 34:15 & Luke 6:35-38

                              Please share:  "The Eye of the Beholder," with all you behold.



Saturday, April 29, 2017


            Cracked creek bed mud turned to dust neath rancher man's boot.  In that hell of drought, death lay all about.  Dehydrated skin stretched thin hid the dust of the dead within.  "In the outback, thirst knows no difference between cattle nor animal kin," said rancher man Slim.  And he wondered when 'the big dry' would ever end.  He was just about to pray again, when the corner of his eye caught movement.  Where had that movement been among the dead?  And there he saw it again.  The twitch of a tail.  From the pouch of a dead momma roo, the bent tail of a joey stirred life.  Without thought Slim pulled out that little bent tailed roo.  In his arms Slim saw the cause of it all; the bent tail told the tale; bore the canine marks of a dingo chew.  Slim said, "Bent like a boomerang, you poor little roo."  And as helpless as Slim was in the drought and all, he helped the helpless. Carried little bent tail roo back to the truck.  Put him in the seat.  And from his canteen, water little roo did sip.  

            And months came.  And months passed by in the one room home of Slim and roo.  Most nights Little Roo, as Slim called him, slept curled up in his bent tail on Slim's lap. Rocking away in that old homemade chair, Slim minded hardly at all.  For company in the outback, he had next to none at all.  Solitary life and no wife, such was Slim's life a boat in the desert, but his oars never gave up straining against the burning sand.  And as the 'the big dry' stirred dust, the heart of Slim stirred only closer to God above.  Many a night Little Roo listened to soft spoken Slim reading the Bible.  And Little Roo, although he understood not a word, still knew blessing, as he drifted off to hoppy land. 

            In the early morn and near sunset, Slim took care of barnyard chores.  There was Naomi to tend, the goat from who knows where, who had just shown up the week before Little Roo.  So as if part of God's plan, Slim had goats milk to milk.  Milk for Little Roo to be fed from the finger of a glove tied to the end of a bottle.  And there was Little Roo's rehabilitation.  Rehab mainly consisting of hopping away from Slim in a lopsided arc, due to the off balance of that bent tail, then hopping back in a curve.  And one such sunset evening Slim said, "The name Little Roo just will not do.  For you are a special bent tail roo, and though you hop away, you always return, not straight away, but in an arc like the boomerang do.  So do I dub thee, Boomerang Roo.  But just Roo for short will most times do."  And the newly dubbed Boomerang Roo stood  looking up to his adopted dad; tilted head from side to side; and by his new name he did abide.

            And late one night, Boomerang Roo in lap, the rocker slowed rocking. The voice of Slim in prayer grew tired.  The Bible slipped from his hands.  And Roo and Slim slept quiet... so quiet... they felt not the cool air roll slowly through their one room home.  Heard not the solitary ping on the tin roof above, followed in a moment by another, then another, till the rain fell spanking that tin to cry new born baby life.  Roo woke first.   In fear Roo leaped from lap bounding off furniture and round the walls.  Till Slim caught him or Roo caught Slim.  Round Slim's right leg Roo wrapped arms and legs and boomerang tail too.  Slim laughed and with Roo clinging on, shuffled up to and opened the porch door.  There the nose of Boomerang Roo krinkled, breathed in for the very first time... the smell of rain.  And standing in that porch door, Slim thanked the Lord, as the mist of living water washed over them.

            The sun rose.  With milk bucket in hand Slim made aim for the barn to visit Naomi the goat.  But something was missing, the shadow of Roo.  Slim just figured Roo didn't want mud on his paws.  For where had been dust now was mud galore.

             What possessed Roo to go out that morn on his own?  In a long arc Boomerang Roo hopped and he hopped and he hopped... over a hill.  And where Roo stopped, was where he stood.  Maybe it twas the gunning of the truck motor Roo heard, or maybe the spinning of mud slick tires; but for sure twas the will of One with higher power:  that Roo arrived at the very stuck truck of Ruth.  Ruth saw Roo, gave up the futile slinging of mud, and exited the truck.  And up to Ruth, Roo hopped.  Ruth stammered, "Wha-what a-a-a  cu-cu-cute little ra-ra-roo!"  To Ruth's surprise Roo tilted his head and, looking up at her, took her hand in paw.  Without thinking, Ruth was lead to the hill top, where down below she saw the house of Slim and the barn.  "Da-a-a-down hill fra-from here," to her new friend Ruth talked.

            And near the barn door, still holding Roo's paw, Ruth met Slim, carrying a pail of Naomi's milk.  "M-m-m-my na-na-name is Ruth!  I-I-I been la-la-lookin' fa-fa-for my ga-ga-ga-goa-goa-Naomi!!! She said.

            And Slim with smile sighed, "What few be about call me Slim, but my given name be Boaz."  He lifted up the pail of milk and added, "I might just know the whereabouts of that old goat."  And together Slim and Ruth and Roo walked hand in hand in paw; and entered the one room house called home...  Ruth never stuttered again...  And yes, the cows did come home, more than there were before...  And from hearts of dust a garden grew from rain anew...  And Slim praised the LORD!!!


            Isaiah 58:10-11 KJ, "And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noon day:  And the LORD shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy bones: and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not."

            Please share "The Tail of Boomerang Roo," with all who need a tail straitening.  For a infinitely more awesome and true story, please read in the Bible the book of Ruth.  Only cause we love you.