Daniel

    I felt confident that I had escaped this week's Bible study of the very familiar first two chapters of Daniel without writing a poem, but then this happened. It is kind of like a Daniel sandwich, but that would be a worse title than just plain Daniel.

Daniel--

Raised among a people whose

faithlessness led to their fall.

 

Separated from all familiar

his home, family, even his name.

 

Destined for duty to the king

who conquered and killed his people.

 

Praised his seemingly defeated God

for revealing a despot's dream.

 

Served Babylon lifelong as Belteshazzar,

but served the Lord he loved as--

 

Daniel 

 

                    9/28/25 

 

One Last Look

    Sometimes I don't feel like I am writing a poem, it is more like I'm coming down with one, as if it was a cold. Like I'm starting to have symptoms and realize I am just going to have to let this thing run its course. Such was my last poem about the Valley of Dry Bones. I really had better things to do and the bare bones of it (pun disclaimer) came pretty easily, but then I wound up wasting hours reworking the words. This one, however, flowed out slowly, naturally, with little interference from the author.

 One Last Look 

I think I have figured out why

on what I have come to call

the sun sandwiches of autumn--

cool mornings and evenings

with a thick layer of sunshine in between--

the reason I sit stupefied, still

like a lizard in the sun.

It is because I am afraid

that any movement will disrupt

the perfection of the day.

  

There is little perfection in this world.

Days like this will soon give way 

to wind, rain, and later, snow.

But sometimes God entices us

at certain sunrises, sunsets, 

and sunny autumn afternoons,

with a postcard from Paradise past,

 a glimpse of Heaven to come. 

And only a fool would leave perfection

before taking one last look--at Home.

 

9/23/25 

The Valley of Dry Bones

     Last year's BSF study was on Revelation and I found myself writing poems to help me make sense of the symbols and prophecies I find hard to understand. The same thing seems to be happening in this year's study of People of the Promise: Exile and Return. Part of this week's lesson is on Ezekiel in the valley of dry bones and I am wrapping my thoughts in poetry once again. It is probably fitting because Old Testament prophecy is written in Hebrew poetry. I don't know how mine stacks up to theirs, but I think it rates higher than the "Dem Bones" song I remember hearing on the Lawrence Welk Show when I was a child.

 The Valley of Dry Bones

I saw the valley where he stood

Ezekiel, the man of God,

speaking with commanding tones

into the valley of dry bones--

dry and brittle, lifeless bones.

 

But then a rattling noise began,

bidden by the Son of man,

bone with bone together bound

then flesh and skin the bones surround--

whole, but lifeless, on the ground.

 

And then he spoke a new command,

breath filled them until they could stand.

An army, who'll possess the land

God gave their fathers long before--

Israel exists once more.

 

If ever I should doubt God can

keep His promises to man--

 the Jews now live in their homeland.

Israel has at last come home

out of the valley of dry bones.

 

9/21/25 

 

The Reason for the Hope

 

Thursday 9/11/25  Travel log (supplemental)  Ooh, I love the Trekkie sound of that. We are in Helena to give our scholarship posters and presentation to Tracy’s college. 

  (Charlie Kirk was assassinated yesterday. Although I did not follow him on social media, he was a believer and compelling apologist for conservatism. The savagery that has become part of our culture saddens me.)

Friday 9/12/25     

    Reed and I gave our presentation at Helena College today. There were 20 some students in attendance, two of which were women. They set up a podium and display table in the hangar. The only hitch was they had to shut the hangar door when a plane came nearby during Reed’s speech and drowned him out. Reed gave them good information for a career in aviation. I talked about Tracy. After I shared about his bonding the class with Hawaiian shirt Fridays, followed by fez Fridays, I found out the traditions had continued, but no one knew how they started. The machinist class wears Hawaiian shirts on Thursdays, because they don't meet on Friday. And I saw fezes in random places around the hangar and classrooms. I explained the reason why, of the ways we could have chosen to honor his memory, we set up a scholarship. Besides sharing about what God did for us on the road to Rimrock in my speech, I was also able to share about forgiving the dealer and several other things about the Lord before and after we spoke. My You Version verse for today is 1 Pet. 3:15 Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. I got to do that today.

  (Charlie Kirks’ killer was arrested today after being recognized by family and confessing to his father, a veteran law enforcement officer. Since his father held him securely, there was no danger to his son or law enforcement during the arrest. Some of the people celebrating Kirk's death on social media are surprised to discover they have lost their jobs. (When people don’t realize it is wrong to celebrate the murder of someone they disagree with, our country is a very frightening place to be.)

    But I have not lost hope-- My recent Facebook post:

It is pointless to say violence is not the answer while promoting fear and hatred of those who disagree with you is accepted speech in our culture. Murder is the fruit that grows from the seed of hate. 

Always. 

   I have found the assassination of Charlie Kirk to be especially discouraging because, by all appearances, evil has won. But then I remembered, there has never been a time when God was unable to use some evil act of man to work toward his own good purpose. 

Always. 

 

   I pray that those who listened to his words will turn to his Lord. 

Night Skies

     Our neighborhood grew greatly in the Covid migration. Houses were purchased sight unseen and every available lot was built on. Instead of twenty houses on our street, we now have fifty. Many of the buyers were Californians. But the ones I have met are the good kind, they wanted to escape the lunacy of Liberal Land. So when Covid forced many people to work from home, some of them like our neighbors, asked themselves, Why am I living in southern California, which I hate, when I can work from home and live wherever I want? They did not come to Montana to change our lifestyle. They came to embrace it.

    Unfortunately, one big city idea followed them here--leaving bright porch lights on day and night prevents crime. Maybe it does, but the house they bought sat empty for six years with only one dim light on near the front door, and it was never broken into or vandalized. Since our end of the cul-de-sac does not even have street lights, the new neighbors' nonstop night light nuisance, has dramatically changed our view of the night skies. This is my lament about that. 

Night Skies 

Our neighbors from across the street

are among the nicest you could meet.

The problem is, when they moved in

our star filled nights came to an end. 

 

Those from bigger cities might

think danger flees if porch is bright,

but safety pales when it denies

the gleam of stars in inky skies.

 

I miss the beauty of the night

before the glare of their porch light.

They won't be safer, should they soon 

have lighting that outshines the moon.

 

Our home was safe enough before

without a beacon at our door, 

so too was theirs before they came.

And night skies have not been the same. 

 

 

The Beauty of Blooming

    I have always been terrible with plants, in the plant kingdom I am known as Connie Kevorkian. This summer has been particularly bad, or good from the perspective of the plants. The hardy snake plant I bought to replace the ones I had already killed in the tool-themed memorial planter we received for Tracy's funeral, refused to either sink roots or die, so I replaced it with an artificial snake plant that is thriving at least as well as its predecessor. That leaves two planters in my house and only one live plant. 

    Even on the summers when I do not buy hanging baskets for the front deck, I usually get a good sized planter for the wishing well decoration in our yard. I don't want neighbors to refer to our house as the one with no flowers. But this summer, either through the well's wish or my own, I could not bring myself to buy a basket that I was unwilling to either water or sacrifice. I sometimes wonder what that reveals about my state of mind, but it does not matter because the wishing well now, and for summers to come, will contain artificial flowers.

    Recently I looked out my front window and noticed these little red flowers growing in last year's wishing well basket, all on their own despite, or because of, no intervention from me. I've got to admire the chutzpah of a plant that keeps on blooming, rain or shine, neglected and alone. It gives me hope on my dry days of sorrow, that I should keep blooming regardless of conditions. Because I am still alive. Because it is what God intends for us to do. The beauty of blooming is not that it can be cultivated, it is that it cannot be constrained.

 

A Mother Unmet

    My brother-in-law's mom died last night following a broken hip and a brief decline. I met Ruth and Harry at my sister's wedding and off an on through the years when they were still able to come to Kalispell. I wouldn't claim I knew Ruth well, but better than my own mother anyway.

  A Mother Unmet

Despite my mother's death 12 years ago,

I really have no idea 

what it feels like to lose a mom.

I was sad, but for all of us.

For what mental illness did

to her life, and to ours.

For the family we never got to be.

And, if she is not in heaven,

besides what that means for her sake,

I will never know her at all.

 

I feel both guilt and relief

that I no longer have to stop 

at her dementia facility

on my way out of Missoula.

Or struggle to say something

she might be able to relate to.

Or try to interpret her words,

slurred by tardive dyskenisia.

See her shaky hands or her spine growing 

more twisted, much like her mind. 

 

I send sympathy cards to the grieving.

With most of the losses

I can relate and understand--

except for those who lose a mom.

For that, I mostly think of

standing at a lonely graveside

with nothing to say,

not even goodbye.

Though I loved her as best I could,

we never really met.

 

9/2/25