Psalm 23 and Me

     One of the many references in this week's Bible study was Psalm 23. Though it is very familiar, and a great work of poetry as it is, this time I found myself making it personal to my own life and testimony. Another attack of poetry through my Revelation study. I was brought up in a works based religion, though that is true of all religions except Biblical Christianity, mine was Mormonism. But then I got exposed to God's word at a youth group Bible study. Though I did not know at the time that it was the Spirit's enabling, when the Bible conflicted with what I had been taught in my church, I was inclined to believe the Bible. Then my friend Donna died when we were both 15, and I needed to know for certain if what I was learning was true. Death no longer touched only old people, it had taken Donna, it could come for me. But the Good Shepherd does not go home without his lost sheep, so in spite of the odds, and my own reluctance, He made me His own. This poem is my testimony of salvation against the backdrop of Psalm 23.

Psalm 23 and Me

 

Even in the years before you found me

(and I was not looking for you, 

I wanted to be my own shepherd)

even in those lost lamb times,

you provided all that I needed--

food, drink, rest and safety.

It wasn't until you found me

that I even knew I needed

refreshment for my soul,

guidance to the right path,

a cause and a name

worth living for--Yours.

 

But when I lost a friend my age

to the valley of death,

 suddenly I was afraid.

I needed to know what

was on the other end of that path,

I knew I could not face it alone.

 

When you chose me as your lamb,

you not only comforted me,

you made my soul beautiful.

It did not matter what the other kids

thought of me because your love

filled me, poured over me.

From that time on

your goodness and love 

have been with me wherever I go.

And will be with me 

for the rest of my life,

until I come to live with you--

forever.

2/2/25

 

 

If You Have Ever

      A friend asked if I had any funny experiences at church that could be shared as part of a Who Dun It game at a ladies activity today. Nothing came to mind immediately, then I remembered funny usually equates to embarrassing. I have had more than my share of those.

 If you have ever had these experiences:

• Choked on the juice when it went down the wrong pipe during communion.
  
• Ditto at your baptism when water went up your nose.
• Walked to the front of the church for a family wedding in a dress that was tied in the back, but not zipped.
• Been asked to pray for the requests, having already forgotten the names of most of the people who gave them.
• Introduced an acquaintance of many years by the name of someone you haven't seen since high school.
• Received a lovely, complimentary note signed by someone in a group you have attended for a year, and still have no idea who to thank.
• Plunged through singing a duet where you are on different keys and neither of you knows what to do about it.
• Forced yourself to eat a horrible dessert at a church potluck because the person who made it is sitting across from you.
• Attended a memorial where the relatives brought their cat and dog to the casket to bid farewell to the deceased.
• When singing the words, "Who has given counsel to the Lord?", your husband has turned to you and said, You have!"

 

Then you might be like the person who dun these. This list is just the top 10, of course, and there are many more in the non church related category, many of which are scattered throughout this blog.

For Lee's Shower

         I wrote this short poem for the card I made for Lee's baby shower. The shower was January 19, now I can post it.

For Lee's Shower

Who knows what you'll

grow up to be,

my newborn grandson,

little Lee.

 

But if you learn 

to be a man who

knows the Lord,

and helps His lambs,

 

then that will be 

enough for me.

 

With love, from Grandma

In a Pig's Ear

    I have never understood the expression in a pig's eye, which means, I don't believe what was said. Pigs' eyes do not seem particularly skeptical to me. The expression is similar to horsefeathers which, come to think of it, I do not understand either, but I don't want to get bogged down in a study of phraseology. In a pig's eye turns out to be a polite euphemism for something that would normally be found in a pig's rear. Before changing it to eye, the original term both was, and rhymes with, crass. Speaking of rhyming, a pig's rear rhymes with my title for this blog. 

   The reason this all fits so seamlessly together is that I am writing about giving our dogs, as a special treat, dried pig's ears. We had to go to the farm store that Saturday anyway and pig's ears were on sale, 3 for the price of 2. After consuming those, while we were sleeping, the dogs gave us, as a special surprise, something normally found in a dog's rear. Our older dog was gracious enough to leave her surprise in the garage, in a mostly solid form. (The garage restroom is a bad habit that began when an inept dog sitter left the dogs alone in the house 14+ hours at a time.) The new dog left his tummy troubles in our bedroom in a form so pungent it woke me up at 2:20 a.m. Sunday morning. A quick look by the light of my cell phone revealed cleanup was going to be a two man, two hour job. On a positive note or, to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, borrowing our daughter's razoo carpet cleaner the next day inspired us to shampoo most of the main floor carpets, which was overdue anyway.

    When it comes to doggie diarrhea location is everything, so Mykah remained free on her own recognizance, while Kase got to spend the remainder of that night in his kennel. Having enough objective, and objectionable, evidence that our dogs cannot digest dried pig ears, we will discard ear number three. And should we ever want to try the experiment again, it will happen when pigs can fly.

The Battleground

      I have been part of a weekly prayer group for prodigals for many years and we have had some outstanding answers to prayer. There are times, even on those weeks we meet by text instead of in person, when I can sense a battle raging. We may look like a group of ordinary moms and grandmas, but at those times, we are warriors. Our loved ones' souls are at risk and, like most moms, we are willing to fight, even give our lives, for our children. But in spiritual warfare, we give our lives in different ways. We add our faith when theirs has faltered, share hope with one another, and our petitions with God. On our knees spiritually, if not literally, we enter the battleground of prayer.  

 

                 The Battleground                       

 

There is an unseen world.

An unseen world where a battle is raging. 

Where a battle is raging and we are fighting.

A battle is raging and we are fighting in prayer.

Prayer, for all its peace and beauty, is a weapon.

For all its peace and beauty, it's a weapon and a shield.

Prayer links our shields together.

Links shields together around the fallen.

While the unseen fight fiercely in their realm,

we pray fervently in ours,

and the proud fall, and the fallen rise,

where the battle call is the sound of prayer.

 

                        1/22/25

The Woman, the Dragon, the Child

    The title sounds creative and it is, but credit the apostle John, he wrote the book, not me. We were studying Revelation 12 in BSF this week and as I started to answer a question about the contents of the chapter, I noticed it laid out in a form very much like poetry. I am always looking for an easy A on an assignment, so I presented my answer about the content as this poem. The symbolism seems fairly obvious to me, but there are, as with many things in Revelation, several views.

The Woman, the Dragon, the Child

A woman, about to give birth.

A dragon, who swept his stars to earth.

A child, destined to rule, ascended.

A dragon's plan to devour, upended.

A refuge keeps the woman safe.

Her offspring feel the dragon's rage.

But he shall feel the Lamb's!

"Colonbo"

   If you were alive and not stoned in the 70's, you might remember a series called "Columbo." The main character was a disheveled detective who was continually underestimated by mensa level murderers who believed they had hidden all traces of their guilt, only to be convicted when he found some overlooked clue that would never actually hold up in court. One of the fun parts of Columbo's quirkiness was that, after a seemingly innocuous interview with the suspect, he would start to leave and say, "Just one more thing sir/maam," then follow up with a question that let the murderer know he was onto them. That, and his grungy overcoat, were clever gimmicks on the show. It is not as much fun in real life.

    I should know, but in my case it is "Colonbo." Just as I am snuggling in for a night of sleep, my colon announces, "Just one more thing maam", followed by a, usually unnecessary, trip to the bathroom. I have always been a light sleeper but, in later years I have become a light-as-a-feather sleeper. Everything in the little universe of my bedroom must be just right--just the right amount of dark/light, heat/cool, quiet/white noise, pillow squishy/firmness, etc. I might sleep better if I did not wear the same worn, wrinkled outfit to bed every night, but I have no choice--I am not talking about my nightgown. My melatonin not only diminished as I aged, it left behind a sleep diva. 

   This not only happens while trying to fall asleep, but trying to stay asleep. If I wake up during the night for any reason--arthritic shoulder hurting, cat searching for better real estate on the bed, an ant outside coughing--my colon thinks it is time for just one more thing. I know it is only pranking me, but if I ignore it, I may never get back to sleep. So I wake up several times a night to appease a large intestine with a warped sense of humor. My twisted bowel puts a whole new spin on the story of the Princess and the Pea, Colonbo is disrupting my dreams to play Ding Dong Ditch.

(Actually, the problem is a little more sciency than that. The nerves that send the signal for a bowel movement run through the still inflamed sacral area of my spine. Conscious Connie's body can tell it is a back problem. Sleeping Connie's body cannot.)