Until There is Not

When it dawned upon me that our Heavenly Father had done something rather clever, I just had to let out a chuckle, which I consider to be absolutely amazing (in and of itself).  For I was still on a table in the emergency room of one of our hospital complexes at the time, and it had been taking all of the strength I had left to keep from letting out the blood-curdling scream that had been steadily building in intensity in my throat for several hours beforehand.

You see, the last thing that I had published online was my [The Mag] entry for this week, and it was the very last line ot it that our Heavenly Father quoted to me.

There is Always Time

Jerry E. Beuterbaugh

There is always time

To be born

To be born-again

To start a new life

To start a new career

To turn the page

To turn the corner

To start a new chapter

To laugh

To love

To be happy

To be healthy

To dream big dreams

To accomplish great goals

To reach for the stars

To chase after the sun

To romp in tall grasses

To wrestle squirrels for nuts

To ride fast horses

To drive faster cars

To sail mighty oceans

To climb high mountains

To seize the day

To do the right thing

To fight the good fight

To be all that you want to be

Yes

There is always time

Until there is not

To fill in a few blanks, Him quoting that line of poetry to me came while I was thinking of what a fantastic article this trip to a hospital emergency room would make.  For there were some questions circling inside of my head about all of major projects That have been put on the shelf in the hope of bringing  a little sunshine into your morbid lives.  Since it has taken well over three hours to place what I have so far about this into written form, it looks like I won’t be actually dying anytime really soon, but I sure wish I could more than ever.

Anyway, I have been instructed to stop publishing the stuff that I have been until the important things have been taken care of.  I am also to leave the comments along with checking to see if any legitimate ones need publishing and responded to a few times each week.  I will try to stop by and leave a comment on your stuff when I can.  Be assured that I am going to miss this.

Please Also Visit:

[FishHawk Droppings]

and

[The Tribulation TimesHerald-Exhorter]

The Mag 189

Image by crilleb50

Sponsored by [Magpie Tales]

There is Always Time

There is always time

To be born

To be born-again

To start a new life

To start a new career

To turn the page

To turn the corner

To start a new chapter

To laugh

To love

To be happy

To be healthy

To dream big dreams

To accomplish great goals

To reach for the stars

To chase after the sun

To romp in tall grasses

To wrestle squirrels for nuts

To ride fast horses

To drive faster cars

To sail mighty oceans

To climb high mountains

To seize the day

To do the right thing

To fight the good fight

To be all that you want to be

Yes

There is always time

Until there is not

Please Also Visit:

[FishHawk Droppings]

and

[The Tribulation Times Herald-Exhorter]

The Mag 188

Photo by Mark Haley

Sponsored by [Magpie Tales]

It Is Said

It is said

That there are stones

That mark well the path

To both Heaven

And to Hell

Good intentions

Notwithstanding

It is also said

That no one

Will be left behind

However

Nothing should be taken

Too much for granted

For being left behind

Would be preferable

To going to Hell

Voices in my head

Coming from hearts

That love me

And hate me

It is really hard to tell

Which one is which

At times

For I hear what I want to hear

Sometimes not

Maybe I should start listening

For a change

Maybe not

For it is

After all

Another step to take

Nonetheless

Nothing needs to be

Settled today

For when one is going around

In circles

Everything

Always

Comes back around

Until it stops

And it will stop

Much sooner

Than later

For us all

It is said

Please Also Visit:

[FishHawk Droppings]

and

[The Tribulation Times Herald-Exhorter]

The Mag 187

The Moth and the Lamp, Cesar Santos

Sponsored by [Magpie Tales]

Polilla La Luna

After the try-outs, Sadie Mae just sat in a corner by herself and sulked.  For she had danced her little heart out, and all she received for her efforts was a spot as a moth, along with a glowing glass ball as a consolation prize, she supposed.

She blamed her mother.  For her mother knew how badly she wanted to be a butterfly.  Yet, she used green material for her costume, which had to have had an impact upon the director.

“Come on now, how could she have made it out of green material?  Has anyone ever seen a green butterfly?  I know I haven’t.  Some moths are green.  Everybody knows that!”

“What are you talking about, and to whom?”

Sadie was horrified to find that her mutterings to herself had been overheard by one of her competitors.  “Did I really speak out-loud, or is she a mind-reader?”

“Why are so upset with your mother?”

“That is no concern of yours,” Sadie Mae replied in a rather icy tone.

“Maybe not, but I would think that you would be too thrilled over winning the lead role to be upset with your mother right now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Polilla La Luna?”

“So?”

“Polilla La Luna is the name of the ballet and Spanish for The Moon Moth.  You are holding the moon in your hands, silly.”

A look of horror spread across Sadie Mae’s face.  For there she had been thinking such bad thoughts about her mother when the truth was that her mother had went to extraordinary lengths to help her.

Sadie Mae ran out of the auditorium with tears streaming down her face, and she raced to get home and have supper on the table when her mother made it home after finishing another 12-hour shift at the garment factory.  When she went to set the kitchen table, she found her mother’s sewing machine still set-up, and lying beside it was a picture of a moth more beautiful than she could ever imagine.

Please Also Visit:

[FishHawk Droppings]

and

[The Tribulation Times Herald-Exhorter]

The Mag 186

Sponsored by [Magpie Tales]

An Ode to St. Ninian’s Isle

Time passes

Memories fade

Dust collects

On untold treasures

No more people to plunder

No more Vikings to invade

Yet you remain the same

St. Ninian’s Isle

A breakwater against

The fierce North Sea

Waves still crash

Winds still howl

Shetland ponies still balk and bite

At the sight

Of your shoreline

May you remain the same

St. Ninian’s Isle

Until the elements melt

At the very end

Of this world

Then may you be recreated

St. Ninian’s Isle

As a haven in warm waters

May your green grasses grow

May your cool streams flow

Basking in the glory

Of the Son

Please Also Visit:

[FishHawk Droppings]

and

[The Tribulation Times Herald-Exhorter]

The Mag 185

Sponsored by [Magpie Tales]

Puzzled

I have been a huge fan of Norman Rockwell’s artworks for as long as I can remember, but I had an especially strong fascination for his Boy in a Dining Car.  In fact, I even paid a premium for a large lithograph print of it to hang on my living room wall, and as I sat and stared for hours at a time, I wondered why it had such a hold on me.

Could it be the kindly expression upon the waiter’s face?  What about the seriousness of the young man as he checked his bill?  Surely it must be the other train going in the opposite direction that can be seen through the window that caught my attention?

No, none of those things rang any bells, but there was a memory of a story that my dad had told me long ago that lingered in the back of my mind.  It was a story about when he first went to see if Stanford University might be a good fit for him, and much of that story was about a kindly black man, who had taken it upon himself to make sure that everything went well for my dad while he was riding on his train.

Now, his concern was actually unnecessary.  For my dad was a child prodigy with an enormous intellect.  Furthermore, he had a degree of wisdom far exceeding what a typical 14 year-old would possess.  Proof of that is how much my dad truly appreciated the kindness of that waiter instead of feeling insulted.

Several years later, my dad bought the railroad, and it grieved him deeply that there were no employment records for his friend.  For my dad wanted to place him in charge of passenger care for the entire line, but it was as if he had never existed as far as the previous management of the railroad company was concerned.  Be assured that a thorough house-cleaning was instituted soon thereafter.

It was starting to really nag on me.  For my dad’s story had to have had something to do with the painting, but how could it be more than a mere coincidence?  After all, the boy in the dining car was supposed to be Norman Rockwell’s youngest son, Peter!

The loss of my sanity was steadily gaining momentum when a long forgotten part of my dad’s story leapt to the forefront of my mind, and it shook me to the very core of my being.  For the forgotten part was about there often being another man sitting in the dining car whenever my dad went in.  My dad had said that he would always be quietly sketching on a pad and puffing on his pipe, and that my dad had never went over to make his acquaintance.  Although, the waiter seemed to know him well.

Whoa, could the boy in that dining car actually be my dad?  The pieces of the puzzle sure seemed to fit, but with all of the resources at my dad’s disposal later on in his life, surely he would have sought out confirmation from Norman Rockwell—albeit merely for the sake of his family?  Hey, it’s not like my dad would have been seeking any compensation, and he would have been well pleased to leave it as Peter being in the dining car instead of himself.

Okay, I suppose some mysteries are meant to stay as such, but that doesn’t mean that I have to like it.  At least my fascination with the painting is no longer so puzzling, and I am happier than ever with having a signed print of it hanging on my living room wall.

Please Also Visit:

[FishHawk Droppings]

and

[The Tribulation Times Herald-Exhorter]

The Mag 184

Artwork by Jeanie Tomanek

Sponsored by [Magpie Tales]

Mildred

I was sitting at the top of my favorite thinking tree when a white bird flew over and landed on a nearby rock ledge.  I looked at him, and he looked at me.  Tension filled the air.  Well, not really, but that seemed appropriate for a situation like this.

After what seemed like an eternity of a few seconds, he said, “One would do well not to think so much.”

I was quite startled.  For out all of things I would think he would say, that was not one of them.  So, I came back with, “I don’t know what to think about that.”

“Cute,” was his response.

“Why would one do well not to think so much?”

“It leads to having your head in the clouds.”

Isn’t that a good thing at times?”

Not during thunderstorms.”

Feeling a need for some answers, I pressed on.  “I thought you-all are supposed to be really little.”

“Yeah, keep pushing it and we’ll see where it gets you.”

“Okay, I’ll rephrase.  Aren’t you-all supposed to be much smaller?”

“That would be some of my cousins.”

“What?”

“The little birds that go around telling people things are some of my cousins.”

“Oh.  What is your name?”

“Mildred.”

“Whoa, I thought you were a male.”

“See where thinking gets you?”

“Sorry.”

“I am a male, though.”

“But Mildred is a female name.”

“We birds are not so sexist as to think of names as being either male or female.”

“Did you not say that one would do well not to think so much?”

“Well, you got me there.”

“Can I call you Millie, the messenger bird?”

“No.”

Sensing victory being at hand, I went to give my own wings a good flap.  That is when I discovered that they had been clipped.  I looked at him, and he looked at me.  Tension really did fill the air this time.

After what seemed like an eternity of a few seconds, he asked, “How are you going to get down from there now?”

Without giving it a second thought, I replied, “I really don’t know what to think about this dilemma.

“I’ll have to give you that.”

YAY!  Victory was mine, but I still don’t know how I am going to get down from here.

Please Also Visit:

[FishHawk Droppings]

and

[The Tribulation Times Herald-Exhorter]

The Mag 183

Photo by Steven Kelly

Sponsored by [Magpie Tales]

Going For It

There were times when Dozer sorely wished he could simply clear a path through traffic like he used to do through Monett Cubs, Aurora Hound Dawgs and Mt. Vernon Mountaineers while playing fullback for the Cassville Wildcats during high school.  Oh yeah, those were some glorious days on the gridiron under Friday night lights, and the nickname he was given stuck.

A perfect safety record over the 25 years Dozer had spent behind the wheel of a big rig served as proof that he had resisted the urges to knock rolling roadblocks out of his way, but it had been close a few times.

Oh how he hated the fact that he had taken this load.  For it involved 10 drops of extremely perishable ice cream, and making it even worse was that it was a government load going to different military installations along a route of 1,947 miles.  Every delivery was required to be made exactly on time or face a severe reduction in the transportation price—maybe even the loss of the contract, altogether!

No, there was never enough time allowed for a load like this, and there were no shortcuts to be made once a trucker arrived at the front gate.  Nonetheless, Dozer really didn’t blame the personnel at the military bases.  For with all of the regulations they were required to observe, it can sometimes take over two hours just to drop off a couple of pallets of items, and when it came to foodstuffs, where a much closer inspection of the delivered items is required, a couple of hours is actually rather fast.  Subsequently, lost time had to be made up on the road, and here he was behind a station wagon with Ohio plates 80 miles northwest of Miles City, Montana. 

Refusing the load would have meant having to find another job, but there were at least a dozen other trucking companies desperately wanting to prove just how much they would appreciate Dozer working for them.  However, that was just not his way of taking care of problems.

Besides, someone had to deliver the load.  After all, who knows what kind of war might break out if some general is deprived of his daily allotment of rocky road?

Dozer had no idea what the station wagon was doing so far off of the interstate.  For there was nothing special to see in that particular part of the state, and he certainly would not be on this road if it was not for the few Air Force personnel still assigned to an old Minuteman missile complex around 20 miles farther along the way.

From what Dozer could see, it did not look like anyone in the station wagon was looking to hire on as a ranch hand.  Although, he had seen around 50 miles back where the kids in the backseat might be rather entertaining at sheep riding in a rodeo.  He supposed that one of the adults could be assigned to the Air Force installation, but with kids around, that seemed rather far-fetched.

Oh, but Dozer did know a thing or two about truck driving, and he remembered that there would be a passing lane coming up pretty quick.  With this stretch of the two-lane road running through rolling hills, along with oncoming traffic being fairly steady, it was just too dangerous to try to pass a slow-moving vehicle on a regular part of the highway, but if he could time his running start just right, he could zip his 70 foot-long rig past the tourists without inconveniencing them one little bit.

Jason was really regretting his decision to forego travel on the interstate in favor of taking back-roads so that his family could get the most out of their vacation to the birthplace of grunge rock, Seattle, Washington.  Granted, getting a closer look at the Rocky Mountains sure seemed like a good idea at the time, but there had been no mountains to be seen so far.  Yeah, his wife had tried to convince him that there would not be much for mountains until they reached the western part of Montana, but she was always trying to convince him about something.

At least the kids were finally sound asleep and quiet.  Who knew that boredom has its advantages?

Adding all the more to Jason’s irritation was that big yellow Peterbilt approaching from the rear at a fairly high rate of speed.  When he saw the passing lane, he stayed to the left, and when the truck tried passing them on the right, Jason romped down on the gas.  After all, he and his family were on vacation, and he did not want some tractor-trailer blocking their first view of the Rocky Mountains ahead of them.

Despite seeing such many times over the course of 17 years as a Montana State Trooper, Peter could never quite get used to the sight of the crumpled remains of a family vacation that had went terribly wrong.  It had not taken much of an investigation to determine that this was another case of some yahoo refusing to yield the right of way, which resulted in their vehicle being run over by the trailer tandems of a big rig, and the horrified look on the trucker’s face made it quite clear that he was not at fault.

“No, that guy was not trying to justify anything,” Peter mumbled to himself as he finished writing his initial report.  He wished he could include the reason why the family of four from Ohio was out there in such a desolate place to start with.

Please Also Visit:

[FishHawk Droppings]

and

[The Tribulation Times Herald-Exhorter]

The Mag 182

Photo by Elena Kalis

Sponsored by [Magpie Tales]

What Does It Matter?

Cyndi would often fantasize about emerging from her body as a butterfly with wings strong enough to glide on gentle breezes that would take her away from her life.  Who could blame her?  For with a father spending most of his time in a drunken stupor, and a mother blaming her for everything that had went wrong since her conception, there was not much incentive for Cyndi to stay grounded.

Cyndi would also fantasize about becoming a mermaid after diving deep enough in an ocean, but this was different—really different.  For there she was suspended in the air without any discernible means of support while being pulled into a vertical wall of water.  Questions started swirling in Cyndi’s mind.

“Is this real or imagined?”

“How could I be just floating in the air?”

“Is it actually air that I am suspended in?”

“What does it matter?”

“How is it possible for a vertical wall of water to exist?”

“Is it really water?”

“Again, what does it matter?”

“What will my life on the other side be like?”

“Will it be better or worse than what I’ve known?”

“Will there be life on the other side?”

“Yet again, what does it matter?”

Please Also Visit:

[FishHawk Droppings]

and

[The Tribulation Times Herald-Exhorter]

The Mag 181

Painting by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

Sponsored by [Magpie Tales]

Quasimodo’s Strange Feelings

Quasimodo was fairly certain that the absinthe he had consumed over the course of the evening was not the sole contributor to his current state of mind.  Granted, it had been a considerable amount, but he could still clearly see that Esmeralda was having an intoxicating effect upon everyone watching her tripping the light fantastic in the middle of the dance floor.

On the other hand, he knew that absinthe is known to have helped drive many a mind mad, and he was beginning to wonder if this was what was happening to him.  For he had a strange feeling that he and Esmeralda would someday become close friends—even being quite dear to each other.

Oh no, not as lovers.  For he had not drank that much, but the thought of such a lovely lady holding him close to her heart in her mind made his own heart skip a beat or two, nonetheless.

“How can this be?”  Oh my, he had almost asked that question out loud, which would have been disastrous.  For it appeared that no one at the party knew he was there watching from the shadows, and he certainly did not want to be tossed out in the street like the last time he was caught where he was unwelcome.

Yes, Quasimodo knew that his disfigurement made him an unwelcome sight around most places.  For it was said that God would not do something like that to a good person.  He hoped that those who would say such a thing were wrong, and he had another strange feeling that they were.

Quasimodo could not help but let out a soft chuckle as a thought about these strange feelings surely leading to either his destruction or salvation negotiated its way through the absinthe vapors behind his eyes.  Then he noticed an old man sitting on a stool and scowling in his direction, and he took it as his cue to slip away while he could.  Esmeralda was still dancing the night away, and his heart was still skipping beats.

Please Also Visit:

[FishHawk Droppings]

and

[The Tribulation Times Herald-Exhorter]

The Mag 180

Drawing Hands, 1948 by M. C. Escher

Sponsored by [Magpie Tales]

More Than a Helping Hand

I must admit that I do not consider myself to be a writer.  For I am at most, just transcribing the words that I “hear” in my head.

No, I would not call it dictation.  For taking dictation is something that a secretary would do, and preforming the work of a secretary is beneath my station as a manly man.

In all seriousness, I may be quite mad.  For I can honestly attest to the fact of actually hearing a composition forming in my head, and there are times when I am in awe of the final draft.

Not always, which I attribute to being allowed to play editor at times.  The entry for [last week] was certainly one of those occasions.  For the original piece was going to be something with depth, but I just didn’t feel like dealing with it at the time—much to my chagrin.  Nonetheless, I am thrilled with how well what was published was received.

One of the very encouraging comments that were left even contributed to this piece.  For the lady talked about the little ditty coming with a voice that she could hear in her head.

Many writers have talked about having a muse.  So, what I am trying to say (so to speak) should not be considered all that unusual.

Oh, but I expect that what I have been given to say next will be summarily dismissed by most.  For I have become convinced that my muse is actually the Lord God Almighty—albeit in the form of His Holy Spirit, and that is more than what most can accept for a number of reasons.

Alas, have not far too many of those reasons come from those who have openly professed to have been given the authority to speak for Him?  For it has been widely taught in His most holy and precious name that He stopped seeking to directly communicate with us when the last of His Holy Scriptures were given almost two thousand years ago.

Furthermore, it was been also widely taught that the Creator of all that exists (apart from Himself, of course) is not interested in the mundane things of this world—let alone being an active participant in our daily lives.  So, there is no way when a little bird tells them something (or have a “feeling” deep down in their gut) that it could be coming from our Heavenly Father—right?

Okay, many, who cannot accept the absolute truth of the matter truly being that our Creator has been actually talking to each and every one of us since being in the womb, are more receptive to the possibility of insight coming from a source outside of ourselves.  For they are awake enough to realize that they have experienced the like many times over the years, and if I was raised in a different culture, I can see where I could be much more willing to accept a different option.

The thing is, however, that I was raised to believe that God is there to help those who meet with His approval by first seeking to help themselves by following His written instructions, which has us being pretty much on our own for the most part in this world, and yet, here I am with a completely different point of view.

It was 20 years ago when I could no longer ignore the voices in my head.  Oh, I suppose I should make some mention of the devil and his demons also being allowed to whisper sweet nothings in our ears from time to time.  It happens to me a lot.  Yeah, I may very well be quite mad.

Please Also Visit:

[FishHawk Droppings]

and

[The Tribulation Times Herald-Exhorter]

The Mag 179

Sponsored by [Magpie Tales]

Getting Carried Away

Get serious

They said

They must have been delirious

I might add

For when I try to wax poetic

The effort is often quite pathetic

Better stick to prose

I suppose

The prompt is

What it is

Ain’t much for

Poetic punctuations

Correct grammar

Notwithstanding

No rhyming

Without proper timing

Can be called a haiku

It just might do

Just like a Jackson Pollock

Is called fine art

Not by anyone in their right-mind

However

Sophistication

Is thankfully a fleeting sensation

Maybe even drug induced

Depending upon what can be deduced

Don’t have a cow

I’ll shut up now

Please Also Visit:

[FishHawk Droppings]

and

[The Tribulation Times Herald-Exhorter]