Grief

Sometimes the news comes quick. Sometimes the news comes slow. No matter how or when it comes, grief travels in the wake of the news. Grief is heavy, weighty, a burden, especially when it involves someone deeply loved. Grief is not meant to be carried alone. It’s too heavy and may last a while—and that’s ok. That’s what family and friends are for, to share the load. Jesus stood outside the tomb of his friend and wept but He did not weep alone. It was a deep, human moment. “ Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted ” (Matt 5:4). If anyone knows how we feel in grief, it’s Him. But His grief did not linger long, as at the mention of his name, Lazarus came forth. We are not meant to dwell in grief, but should leave room enough for it. Let it run its course. Like the song says, “ Every Storm Runs Out Of Rain .” Another song says, “ The storm We will dance as it breaks The storm It will give as it takes And all of our pain is washed away Don't cry or be afraid Some things...

These Dreams

 What goes on behind closed eyes? Whatever it is, it’s strange. Dreams are places you live another life. For example, at that place between asleep and awake, there is a sudden flash of understanding, then it’s gone. That place is called Never-never Land. Some people remember their dreams, few are inspired by them. But dreams are not relegated to sleep except by common usage. Dreams are synonymous with thoughts, ideas. I can’t say I’ve fallen out of bed inspired to do much except check the plumbing, but I’ve had ideas. 

Once, while still in my single digits, I made a Monster-Kicker. The idea came to me after unwelcome monsters that snuck through my door while I slept. Necessity is the mother of invention, after all. A boot mounted to the end of a stick was affixed on a hinge. The contraption activated by a pulled string tied to the doorknob. When the door opened, the intruder would be subsequently booted back into the hallway. Well, that’s how it was supposed to work, anyway.


One dream I’ve had was to write a book. I can’t think of how many pages I’ve written over the last 35 + years, but I’ve filled entire volumes with handwritten material (the pic is only a sampling of six years—other journals are in storage or lost). While nothing is intended for publishing, I’ve written a pile of books. I can somewhat relate to Benjamin Franklin, who while writing his autobiography, often failed to remember if he’d written this or that because he was not near his personal library at the time to check. And he was no slouch when it came to making his ideas come to fruition.




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