Life and Death Speak

© Jeanne E Webster – All Rights Reserved

 

The waters overpower us
With ruinous waves so high;
We cling tightly to each other
As lifeless bodies float by.

“Mama! Mama! Help me!”
My little one cries out;
My strength is waning fast
Numbing pain releasing doubt.

Up and down, back and forth
The waves shake us like dolls;
We spit out water to take in air
As the tide our spirit mauls.

My eyes are stuck wide open
My fingers glued to her coat;
She no longer screams “Mama!”
Utter silence swathes her throat.

Prayers of anguish gurgle forth
Amidst the roaring sea spray;
“Oh, my God!” “Help me, Lord!”
Become epithets spoken today.

Menial things matter not anymore
Squabbles are quickly laid aside;
Many to-do’s or forgotten sins
Are swigs for the ravenous tide.

There’s lots of dying, Dear one,
Enough to sate death’s thirst;
Life is clinging to another breath
Till you think you’ll surely burst.

Is this the true “Amen” corner
When all of life is predated?
When the Almighty speaks His word
And reclaims what He’s created?

So be it… from dawn to setting sun;
Life and death speak with one voice:
So be it…Lord Jesus, please come!

[Written on the fourth day after a massive earthquake and ensuing tsunami devastated Japan’s people.]

Do You Have the Time?

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© Jeanne E Webster  All rights reserved

 

Time in a Bottle

~Jim Croce

If I could save time in a bottle

The first thing that I’d like to do

Is to save every day ’til eternity passes away

Just to spend them with you

If I could make days last forever

If words could make wishes come true

I’d save every day like a treasure and then

Again, I would spend them with you

But there never seems to be enough time

To do the things you want to do once you find them

I’ve looked around enough to know

That you’re the one I want to go through time with…

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 What is TIME? It’s a noun; it’s a verb. It’s an object; it’s usable. You can’t do without it; it’s there whether you want it or not. You can spend it; you can waste it. You can ignore it. But it is there all the time.

What is TIME? It is abstract, immaterial; a concept. A clock can keep it; it can run out; it stood still once. It has an end; it can tell; it only knows.

But you can’t hold it in your hands…

You can’t really buy more…

You can belong to it…

You can’t give it away…

It ends when the clock runs out… Tick tock, tick tock, they all fall down.

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TIME was made for humankind by God. How else could humanity measure life and works? God created heaven and earth and all that was in them.

After the fall in the Garden of Eden, God imparted a concept upon humanity; it was called time. A time for hope, a time for love…

In other words, He clocked us. Perhaps to enable us to see reality?

Appreciate life more?

Make better choices with the time we have?

He gave us a concept…we didn’t grasp the Garden of Eden.

We abused it and walked naked, without thought or care.

We chose to go our own way, envision our own thoughts,

Believe our own creed, live as our own gods.

So he put a governor upon us, to ever remind us of our beginning.

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TIME is a concept to show us the way back to God. God is eternal. We are eternal also but sin split us in two. That’s when TIME began, for us to work our way back home.

Physical death is our end of TIME; we rejoin eternity with God.

One in the Father, by the Father, and with the Father.

At His designated moment, time will be no more. All creation awaits that moment. It moans and groans as we do. We’ve wandered far too long as self-willed creatures. It’s TIME to go home!

[Wandering thoughts about TIME. These are thoughts only!]

 

The “Last Supper” Day

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© Jeanne E Webster – All Rights Reserved

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What a wonderful visit!  I had driven down to Florida from Minnesota to see my mother, and we spent the entire week connecting again with old black-and-white family photos, reminiscing over childhoods, upbringings, relatives long gone and what we could scramble up for the supper table.

We were at ease; our once huffed up spirits now lay flat as a well-made bed sheet. Gone was the stress, old wounds had healed and all was well. The white beaches of Pensacola welcomed our presence with lazy toe-digging, lollygagging hours of sharing opportunities.

Then, time beckoned and duty called. Homeward bound, I drove north, pondering the precious moments we had bared our souls and shared our hearts. Genuine hugs and kisses assured us that my return visit in September was eagerly awaited. Oh, Lord, life was good!

Reality, through the ages…

If only I had known…

Mom died as I drove back home, killed instantly in an auto accident. How quickly life changes. Like a chipped recording, “I would never see her again,” repeatedly blared in my mind. No more sharing old times, retelling family secrets… no more “little girl & mommy” hugs again. Mom was gone?  (A story taken from a fictionalized event)

Losing loved ones has always been a regular occurrence. Death has always been a part of life. Eventually there’s a loss somewhere…and no more tomorrows?

—-

Thinking back to another actuality 2,000 years ago:

True reality disturbed the dust one devastating day in Jerusalem.  Let’s call it the “Last Supper” day.

Luke 24

The Master’s somber demeanor had been noted, but nothing close to what would transpire later in the day occurred to them. They followed him from the upper room, cheerfully waved palm branches in his path, and laid down their robes as he entered the gates of Jerusalem. He was their Man of the hour. They loved him so; he loved them so.

—- “What?”

“Jesus died this afternoon…”

“He was crucified…”

“He is dead.”

—-

“Oh my god! No!!! What am I going to do?”

“He was my best friend!”

“He raised my brother from his grave!”

“I had him over for supper.”

“He cast out demons from my son’s body.”

“He loved the children so dearly.”

“Now he’s gone…”

—-

Three days later he arose from the grave; He had overcome the curse of death!

Yes, He lives!

There are endless tomorrows for us to share with Him.

Forever and ever!

Praise the Lord!

 

 

ABORTION: THE HARD AND SOFT OF IT

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© Jeanne E Webster. All Rights Reserved.

 

Abortion: A surgically invasive procedure that terminates the life of a fetus within a woman’s womb. That’s a soft-sell spiel.

Abortion: A savage, barbaric, cruel, and brutal murder of an unwanted, unloved, unplanned, unborn baby within its mother’s womb. That’s hard reality.

Abortion offers two things: certain death to unborn babies and marred consciences and bodies of women who avail themselves of this deadly, legally-correct procedure. Supporters of abortion rights profess that abortion is compassionate, yet reality starkly reveals that it kills every time, whereas choosing life saves lives and is compassionate.

Is it better for all concerned that unborn babies be killed so he/she won’t be brought into a situation where it will not thrive? I think not! The brief lives of aborted unborn babies end at the swinging doors labeled “women’s rights.”

Where are the rights of the unborn? Granting unborn babies the “right to live,” chances are always greater a born baby will thrive; with abortion, there is no chance whatsoever.

To those who favor abortion, I ask you, “Where would you be today if your mother opted for an abortion when you were a helpless, innocent, unborn baby lying comfortably in her womb, unable to raise your voice to cry out for compassion, for a chance at life?

As an unborn baby chosen by your own mother to be sacrificed on the “altar of abortion rights”, would it be comforting to know you were killed to protect you from the hardships of life? I think not! If anything must be “thrown-away,” it should be the quick-fix mentality of our generation.

We need to be reminded of the preciousness of life. Honor it and keep it sacred in our hearts. Grasp compassion and love with all the gusto we can muster…and choose LIFE.

Mother, May I?

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© Jeanne E Webster. All rights reserved and observed

They arrived shortly after breakfast, during the respite between chores and my second cup of coffee. What a pair! Bright eyes bejeweled each precious face; a whisper of animation radiated from each creased smile. Was this a true aura, emanating from the remnants of the prominent role they had played in their owner‘s life? I believe it was. They had returned among the living after a seven-year closet hiatus, bearing memories and blessings to share with everyone. That might not seem long to you, but it was forever to a grieving family.

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You see, after Mother had passed on to a finer, gentler locale, the two dolls had callously become shrouded in a shock-and-woe blanket. Over the ensuing years, an innocuous event ripped through the family fabric, tearing its fragile foundation to shreds.

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It all began when Father realized he was quite ill at ease living alone. His children could not provide what his lonely spirit craved: companionship. He ached for the closeness of another human heart, someone who could love him deeply with a caring spirit. This desire eventually found succor in the love of a delightful woman. Remarriage showered his world with peace and joy, slowly releasing grief’s icy grip on his heart.

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Family and friends visited often, except for his two daughters. The presence of a stepmother had driven a wedge between them. The daughters rumored about that the new mother was throwing out everything their mother had held dear. Withholding their affections and contact with Dad was their way of saying, “We do not like this woman living in our mother’s house and sharing your life.” They stood resolutely in this position…for four long years.

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The new mother tried to tiptoe around their feelings, disturbing none of their mother’s possessions that remained in the back bedroom, now looked upon as the inner sanctum. She had entered it early on in the marriage and redistributed an assortment of cookbooks that gathered dust in the closet. Some books stayed, some donated to the public library, all with Dad’s oversight and permission. Inevitably, the one cookbook that meant the whole world to the daughters turned up missing. This innocent deed completely severed the final scrap of a relationship left between Dad and daughters. The vagrant book was found later but the damage had been done.

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Three years later, the new mother felt a stir within her spirit to dispel the sacredness of the bedroom, hoping to bring the light of day back into it. Lying low in the dimness of past days, it had gathered dust, spiders and mites. Braving the certainty of creepy-crawlies skittering up her back, she opened the door . . . and entered. Nothing happened! The walls did not come crashing down, the ceiling remained intact, and the room actually beckoned to her, “Come on in, dear one.”

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Peering through the dim early morning light, new mother’s eyes rested on a doll cradle nestled on the floor near Mother’s vanity. “How precious,” she thought. Stepping closer for further inspection, she spied a life-like doll staring back at her. It was then “Oh my!” escaped from her lips as another cradle, embracing another doll, suddenly appeared in view.

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“I think these babies need to get some fresh air and see the light of day,” and with that, she bore them tenderly out of storage and into the living room. Settling them in strategic spots, she stood back and admired these priceless little babes.

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You see, dear reader, these were special dolls to Mother and, after her own children had left home, they helped ease her loneliness. She had chosen them from a doll shop, opting for hair and skin colors to match her girls. She’d glance over at them as she worked in the bedroom or passed by in the hallway, smiling at them as if they were real, for the time being. Somehow, I believe they too felt they were real.

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After their special reappearance in the household, things seemed to go better for Father and the new mother. Family members warmed up to Dad’s new wife and found out she wasn’t really a conniving old woman after all. Sure, she would never replace their mother, but they knew she brought joy and love back into their dad’s life.

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I wonder if the presence of these two little ones somehow triggered forgotten, happy memories within the heart of this family, enabling them to accept the change that had been brought upon them. I would like to think so.

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{Based on a true life situation}

Happy Mother’s Day, 2014

 

Have You Stopped Being?

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Romans 6:4 “Buried with Him. . .that. . .even so we also should walk in newness of life.”

–Oswald Chambers

No one enters into the experience of entire sanctification without going through a “white funeral,” i.e., the burial of the old life.  If there has never been this crisis of death, sanctification is nothing more than a vision.  There must be a “white funeral,” the death that has only one resurrection—a resurrection into the life of Jesus.  Nothing can upset this life; it is one with God, for one purpose, to be a witness to Him.

Have I come to my last days really?  I have come to them in sentiment, but have I come to them really?  You cannot go to your funeral in excitement, nor die in excitement.  Death means stopping being.  Do I agree with God that I stop being the striving earnest kind of Christian I have been?  We skirt the cemetery and all the time refuse to go to death.  It is not striving to go to death, it is dying—“baptized into His death.”

Have I had a “white funeral,” or am I sacredly playing with my soul?  Is there a place marked in my life as the last day, a place that the memory goes back to with a chastened and extraordinary grateful remembrance—yes, it was then, that I made an agreement with God.   “This is the will of God even your sanctification.”  When you realize what the will of God is, you will enter into sanctification as naturally as can be.  Are you willing to go through the “white funeral” now?

Do you agree with Him that this is your last day on earth?  That moment depends on you.

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As for me, dear friends, I truthfully confess I still have much work to do.  It is hard to let go of earth and all its trappings:  self-satisfaction, pride, boasting, covetousness, spite, greediness, and blindness of heart –such things that are visible and invisible constantly wage war against my members.   I am still journeying on my way through the cemetery, some days playfully dodging death, while other days lingering at the brink of the “grave.”

Rom. 7:24-25 “O wretched man that I am!  Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?  I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord.  So then with the mind I myself serve the law of God, but with the flesh the law of sin.”

There She Goes

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Thought for the Day . . .

 

 

I am standing upon the seashore. 

A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean.  She is an object of beauty and strength.  I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says, “There, she is gone!”

“Gone where?”

Gone from my sight.  That is all.  She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her.  And just at the moment someone at my side says, “There, she is gone!” there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes!”

And that…is dying.

~Author unknown