Don't want to be nice

Everyone thinks you're nice...

friendly...

kind...

even good.

They are not just being polite. You can't help but think that they just might be right. But you never aspired to be such things. You wanted to be -

Bold!

Strong!

Wild!... like Him.

"Have I got what it takes?" that's the question you're asking. That's the question every man asks. Everything you've ever done - every risk you've ever taken - was done with the intention to have an answer.

You long for the day when you know your God-like strength, courage, and wildness. To be called a warrior as He was known to the Israelites by the Red Sea. To stand up for something and fight to your last breath. Tell a man anything else, you kill the man.

You haven't found your answer. That's why you're still nice, friendly, and kind.

Shopping for a gift

You were looking for a gift. A book. You doubted if you would find anything suitable. So you prayed. You prayed that He would show you something if that something was in the shop - something He would want to send her as a gift Himself.

You looked through every shelf top, middle and bottom. You didn't want to impress her with anything by anyone that by any chance writes a smooth-flowing prose that would hopefully engage her. It had to be something you believe in. By the time you were almost done you thought your gift wasn't forthcoming.

You almost gave up and walked out when a sight reeled you back in. Tucked away there on the lowermost shelf in the inner quarter of the shop, hidden behind and stacked under other books...

You found it.

Your prayer' s been answered. You knew that by the quiver you felt holding the book.

So this is the book He'd send her. And again you got to praying... You prayed that the gift would reach her hands.

Disposal

CAUTION: The post below is strictly a dream sequence and did not happen to the author in real life. However it contains descriptions of the deceased and might offend some readers.

It's still in your backyard because you haven't been able to get rid of it. You don't want to even think about it during the day, not when eyes are most watchful and you can't do anything about it.

Night falls and weariness sets in. You go around to the back of the house and finds that it's still lying there among the garbage, wrapped in an exceptionally white cloth. You drag it through the back door into the kitchen. Open it up and you see the body of a beautiful woman - naked, fair, and moth-eaten. Her face isn't too deformed that you can't remember her from somewhere. You might have been in love with her even. You don't know for sure. It's too late to know such a thing for sure. She's a corpse now and she can't stick around. The nearest garbage dump isn't near enough to avoid the neighbours' suspicion.

Anyway she has to go...

Diary of a clay pigeon

They never said anything about shooting while I was in flight - and me being shot at!! When they launched us from the high house, all I thought was that I was going to be free at last. Free to soar... to land on whichever patch of green that receives me and call it my eternal resting place.

And then there were gunshots loud as thunder. As soon as we were slung across the air, one by one the liberated were blasted into irregular pieces, their featherless remnants falling like meteor rain. Wait a minute, are we not free? Aren't our bodies built to last till we lie down in green pastures? This can't possibly be our fate as Elects. But the sight of my people's ashes sprinkled over the trees offered neither reason nor comfort.

Through the trees on my way down, I caught flashing glimpses of our hunter. My survival that day owed to the fact that the shooter aiming at us was a killer-in-training. My life was spared for the day, but I was deeply tumbled. That night in the dark of the return chute leading back to the high house, I heard it being discussed through trembling voices of my fellow survivors that we will relive this horrible day till to the twisted satisfaction of our hunters we are all dead.

A man for an afternoon

"Don't revolve your life around her. Do what you know you have to do now. If the Lord meant for you to meet her, when the time comes you will."

That's B's counsel. B is wise as George MacDonald is wise. For B learning from MacDonald is next to obeying Christ. In fact it was MacDonald who taught B the importance of trusting the Father by obeying the Son. And B in turn taught you the same.

You're not quite the same after spending that sunny afternoon in Kearney Spring with B.

Christmas cards (signed & sealed)

Your heart is bursting with gratitude and love. You know where the latter is streaming from, and you know exactly for whom you wish you had a bigger vessel to hold in the ceaseless torrent.

So it overflows…

And you no longer see a good reason not to send one to B.

Christmas cards

Sixteen Christmas cards on your table; leftover from last Christmas. You make a list of whom you could dispatch them to.

…B is not on that list.

Not that you don’t appreciate B for what he’s done throughout the year, deserving at least a grateful acknowledgment at the end of it. You know he’d feel awkward not sending one back, yet couldn’t, as there’s a million other things he could do instead of making a trip to the newsagent’s for a Christmas card. You also know that you don’t need a Christmas card to state the obvious. There is much more to the amity than a folded piece of beautiful paper can include.

A little narcissism...

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