PAINTING THE CHURCH

There was a Scottish painter named Smokey MacGregor who was very interested in making a penny where he could, so he often thinned down his paint to make it go a wee bit further.

As it happened, he got away with this for some time, but eventually the local church decided to do a big restoration job on the outside of one of their biggest buildings.

Smokey put in a bid, and, because his price was so low, he got the job.

So he set about erecting the scaffolding and setting up the planks, and buying the paint and, yes, I am sorry to say, thinning it down with turpentine...

Well, Smokey was up on the scaffolding, painting away, the job nearly completed, when suddenly there was a horrendous clap of thunder, the sky opened, and the rain poured down washing the thinned paint from all over the church and knocking Smokey clear off the scaffold to land on the lawn among the gravestones, surrounded by telltale puddles of the thinned and useless paint.

Smokey was no fool. He knew this was a judgment from the Almighty, so he got down on his knees and cried:

"Oh, God, Oh God, forgive me; what should I do?"

And from the thunder, a mighty voice spoke.

"Repaint! Repaint! And thin no more!"


Cheers,

Paul (A.) 

IN DAVID'S EYES - A POEM BY MARTHE G. WALSH

In David’s Eyes
 for my friend, always “the Broms”

He said wait, at least ten years, maybe more,
if you must tell it, let it age, mature.
And so I have, waited, humored his sure
conviction that time and context restore.

Secretary by day, writer by night,
athlete at university, turned down
by seminary, denied alb or gown
because, for him, lying was just not right.

At the end of our first week, sipping wine,
not that we liked it, concession to chic,
declared us allies, the suffering meek,
destined to outwit the front of the line.

I know you, all edges and sharps, trying
to make porcupines seem positively
cuddly – like it – the mask, deceptively
aloof -- won’t work with me. I do prying.

Kansas slow, rippling wheat fields in his speech,
way of being, youngest of eight, like me,
confused by the view of society
that last meant spoiled, ruined, like some old peach.

Let me read his short stories, half the play
never finished, but not the novel, shy
about that, evasive until the why
was too clear to miss, a hospital stay.

No amount of prayer or therapy or
pledges of celibacy were enough
to fix or satisfy his father’s tough
Baptist will or mother’s RC ardor.

He simply couldn’t, with direct question,
say anything other than exactly
what he thought he knew, carefully, aptly,
but true, without guile or wise digression.

He knew what he couldn’t do, so tried not
to hate himself, but haunted by childhood
belief in authority, saw no good
in being fully himself, with sin fraught.

Immune system failing fast, the gay plague
new, frightening, friends disappearing, gone
in denial, fear, means of help withdrawn,
loss of job, insurance, excuses vague.

He did not want me to read of his one,
just one, failure to contain, defeat, hide
his fall, the reason he’d been cast aside
by family, church, not prodigal son.

Let me make the call to the one brother
who might understand, might help, when the first
bout of pneumonia scared us both, cursed
or not, family, surely … wrong answer.

It’s just you, my dear, dear Empress of the
Eternal Ephemera. They think death
is my just reward. Coughed another breath,
closed his eyes, as if that would protect me.

Retreated into dark laughter, childish
games to pass the time when he was too weak
to write, chutes and ladders with the freak
former altar boy, bruised, near the finish.

Portmanteau, his favorite word, better
than pedestrian baggage, imagined
his story fine lingerie examined
by nuns at the thrift store, blushing chatter.

Tried to convince him to unpack, reduce
the weight, the volume, to just a valise
lightly carried, trust God’s wisdom, release
the burden of human error, abuse.

His answer, the burning of the pages
typed in pain, preserved in plastic binders
long stacked on brick and plank shelves, reminders
of hope fading with the AIDS, in stages.

Wept, when I brought an Episcopal priest
brave enough for communion with modern
leper, outcast, sinner, to his cavern
of private despair, in one touch, true feast.

Bathed him, still shyly insisting on swim
trunks for the immersion, demure, proper
but craving the gentle soaping, lather
and warm water defying all the grim.

Wrapped his emaciated six foot two
in blankets fresh from the dryer to warm
the perpetual shivering, the storm
within raging, winding down, but not through.

Made the call, after spreading his ashes
in the Charles, as requested, his mother,
“Oh, if only I had known ….”  A kinder
me would have comforted, spared the lashes,

“That’s what everyone says, to pretend,
soothe their own guilt, knowing full well the lie
of it, your shame in wanting him to die,
to stop being your lost, a wound opened.”

It was not kind, but it was my hand that
wrote his letter, begging, at last, for her
forgiveness, love, one final little stir
of maternal instinct, last words private.

There was no reply. Just a look exchanged.

In David’s eyes there was a knowing,
and I was honored by its showing.


Marthe G. Walsh

"In David's Eyes" by Marthe G. Walsh.  © 2012 Marthe G. Walsh.
Reprinted with permission of the author.

Marthe's two books of poetry, Among the Thorns and Heretic for a Loving God may be purchased at Lulu.

A SNIPPET FROM "BRIDESHEAD REVISITED"

 

From the 1981 BBC TV series, Brideshead Revisited, which I am now watching and enjoying yet again. Rex Mottram, who wants to marry Roman Catholic Lady Julia Flyte, is taking instructions from Fr Mowbray, a Jesuit priest and friend of Julia's family, before becoming a Catholic. Rex has no sincere convictions about converting to Roman Catholicism but wishes to do so only to smooth his path to marry Julia. Fr Mowbray recounts to the family a conversation with Rex about the attributes of God and the infallibility of the pope. The quote below is taken from Evelyn Waugh's novel of the same name, on which the series is based; the dialogue is repeated verbatim in the series. 

"Yesterday I asked him whether Our Lord had more than one nature. He said: 'Just as many as you say, Father.'

Then again I asked him: 'Supposing the Pope looked up and saw a cloud and said 'It's going to rain', would that be bound to happen?' 'Oh, yes, Father.' 'But supposing it didn't?' He thought a moment and said, "I suppose it would be sort of raining spiritually, only we were too sinful to see it.'"

Another one of many delicious conversations from the book and the series that I savor with delight.

JOHN KERRY MAKES THE CASE FOR MISSILE STRIKES

Slippery slope: "The bottom line, as Kerry outlined in his speech, is that the White House believes inaction, after conclusively determining that Bashar al-Assad’s regime is behind the Aug. 21 chemical weapons attack in Damascus, would open the possibility of other countries or groups concluding that they could use such weapons in the future without fear of retribution."

National security: (There is no alternative): “Make no mistake, in an increasingly complicated world of sectarian and religious extremist violence, what we choose to do or not do matters in real ways to our own security. Some site the risk of doing things. But we need to ask, ‘What is the risk of doing nothing?’,” Kerry said.

WMD!: “Our high confidence assessment is the strongest position that the U.S. Intelligence Community can take short of confirmation,” the government said in the brief.

The plan: The White House is reportedly considering limited air strikes on military targets as retaliation for the Assad regime’s use of chemical weapons. Senior administration officials also repeated that the administration is not aiming to achieve a regime change in Syria.

Syria's chemical arsenal is less of a threat to the US than the arsenals of other despots around the world. Saddam gassed the Kurds, but we didn't launch the Iraq war for that reason.

Kerry makes much of the children who were killed by gas, but what of children killed in drone attacks?  We're to weep over pictures of children killed by gas, but we never see the pictures of children blown apart by drone missiles. The airstrikes will almost certainly cause collateral damage (the ultimate euphemism for dead and wounded people!), which will include children and other innocents.   I weep for all the children.

What if Assad continues his defiance after we flex our muscles with the limited airstrikes? What do we do next?

I'm not buying Kerry's argument. I've heard it all before when we have undertaken deadly, misbegotten military adventures.  Obama and Kerry have pretty well boxed themselves in with their chest-thumping and red line on Assad's use of gas, but I hope and pray the president will have the courage and humility to turn away from inflicting more violence on the Syrian people, who are already suffering.  

Quotes above from Talking Points Memo.

GOLF VOCABULARY LESSON

A schoolteacher was taking her first golf lesson.

When she got to the green, she asked the instructor, "Please tell me:  Is the word spelled p-u-t or p-u-t-t?"

"P-u-t-t is correct," he replied. "Put means to place a thing where you want it.  Putt means merely a vain attempt to do the same thing."


Cheers,

Paul (A.)

GRANDCHILDREN

                                             There were four.

                                         And then there were six.

Sometimes I wish the children were not growing up so quickly, that they were still the ages in the pictures. But life goes on, and I like where all six grandchildren are at the present time, too.

VIDEO UPDATE ON THE SPREADING BAYOU CORNE SINKHOLE

Read the story here:

A colossal sinkhole that opened up overnight in August 2012 in the rural Louisiana town of Assumption Parish has continued to expand at a staggering rate, devouring with it land and trees as documented in a new video that was uploaded on Tuesday.

The three-minute YouTube video was posted to an account run by the Assumption Parish Police Jury. The video shows about a dozen trees on the outside of a berm in the sinkhole suddenly swallowed in less than a minute. Six seconds into the video, the trees slowly begin to sink. At 41 seconds, their tops are no longer visible above the bubbling water.

Does anyone know or, if so, will they say how much more the sinkhole will continue to expand?

The Assumption Parish Office of Emergency Preparedness has said that the sinkhole doesn't pose a danger to other homes in the area.

I wonder.  If I lived in one of the homes in the area, I doubt I'd be as confidant as the Assumption Parish official.  Not that I mean to imply that the parish leaders are hiding information, for I think they do the best they can with what they know.  Still, I worry about what they don't know.

UPDATE: An article in Mother Jones details the history of the sinkhole from the beginning to the situation in the area of the collapse in early August.

O GRACIOUS LIGHT

The moon in daylight

Hymn: O Gracious Light
Phos hilaron

O gracious Light,
pure brightness of the everliving Father in heaven,
O Jesus Christ, holy and blessed!
Now as we come to the setting of the sun,
and our eyes behold the vesper light, we sing your praises,
O God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
You are worthy at all times to be praised by happy voices,
O Son of God, O Giver of life,
 and to be glorified through all the worlds.

I DID THIS

If you try to find out, on the internet, how many steps the Duomo of Florence has, you will see numbers that vary from 414 to 463. So, it’s up to you to find out the real answer! In this video, this guy climbs (and counts) the stairs, recounts a good history of the Duomo (with only one little error – can you spot it?), and shows us the view from above!

I climbed the steps when I was in my 60s.  Yes, I did.  As the teenagers were running up the steps, I ascended slowly, with an occasional stop to rest, the rest stops coming closer together the higher I climbed.  It was hard, but I persevered, and the view from the top was magnificent and very much worth the difficult climb.

From Tuscany Arts. 

UPDATE: My one disappointment was at the half-way point entry into the cathedral.  Due to restoration work, I was not able to see the closer view of the beautiful "Last Judgment" fresco in the dome by Giorgio Vasari and Federico Zuccari, because the paintings were covered by drapery. 

BATHING BEAUTIES IN THE 1920s