Calendar-based Resolve

Gentry Yeatman

I hate New Years’ resolutions.  I don’t remember making one in my entire life. And if I did, I probably did not keep it. Why?  I am not resolute, I lack resolve.

The word resolution is rich with complex meaning.  The resolution of a microscope or telescope allows one to clearly see the most minute or distant detail.  Resolution of a computer screen relates to clarity of vision, as well--focus. The resolution of an argument halts open antagonism and possibly prevents injury.   Resolution of grudges can promote closure. Resolution of disease symptoms restores health.  Resolution in music theory relates to a move from an unstable dissonant sound to a more stable consonant sound.  

Detail, focus, health, consonance.

The essence of resolution implies having a clear perspective of an attainable, absolute, resolute move toward harmony of initiative and willpower, or at least the appearance thereof.

For New Year’s we should probably substitute the word, plan.  What is your New Years’ plan?  What do you see clearly?  Has introspection occurred? Has a friend or family member helped provide objectivity.

By nature, most plans are self-centered, although not necessarily negative in nature.

“I plan to lose weight.”  
“I will stop smoking, again, this time for good.”  
“I want a better job.”  
“I will resume my education.”
“I think I’ll read more.”

But we can and should be resolute to “harmonize” for others--altruism.

“I will try to be a better neighbor.”
“I may take my kids to church.”
“I am going to volunteer at the food bank.”
“I should contribute more to a local charity.”

Okay, if I must have a New Year’s resolution it is to avoid the word.  I plan to do that!

The Peril of the Phantom Pedestrian

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Friendship

A respite from the cold,
A shelter from the storm,
A warming hut where
bursting-flames from dying
embers warmed.

A firm embrace.
A gentle touch.
A whispered wisp of hope reborn.
A head held high,
which once knew shame.
That which was lost,
A friend reclaimed.

GW Yeatman

God accepts us not for who we are,
  but for who He is.
He loves us not for what we may become,
  but for what He has always been.

Boom-doom

Hiding,
Roaming,
Stalking,
Salivating.
a growing taste for blood,
a spear poised to lance,
a sword in quivering hand,
a coward with false hopes
  for eternal debauchery
  in a heaven-veiled hell.
a misguided animal,
   a once innocent child
   trained in venom-soaked
   malevolence.
a boom-then doom
   boom-doom
   boom-doom
   boom-doom.
                                GW Yeatman

Who am I?

GW Yeatman 

  
Who am I that God would love me, 
And grasp my flailing hand,
Securing me to solid rock,
From desert's quickened sand?

Among a million squirming souls, 
In darkened hives of swarm,
That God would safely pluck me,  
Nestled in His arms?
   
Not centuries past or those to come,  
But this day, this hour, this time, 
Why would he rescue me as this?
To show His love-and gather mine. 
  

       

Solitary Bloom

Solitary Bloom
GW Yeatman


Every year an azalea behind my house blooms in glorious profusion.  Flowers shroud it like snow. A common green bush becomes a white resplendent wonder. Then one day petals wilt and fade. Flowers shrink into ugly tufts of brown detritus soon to return to earth's replenishing humus.

Yet one remains.  For weeks I gaze at it.  Day after day I look to see if the bloom still clings to its source of extended sustenance.  Yes, it is there.  Why, I wonder?  Why does this piece of lingering life still exist surrounded by last month’s dead ephemera?

Each year I wonder if this solitary azalea is trying to speak to me.  “Be like me,” it says.  “Stay strong, hang on.  Do not for a minute loosen your grip on the source of sustaining vitality.  Remain when all else has faded beyond hope. Simply, simply remain!”

Am I to bloom when I would rather fade?  Am I to remain when others wilt away? Should I strive to provide a touch of hope in a world of shrunken plans and dying dreams?  Am I to cling when others fall?

But only a fool would listen to a flower, I remember.  Then let that fool be me! Though my spirit has often wilted, let it bloom.  Though my mind has often faded, let it flower. Though my countenance lingers in browning lackluster, may I whiten and bask in brilliant sunlight.  May others see in me some sign of beauty, some petal of enduring value.

Then, someday I too must shrink and let go. And, having imparted a small petal of living hope, may I fall to enrich the soil for others to blossom en masse or simply in solitary bloom.

Give Up?

GW Yeatman


We have heard the advice a thousand times. If you have fallen get up. I you have failed start over. If you persist you will win. If you try harder you will succeed. Just "buck up" dude, hold on to that bull, ride him until he throws you. Then climb back on even if you are a gored, bleeding mess.

And, oh yes. The famous Winston Churchill speech, “Never Give Up.”

But may I suggest there are times to give up. A fatal disease treated with reasonable aggressiveness but now in the final phase of painful demise. A relationship having exhausted all reasonable means of peaceful restoration. A job well executed yet producing more strife than productivity. A peer group persistently drawing us away from the best that we can be. A venue that inflames our lust for things we cannot safely or morally obtain. A substance that addicts. An incessantly-performed yet worthy activity constantly stealing us from our spouse and family. A personality mask that can't even hide zits. A macho manliness like broken armor inadequately protecting a wounded inner child.

And finally the most important of all, giving up ourselves-our souls. This is the hard one. I am, after all me. I hurt and no one else feels my pain. I want what I want. I go where I want to go. I do what I wish to do. I am in control. I've done it “my way” and I am not about to change.

Might I suggest there is someone who loves you more than you love yourself, who accepts you when you have fallen, who loves you when success has failed to satisfy, when the bull of life has stomped you into the dust despite the antics of a full circus of rodeo clowns.

Let go. Fall where you are.  Succumb to your weakness. Admit that your repertoire of solutions has expired. You are exhausted in body, mind and spirit.

For He is a lifter, a sustainer, an encourager, a physician, a counselor, an advocate, a lover. He is your Father, but he is not a pathological enabler. He lifts only those who have lightened their heavy yokes. He sustains those who feed upon his sustenance. He encourages those who listen. He counsels those who share their burden. He heals those who no longer deny their disease.

There are no conditions on Christ's love or his advocacy. He forces himself on no one. God is no rapist. Your eyes must meet his and he will stare you into a romance beyond all romances. And he will never “leave you or forsake you.” *

Will your dreams be fulfilled? Maybe. Will all your hurts be cured? No. Will you ever again fall? Yes. Then why bother. Because you will find peace for you soul, rest for your body, stillness for your mind.

Bother! Bother because he bothers. His ultimate sacrifice was for you, do not turn him away. He will stand as your final advocate in the ultimate court of appeals and he has never lost a case.

* Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord will personally go ahead of you. He will be with you; he will neither fail you nor abandon you. Deu.31:8

The Player Piano

                                                          

The Steinway leaned against a dusty, eggshell-colored wall.  Once its sounds pierced paper scrolls with pinpricks punched as if by angels’ harps.  But the old instrument must now endure earthly hands.  For long ago the heavenly realm had been sealed behind thin veneer doors glued irreparably shut.  Just a week before, a crisp twenty had snatched the scarred relic from retirement to bless a few more heart ties with bonds of Christian love.

Mom opened the bench lid just wide enough to extract a dog-eared hymnbook.  Opening it eye-level she began to rehearse her repertoire of twelve hymns.

Soon felt-tipped hammers would pound out chords of praise to tone-deaf ears, and raspy voices would respond in kind.  All this would meld into a dissonant soup of joyful noise.

My job was less musical-opening five drab folding chairs to secure the mechanical support of a handful of congregants.  Support of the financial type would be secured only by the hands of adults-a few crumpled bills and a handful of change.

A rap jostled the door.  Mom snatched her hands mid-note from the ivory to welcome the last attendee, the itinerate pastor.  Brother Frank, a towering mystical figure, had arrived.

 Several of his home groups would soon combine to form a local church built with funds from a strange investment called bonds.  Here an eight-year-old would listen in amazement as Brother Frank explained in great detail such big words as sanctification and tackle strange concepts like propitiation and substitutional grace.

But for now our home would be church.  Mom’s hands would play sweet melodies to my untrained ears.  Great hosts of angels would listen, I suppose with a giggle, to amateur praise of simple town folk who loved to lean on everlasting arms and spread the blessed assurance of his saving grace.

The old piano eventually retired but not before reverberating sheetrock walls with resounding praise.  And stanzas of peace were stamped into the songbook of a young boy’s heart.                                                                                                  

                                                                                                  GW Yeatman

                                                                                                        

The Tent Revival

                                                                     GW Yeatman

An army-green canvass loomed royally over umpteen rows of Samsonite, folding chairs.  Outward-leaning tent poles, giant ropes and steel rods secured her majesty in precarious reign.  Tons of fresh sawmill chips smothered an acre of Johnsongrass.  Enthroned upon a hastily erected stage sat a knotty, clear-lacquered pulpit. 

An evening breeze was yet to cool the Southern sun, and the air hung thick as London fog.  For every soul attending, a dozen mosquito-disciples turned out.  Bedecked in cotton print dresses, fan-waving ladies sat beside sweaty, tight-necked men.  The fabric temple bustled with attentive saints inhaling the sweet resin of loblolly pine.  Even the county fair could not top this grand venue.

Brother Pete Steelman had come to town for tent revival, and church folk from all over Oktibbeha County had marked this fateful night on their 1954 Security State Bank calendars.  I watched the entire spectacle through amazed, if not fully accurate, eyes of a nine-year-old boy.  The crowd rose to their feet and drawled a hymnbook load of  four-stanza classics.  Then a rotund man in full-suited preacher armor mounted the stage and began yelling some things from the Bible. 

It was time for my friend and me to try to redeem our long-suffering night.  Stevie and I perched atop a crude, splintery bench at the end of a long empty isle and chattered away the hours.  Before we knew it Amazing Grace was in full chorus and a burly man marched down the isle toward us. 

Oh my, we were in trouble.  What would he do?  We were sure to be reported to our parents to receive the full wrath of the Lord.  He stopped in front of us.  He did not shout like the preacher.  And he wasn't even mad!  We were receiving a scare commodity called mercy and even more of it was about to change our lives forever. 

“You boys need to go down and accept Jesus into your hearts,” the tender Goliath instructed. 

"Yes sir,” we agreed.  

We had believed his report.  Taking us by the hand he led us to a prayer tent just left of the stage.  Inside another gentle soul told us how we could save our own.

“Jesus Christ died for your sins,” an altar worker carefully explained, “If you accept him into your hearts, you can receive eternal life.” 

Though our young ears had shut out the din of the service, another sense now took full control.  The good news was so logical it must true, and only a fool could refuse so gentle a reprieve. And even grown church sinners were getting “saved” for all eternity.  Some of them I knew well.  One of them walked over to give me her good news.   I could see she was filled with joy.  This moment was to sear a lasting memory deeply within my heart.

Bending over, the lady made certain I could hear, “I accepted Jesus as my Savior son.”

"Me too Mama," I said, " I did too, so did I."

Trapped Firmly by the Foot of God

Trapped firmly by the foot of God,

Held painfully against a well-seated stone.

Squirming to free myself from His relentless grip,

Or nudge slightly to escape the jagged edges of torment.

At last giving up my fight expecting to be crushed,

To find, instead, the stone slowly beginning to slip.

Held firmly now by the hand of God,

Bruised and bleeding from my fight.

Exhausted I lie gently within His palm,

No struggle remains nor crushing pain,

But merely the gentle warmth of His embrace,

A healing touch, a soothing balm.

Held firmly by the plan of God.

With no power left within my frame.

Just battered, sickly and lean.

Wishing only His will for what remains.

Placed squarely within a Godly scheme.

As He rolls stony paths clean.

                                  

                                                GW Yeatman

Oscars Revenge

GW Yeatman


A young Bible college graduate eager to impress his parishioners enlisted the help of his younger brother Oscar to gather materials for a brilliant object lesson. This was his big mistake. 

The inaugural day came and the church overflowed with townspeople. The editor of the local rag peered pen-in-hand 
from the front pew to record hometown boy "done good." Permission was obtained from the elders for his cameraman 
to discretely "join" the choir as a duly robed member. 


Two bottles of water perched precariously on the lectern, registering with perfect cadence the Ricter of every organ note.  One bottle was transparent, sparkling with acoustically induced carbonated bubbles.  The other was translucent but stirred now to turbid opacity as if by God himself.  The congregation sat in awe as the dirty bottle grew darker. The sermon began with a solemn prayer followed by professorial elocution of a written text on purity. 

"We of Go-Forth Church have kept ourselves free from the pollution of sin. We are shining examples of clarity and offer potable solutions for a lost and thirsty world.  Most churches, however, are stained with the toxins of sin, stirred to full darkness by the powers of Satan."  

He summoned the congregants to come forward to taste from the "untainted" bottle, a symbol of their oath of purity.  One by one they came, sipped the holy substance and remained at the altar until every isle was clogged with the faithful.  

At this moment the first partaker's face turned pale.  Sweat beaded on his brow.  His mouth filled with a sour, burning liquid.  Suddenly a bright (photographer's) light flashed.  


Sister Quatran shouted, "I've seen the Lord."  


More faces blanched, mouths exploded with brown ejecta as dizzy heads found their way to the carpet. Half the audience climbed over falling bodies, running from the church in sheer terror.

The next day a photo was plastered over the front page of the local newspaper.  It showed the back of a clergyman standing with hands outstretched toward an assortment of disoriented congregants. 


The headlines read "Church Pukes the Devil out of Members." The entire town was in shock, the parishioners embarrassed, the pastor humiliated.  

Oscar and his chemistry class buddies, however, spent the day at the old swimming hole guffawing and snorting in hysterical delight.*


*This story is not intended to represent the behavior of any specific church or denomination, especially any such as may bear the name "Go-Forth."
........................................................................................................

My own fall from lofty "pulpiteering" was neither comical nor publicly humiliating.  But self realization of my condition did come as suddenly as a blinding light.  

All things in which I took pride had been taken, my nuclear family, my profession, my reputation, my health.  There remained only one direction to look, toward God.  


Upon reading the biblical story of two men praying in the temple, I experienced an epiphany.  One man lifted his eyes toward heaven and praised God for being more holy than the other.  The sinner had no such claim, but merely hung his head in shame acknowledging his sin and begging for mercy.


Suddenly I realized that for many years I had not been the person 
I claimed.  I was the braggart in the temple!  I crawled to the other side of the temple and begged God to forgive me of my greatest sin-pride.  And a great load was lifted.


"God Be Merciful to me a sinner."
                                   Luke 8: 13 KJV

The Aggregate

I am a composite, a conglomerate, a recipe of diverse consumption.  I am a loaf sliced by the sharp edge of family tradition, peer pressure, secular education, and church doctrine.  Media noise and oratorical argument cloud my mind.  I view Scripture through a lifetime lens of preconceived ideas.  Claiming verses for my own solace, I codify them into law, spew forth "great spiritual truths," and assemble dusty dogma.  In so doing I "prove" my doctrine correct, my creed certain, and my actions justified.  

Working in feeble power and programed intelligence 
I have attempted to quench my thirst from a polluted well. In the presence of an overflowing cornucopia, 
I pass up morsels that convict of sin or challenge to action.  Engorging savory delicacies of easy digestion, I slink into the pathetic couch of slothful inertia.  Such is the life of a spiritual couch potato-me.

How may I correct so severe a malady, to allow the Holy Spirit to impress upon on my mental clay the wondrous mysteries of a great and glorious God?  
How do I stand barefoot on firm, holy ground, lest 
I mire in quicksand of my own design? He alone holds the bowl of satiating sustenance, devoid of fat, mixed of divine ingredients in proper blend


Have I totally surrendered my motives to the will of God?  Or do I set out to prove a premise, delving 
into scripture just far enough to guarantee that I am correct.  Do I "tempt" the Lord by using Him for my convenience?  Have I convinced myself of great knowledge only to find that I remain a scrawny suckling of truth?  Or do I learn from the example of Christ and the apostles, avoiding any personal gain from its use.  I must examine myself very carefully. This is an insidious tendency, one that others may recognize while I remain blinded. 

GW Yeatman