Introducing a new feature...

I am sitting down once again on a quiet summer evening and wondering desperately what to say, how to express myself.

I get kind of tired sometimes of just writing stuff and not having much interaction with you all who read my blog. So I decided I am going to start a new feature. I will to have a "Question of the Week."

You submit any question[s] you may have and I will post it here. Submit your questions to: wildrosebudsforhim [at] gmail [dot] com. I will assume that you would rather your name not be attached to the question[s] unless you otherwise state. It will be open for all readers to share their thoughts on the matter.

Here is our first Question of the Week:

"Do you think that it is right for a Christian to drink alcohol? Do you think it is alright Biblically? Do you think it is a faithful witness of Jesus Christ to unbelievers if a believer is seen going around drinking alcohol? Even if you only drink on occasion and never get drunk, do you think that Christ would drink? If so, why? If not, why not?"

Please comment with your thoughts.

The First Settler's Story - continued

Here comes the final installment of the poem. It has a sad ending, and I hope that it will help us to always remember to speak kindly and gently.

The First Settler's Story -continued

And from the clouds a rough, deep growl proceeded,

My thunderstorm had come, now 'twasn't needed.

And she, while I was sheltered, dry and warm,

Was somewhere in the clutches of that storm!

She, who when storm-frights found her at her best,

Had always hid her white face on my breast!

My dog, who'd skirmished round me all the day,

Now crouched and whimpering in a corner lay.

I dragged him by the collar to the wall,

I pressed his quivering muzzle to her shawl-

"Track her old boy, "I shouted, and he whined,

Matched eyes with me, as if to read my mind.

Then with a yell, went tearing through the wood,

I followed him as faithful as I could.

No pleasure trip was that, through flood and flame

We raced with death, we hunted noble game.

All night we dragged the woods without avail;

The ground got drenched; we could not keep the trail.

Three times again my cabin home I found,

Half hoping she might be there safe and sound.

But each time'twas an unavailing care,

My house had lost its soul - she was not there.

When climbing the wet trees next morning's sun

Laughed at the ruin that the night had done.

Bleeding and drenched, by toil and sorrow bent,

Back to what used to be my home I went.

But as I neared our little clearing ground;

Listen! I heard the cowbells' tingling sound.

The cabin door was just a bit ajar,

It gleamed upon my glad eyes like a star.

"Brave heart," I said, for such a fragile form,

She made them guide them homeward through the storm.

Such pangs of joy I never felt before;

"You've come!" I shouted, and rushed through the door.

Yes, she had come and gone again, she lay

With her young life crushed and wrenched away.

Lay the heart ruins of our home among

Not far from where I killed her with my tongue.

The raindrops glittered amid her hair, long strands.

The forest thorns had torn her feet and hands.

And amidst those tears, brave tears that one could trace

Upon that pale but sweetly resolute face,

I once again the mournful words could read,

I've tried to do my best, I have indeed.

And now I am almost done, my story's almost o'er,

Part of it never breathed the air before,

But where e'er this story's voice can reach,

This is the sermon I would have it preach;

Boys flying kites haul in their white winged birds;

You can't do that when you're flying words.

Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead,

But God himself can't kill them once they're said.

Careful with fire is good advice we know;

"Careful with words" is ten times doubly so.

You have my life grief! Don't think a minute

'Twas told to take up time! There's business in it.

It sheds advice; who e'er will take and live it,

Is welcome to the pain it takes to give it.

by Bayard Taylor

The First Settler's Story - continued

As I warned before this poem is very long. And you might need to have a box of tissues handy near the end, which will be in the next post and last part of the poem. Because of the pain in the poem I hesitated to share it but it has a very deep lesson and it is one of the things that is part of our high calling. To speak only kindly. It reminds how weak we are without God.

The First Settler's Story - continued

She handed back no words that I could hear;

She didn't frown; she didn't shed a tear;

Half proud, half crushed she stood and looked me o'er.

Like someone she had never seen before!

But such a sudden anguish lit surprise

I never saw before in human eyes,
(I have seen it oft since in a dream,

It wakes me sometimes like a midnight scream.)

That night while theoretically sleeping,
I half heard, and half felt, that she was weeping.

My heart then projected a design

Tos oftly draw her face close up to mine,

And beg her fogiveness to bestow

For saying what we both knew wasn't so.

I've got enough of this world's goods to do me,

And make my nephews painfully civil to me,

I'd give it all to know she only knew

How near I came to what was square and true.

But somehow every singly time I'd try,

Pride would appear and kind of catch my eye,

And hold me on the edge of my advance

With the cold steel of one sly scornful glance.

Next morning, when stone faced, but heavy hearted,

With dinner pail and sharpened ax I started

Away for my day's work - she watched the door

And followed me halfway to it, or more.

And I was just turning round at this

And asking of my usual good-by kiss,

But on her lips I saw a proudish curve

And in her eyes a shadow of reserve.

And she had shown perhaps half unawares

Some little independent breakfast airs;

So our usual parting didn't occur

Although her eyes invited me to her.

Or rather, half invited, for she

Didn't advertise to furnish kisses free;

You always had - that is I had - to pay

Full market price, and go more than half the way.

So with a short good by I shut the door

And left her as I never had before.

Now when a man works with his muscles smartly,

It makes him up into machinery partly.

And any troubles he may have on hand

Get deadened like and easier to stand,

And though the memory of last night's mistake

Bothered me with a dull and heavy ache,

I all the forenoon gave my strength full rein,

And made the wounded trees bear half the pain.

But when luncheon I came to eat

Put up by her so delicately neat.

Choicer somewhat, than yesterday's had been,

And some fresh sweet-eyed pansies she'd put in.

Tender and pleasant thoughts I knew they meant,

It seemed as if her kiss with me she'd sent.

Then once more I became her humble lover

And said, tonight I'll ask forgiveness of her.

I went home over early on that eve,

Having contrived to make myself believe,

By various signs I kind of knew and guessed

A thunderstorm was coming from the West.

'Tis strange when one sly reason fills the heart,

How many honest ones will take its part.

A dozen first class reasons said 'twas right

That I should strike home early on that night.

Half out of breath the cabin door I swung

With tender heart words trembling on my tongue.

But all within looked desolate and bare;

My house had lost its soul - she was not there.

A penciled note was on the table spread,

And these are something like the words it said:

"The cows have strayed away again I fear,

I watched them pretty close; don't scold me dear.

"And where they are, I think I nearly know;

I heard the bell not very long ago.

I've hunted for them all the afternoon,

I'll try once more; I think I'll find them soon.

"Dear, if a burden I have been to you,

And haven't helped you as I ought to do,

Let old time memories my forgiveness plead,

I've tried to do my best, I have indeed.

"Darling, piece out with love the strength I lack

And have kind words for me when I get back."

Scarce had I given this not sight and tongue

When a few swift blown raindrops to the window clung.

....to be continued

The First Settler's Story

This poem is another one in my collections. It is a heartrending and deeply touching story. One that tells how our words affect others. It is very long, but very worth the reading. Our words go flying and once said they cannot be brought back in. But I'll let you go on and read the poem, though I am sure you probably skipped over this already. I am posting it in parts so you don't have to read it all at once. Let me know if you would like to read the whole thing or not. Keep in mind that this is a true story and is told by the man himself of his own experience.

The First Settler's Story

My girl wife was as brave as she was good.
She helped me every blessed way she could.
She seemed to take to every rough old tree,
As singular she first took to me.

She kept our little log house neat as wax,
And once I caught her foolin' with my ax.
She learned a hundred masculine things to do.
She aimed a shot gun pretty middlin' true.

Although in spite of my expressed desire,
She would always shut her eyes before she'd fire.
She hadn't the muscle, though she had the heart,
In outdoor work to take an active part.

When I was logging, burning, chopping wood,
She'd linger round and help me all she could,
And kept me fresh, ambition all the while,
And lifted tons just with her voice and smile.

With no desire my glory for to rob,
She used to stand around and boss the job;
And when first class success my hands befell
Would proudly say we did that pretty well!

She was delicious both to hear and see-
That pretty girl wife that kept house for me.
Sundays we didn't propose for lack o' church
To have our soul's left wholly in the lurch.

So I shaved and dressed up well as I could,
And did a day's work trying to be good.
Well, we would take our books, sit down alone,
And have a two horse meeting all our own.

We would read our verses, sing our sacred rhymes,
And make it seem a good deal like old times.
But finally across her face there'd glide
A sort of sorry shadow from inside.

And once she dropped her head like a tired flower
Upon my arm and cried a half an hour.
I humored her until she had it out,
I didn't ask her what it was about.

I knew right well our reading, song and prayer
Had brought the old times back to true and square.
Well, neighborhoods meant counties in those days,
The roads didn't have accommodating ways.

And maybe weeks would pass before she'd see,
And much less talk, with anyone but me.
Some ideas from the birds and trees she stole,
But twasn't like talking with a human soul.

And finally I thought I could trace
A half heart hunger from her face,
Then she would drive it back and shut the door;
Of course that only made me see it more.

'Twas hard to see her give her life to mine,
Making a stead effort not to pine;
'Twas hard to hear that laugh boom out each minute
And recognize the seeds of sorrow in it.

Well, she kept on as plucky as could be,
Fighting the foe she thought I didn't see,
And using her heart horticultural powers
To turn that forest to a bed of flowers.

You cannot check an unadmitted sigh,
And so I had to sooth her on the sly,
And secretly to help her draw her load
And soon it came to be an uphill road.

Hard work bears hard on the average pulse,
Even with satisfactory results;
But when efforts are scarce, the heavy strain
Falls dead and solid on the heart and brain.

And when we're bothered it will oft occur
We seek blame timber, and I lit on her,
And looked on her with daily lessoning favor
For what I knew she couldn't help to save her.

And so ere long she caught the halfgrown fact,
Commenced observing how I didn't act,
And silently began to grieve and doubt
o'er old attentions now sometimes left out-

Some kind caresses, some little petting ways
Commenced a-staying in on rainy days.
(I did not see so clear then I'll allow
but I can trace it rather accurate now.)

And discord, when once he had called and seen us,
Called round quite often and edged in between us.
One night, when I came home unusual late,
Too hungry and tired to feel first rate.

Her supper struck me wrong (though I'll allow
She didn't have much to strike with anyhow;)
And when I went to milk the cows and found
They had wandered from their usual feeding ground-

And maybe left a few long miles behind them
Which I must occupy if I meant to find them.
Flash quick the stay chains of my temper broke,
And in thrice these hot words I had spoke-

"You'd ought to've kept those animals in view
And drove them in; you'd nothing else to do.
The heft of all our life on me must fall;
You just lie around and let me do it all."

That speech - it hadn't been gone half a minute
Before I saw the cold, black poison in it;
And I'd have given all I had and more
To've only safely got it back in door.

I'm now what most folks "well to do" would call,
I feel today as if I would give it all,
Provided, I thought, fifty years might reach,
Kill and bury that half minute speech.

Boys flying kites haul in their white winged birds;
You can't do that when you're flying words.
Things that we think may sometimes fall back dead,
Even God Himself can't kill them once they're said.

-to be continued

by Bayard Taylor

Thank You, Lord

As I see more and more how frail life is and how suddenly our lives can be changed, it rings home true all the more often how thankful I should be and am for each day of life. For each day is a blessing from God and each breath we take is a miracle of His grace. I am so thankful...

Thank you Lord.

Thanks to God for my Redeemer,

Thanks for all Thou dost provide!

Thanks for times now but a memory,

Thanks for Jesus by my side!

Thanks for pleasant, balmy springtime,

Thanks for dark and stormy fall!

Thanks for tears by now forgotten,

Thanks for peace within my soul!

Thanks for prayers that Thou hast answered,

Thanks for what Thou dost deny!

Thanks for storms that I have weathered,

Thanks for all Thou dost supply!

Thanks for pain, and thanks for pleasure,

Thanks for comfort in despair!

Thanks for grace that none can measure,

Thanks for love beyond compare!

Thanks for roses by the wayside,

Thanks for thorns their stems contain!

Thanks for home and thanks for fireside,

Thanks for hope, that sweet refrain!

Thanks for joy and thanks for sorrow,

Thanks for heav’nly peace with Thee!

Thanks for hope in the tomorrow,

Thanks through all eternity!

-August L. Storm

Sympathy and Empathy

Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ. Galations 6:2

T ime and again I have wondered what I will write about here, and each time when I thought that I have exhausted my resources I realize that with God there is always something to share. It is a source that is never exhausted. Most times my thoughts are jumbled and hard to put into words. Sometimes I wonder why I keep on writing on here, what good is it doing? But for some reason I keep on sharing thoughts. I am not trying to 'teach' anyone, just sharing heart-thoughts.

The Lord calls us to "bear one another's burdens and so fulfill the law of Christ..." To share in the sufferings of those around us. To offer compassion and care in their pain. To do our best to aid our fellowmen in the strife. To feel their grief.

"If you find it in your heart to care for somebody else, you will have succeeded." -Maya Angelou

Oft times we'll say to someone who is grieving, "Oh, I am so sorry this happened, I'll be thinking of you..." and then we go on and forget all about them. We just say those words because that is what we say, that is polite. I am not saying that we all do that, many of us don't. Many of us do think of them and hurt with them, but there are those who don't.

Do we really care? When we look around us at the pain and suffering, at those who are grieving, do we really feel for them?

In loving and knowing we can feel their pain. We can suffer along with them in their grief. Instead of telling them, "Just get over it..."

"We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give." - Norman MacEwan

I am someone who when I see others suffering it makes me want to weep, when I see them weeping a loss of a loved one, I'll weep with them, even if I didn't hardly know the person very well or at all who passed on. But my heart goes out to the suffering. I want to show empathy, to be compassionate as our Lord was. To try my best to understand and when I can't to trust God as all-knowing and all-powerful.

It's easy to show sympathy to those we love. But do we feel for those we don't love? Do we have a heart of compassion and love for the loveless? Do we care enough to give of ourselves? To give and to love as Christ did? To show sympathy and empathy to all?