Summer Showers
Through
bitter-sweet tears welling from deep within a mother’s satiated though broken
tender heart came a raspy voice like wind-blown fallen Autumn leaves grating
across a textured concrete hardness on an iron-grey chilled day; the
parched-like harshness of the usually sweet woman’s pleasant voice nearly
unrecognizable to her own visiting son’s ear. A tortured expression born of
anxiety and trepidation on a pallid face with translucent skin stretched tight
by emotional stress thinning the lips in a mirthless half-smile of surreal
despair-etching born of both happiness and grief, simultaneously, came the
thin, strained, owl-screechy voice as Elinore focused to manage the words which
personified her jumbled feelings as tremors hesitatingly tumbled from within
her fractured desires.
Home!
At last! To visit. Still, the obfuscated doubt of despair must be confronted.
“Son,
I dearly love you. That, you know and I’ll not deny the truth of it.
“But,
you come in here like a summer thunderstorm blowing out its horrid fury in a
fit of unrestrained anger and agitation, forcing your impromptu presence upon
us, commanding attention, upsetting our peaceful, quiet lives of existence.
These impressionable children are tantalized by your seductive tales of
awesome, exotic adventures, fascinated with your myriad travel exploits,
enraptured by your worldly experiences. Collaterally, sinister seeds of unrest
are sowed by you. Their wide eyes bespeak the truth of fascination to the
fantasy you tell.
“When
you take your leave, and, you most certainly will do so, you kidnap their
curiosity, holding it hostage to their ordered lives of normalcy, begging them
lay challenge to all which is true and dear in their reverent lives; we are
then left with empty shells. While I do not disparage the necessity of
questioning beliefs, all held values, and discarding those not worthy, or
capable, of attaining the pinnacle of virtue, these innocents are tender of
years and of adult maturity. They were tethered, stationed, kept, bound by our
example. Soon now, they will question…wonder, as to Truth! Some, I fear, will
leave us in sadness, unable to compete. Perhaps, all that is as it should be.
Perhaps?
“But,
in fairness, where are you? Where were you? In our time of need?
“Yes,
Son. You send money and, I freely, and, thankfully, admit, that generosity
always helps. But, sadly, it is simply not enough. Given a choice, we would
rather desire your presence here than benefit temporarily from the fleeting
coins.
“Where
are you, Son?” The old woman sighed and visibly shook at her plea’s conclusion.
Then,
she continued. “Why must you ramble like a dried leaf upon wild wind?
“Roots?
Son, why have your roots not held you?”
At
last, she silently sobbed choking gasps, hot tears flowing down hollow cheeks.
Michael James Bradley
(October 9,
1953-June 26, 2012)
(a loving
tribute; 6-26-2013)
One
sunny spring day found me in the office at 2:30 p.m., busy at my desk, working.
What?
I
sensed someone at the door and looked up expecting one of the office girls
asking for a clarification on some point that left her confused while
transcribing my dictation. Surprise!
There
stood Michael, leaning against the door jamb in his bland, deferential
personage.
My
gaze betrayed obvious curiosity prompting him to inquire, “Have you ever felt
like you might cry? And, there was no reason for you to feel that way?”
Leaning
back in my chair and laying down my pen, I answered, truthfully, “Yeah. At
mass, at the offering-collection and at Holy Communion. Also, when I think of
my family and country.”
Unusual
as all of that is, that episode began our seventeen year spiritual journey,
together.
That
first day of our sojourn, Michael explained the “stirrings” of the Holy Spirit,
that strange “crying” sensation; how the Spirit lives within each of us, the
welling up behind the eyes when He “stirs”. Two and a half hours later, our
conversation ended; I was enlightened, overwhelmed.
Before
he delved too deeply in disclosure of his “spiritual understandings” to me that
day, Michael asked for a blank piece of paper and a pen. Coming behind my desk,
he drew a flat, straight line, horizontally, across the paper; then added a
graph-like line with many and varied peaks and valleys. At either end he placed
a small “x” representing birth and death.
He
said, “If this drawing was a graph of your life, the flat line a choice to live
with no highlights, no deep valleys, un-emotional, safe, secure, enough of
everything to satisfy you; the jagged line, extreme highs and deep lows with a
choice to challenge life, take chances, risk everything, have the faith, and,
the guts, to contest life for all it can give, but, knowing full-well that the
valleys will be as severe and long-lasting as the highs. Which would you
choose?”
Without
hesitation or compunction, I confessed, “The latter; every time. That’s how I
live.”
On
my way home that very day, I experienced my first vision. I felt so
un-deserving after it happened that I refused for several years to call them
“visions”; I referred to them as “images”.
Michael
insisted that they were true visions and that I should just accept them as
such.
I
was intensely humbled by these extra-ordinary occurrences; I was not convinced;
not worthy. For seventeen years Michael’s genius and my thoughts discussed,
dissected, challenged and blatantly and brutally tested the phenomena which
happened to me. In spite of our aggressive efforts to “de-bunk” the images, in
the end, we, together, could not do so. He said that I had between fifty and
sixty such happenings; I never counted; his assessment seems correct.
I
wrote each occurrence with drawings and gave copies to Michael. He had a
special gift which allowed him to interpret their meaning; his discernment was
absolutely uncanny.
Two
points of import with regard to this follow: 1) Often, I would utter some fact
or describe a scene which he would interrupt saying that the issue or words
were accurately scriptural; 2) One vision was about an eagle clutching a
rattlesnake, climbing high and dropping it onto a rock, head first and killing
it; NINE (9) years later, this “vision” came true and revealed its meaning.
With
regard to (1) above, I have no “bible-knowledge” to offer anything scriptural;
the second item was indecipherable to Michael for nine years; I had forgotten
it, but, he remembered.
I harbor no
ill-feelings for any skeptic regarding this accuracy; I confess that should
someone come to me with this fantastic supernatural story, I would not believe
them, either. Yet, he and I know the truth of the matter. I am no saint, but, I
would fear to lie about such Godly matters. Amen! Michael! I miss and will
always love you! Mon Amie!
Borrowed from a Sunday Sermon
God
calls each of us to be His messenger. At inception, the Master Already had a
plan for our life. He beckons us to walk with Him, to be so full of His Love
that others will see the joy in us and desire what it is that we possess.
“Christianity”, it has been alleged, cannot be taught; the concept must be-Caught.
Example teaches---best; desire of Grace catches---best! Amen!
If
you think that you could never live like that? Faith! Friend! Faith! Give it a
try!
Following
are a list of some of the greatest people of the Bible. Each of them held
reasonable conviction as to why God could not, and would not, choose them. Nice
try!
Consider
these excuses; then, next time you feel God can’t use humble you, just
remember:
Jacob was a liar Noah was a drunk
Leah was ugly Gideon was afraid
Abraham was too
old Isaac was a daydreamer
Job went
bankrupt Zacchaeus was too
small
Peter denied
Christ Paul was too
religious
Elijah was
suicidal Rahab was a
prostitute
Timothy had an
ulcer Naomi was a widow
Jonah ran away
from God’s call
Moses had a
speech impediment
Martha was a
perpetual worrier
Isaiah thought
himself unworthy
Joseph was
abused by his brothers
The disciples
fell asleep while praying
At Jesus’
arrest, they all forsook Him and fled
Sampson had long
hair and was a womanizer
Jeremiah and
Timothy thought they were too young
David had an
affair with a married woman and murdered her husband
The Samaritan
woman who spoke to Jesus at the well was five times divorced…
And, the most
decided of all excuses:
Lazarus was Dead!
So? What is your
excuse? Whatever it is, God can still use you to your full potential!
After all, you
are not the message---
You are only
the…messenger!
Amen? Amen!
Saintly
Blessing!
(A Tribute)
In loving memory
of a Southern Gentleman:
Mr. Randell
Houston Farrell
(July 4,
1934-March 12, 2013)
Embracing shadow
cast a humble love, his own true measure
Saintly touched
so many lives an ever-present gifted treasure
Respectful kind
exemplar Nashville-Kid quite fine
Most
generous-spirit aura brightly golden halo shine
Remember sacred
legacy of noble Randell’s gentle pleasure
Amen!
Respectfully,
with Love, forever,
Carl, Candy, Z.
Tyler, Marguerite & all the Family
Author’s
note: “Cool!” might very well be more a reverent function embracing
“Independent Individualism” than any celebration of irreverent collective faux
jealousy.
Happy Birthday!
Gentleman-Uncle Randell
(July 4, 2010)
I often tell a
story in which I admit that there are five people I have known with whom I
might have teamed to conquer the world. One of them is you. Oh! We were never
any real threat, thank God. Three states-distance pretty much precluded any
possibility of a concerted effort.
I learned some
important things about life from you. Being polite is foremost in my mind. In
my youth I often heard you say “Yes, Sir” and “No, ma’am” when addressing
people, even when they were younger than you. That made an impression on me; it
speaks to your upbringing and says a lot about your character. It takes a “man”
to be honestly humble, as you are.
I know your
family truly loves you and appreciates all that you and Gloria do for them.
From my perspective, you are one of the most generous people I have ever known.
I try to emulate that virtue, too. To openly give of yourself is the only
perfect gift we can offer; you do it admirably, quietly, subtly, without
fanfare. That trait adds quality to your life and provides warm comfort to
those around you. We all love you for it.
Your honesty in
life is pure instinct. Your off-the-cuff comments are hilarious and your story
telling ability is unsurpassed. I love to converse with you and listen to you
talk with other people; the experience is enjoyable, educational and
informative in many respects. At a family reunion, Brother John teasingly asked
what you would do if you won the sixty million dollar lottery jackpot. You did
not miss a beat and out popped, “Why! I’d pay half my bills.”
I have used that
line many times whenever playing the lottery comes up.
Thank you. (And,
Yes! I always credit you with the witticism.)
You and cousin-Walter
came to visit one time and installed a new roof on our garage. I was seventeen
and had a car Mom got for me; funny how she never needed one until I turned
sixteen and started driving. Anyhow, it looked sharp with pin striping outside
and on the dash. It had spinner wheel covers on the front and chrome baby moons
under fender skirts on the rear. You drove and bragged on her so much that I
gained a new respect for it. I had a great car, a beautiful girl (whom I later
married) and to top it all off, a very “Cool” uncle from Tennessee.
I do not know if
you can strum a guitar and sing, and very definitely I do not want to ever see
you swivel your hips, but that dude from down Memphis-way had nothing on you
when it came to “Cool!”. He could have taken lessons from the “Nashville Kid”.
He was a gospel crooner king; my Uncle Randell is “Mr. Cool!”
We always had a
great time. Money was scarce as snow on July 4th. We would scare up
a dollar for a watermelon, chip ice over it and sit on granny’s porch and party
while the kids chased fireflies. Sometimes we picnicked at Shelby Park; Mom
still makes the best-ever southern fried chicken. Fun and family is never about
money; it is all about “Attitude!” Once people learn that simple truth,
happiness and fond, worthwhile memories follow automatically. They do for
me---each…and, very day. Dawn promises myriad events which become the adventure
pursued.
One time you
helped me mow the farm lawn; three and a half acres. You were relieved when we
got done; then Dad pointed to a sixty acre wheat field and said that we still
had that to do. You deftly replied, “When you get your half done, let me know,
and then I’ll do mine.”
Once I rode with
you to Peoria in a Luby-Cowin big rig; your handle was “Dr. Feel Good” on the
CB radio. Then, on to Tennessee where Candy waited having driven down with Mom.
You had a red Ford Galaxy convertible three speed, gave me the keys without any
restriction and said, “Have fun.” Without conditions. No codicils. Just: Love!
Thank you!
On Sunday we
took it to the Hermitage. I returned a similar favor to kids many times over
the years and gave mention that Uncle Randell had taught me something about
generosity. I thank you and I’m sure those boys and girls do, too.
You are like Z.
Tyler in that everybody loves you. I guess that is why you and he hit it off so
well. We speak of you often and enjoy the stories. He and the girls are such a
blessing. A very smart man once advised, “God sends the people we need when we
need them.” Amen!
Finally, Uncle
Randell is one of the finest and nicest men I have ever known. A true southern
gentleman. And, that is not a tribute that I often convey to anyone.
So, Happy
Birthday, young man! We wish you many, many more. Amen!
God bless! Love, Carl & Candy & All
P.S.- Becky read
this and said I forgot something; I did. So, with apology, here it is:
When we lived on
our Maeystown farm, you came to visit. We went horseback riding and I gave you
Commander, a big, blood-bay gelding. And, boy! Did you ride him. When you left
he said that he never knew he could run that fast---or…far! He asked if you
were ever coming back to ride again. A few days later I found his saddle bags
packed and a note about running away to Colorado. He denied that he wrote it,
but his signature “hoof print” betrayed his culpability.
God bless you! God help me! Please!
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