Spiritually Receivedth

 

Thanks for our time yesterday
A nice planned dinner at your favorite, Benihana

The table was set so well…

From the couple right besides with their young daughter
To the young couple that just moved here from Sweden after spending a couple of years in Denmark

 

And, the men sited on another table, that we chatted with as we waited on a packed dineout Saturday evening
I couldn’t help it, as they were decently dressed in matching European Apparel
Later find out they are were Irish Men

 

I know it is a good dinner when the complaints is not about the food itself
But, my old dented car that was waiting for us outside as we emptied the restaurant
You affectionately reminded me
how more than anything you will like for me to get a new one

 

I am so very sorry that Instagram and text messages had to ruin our evening for us

Took the charge for a 2 Star sleep in, it is the Valley.

 

 

As a boy couldn’t wait to get to the physical
But, passed on the holding and caressing thereafter
Ended up as far as I could on the other side of the bed

 

I know I should have been the first to say sorry on waking up this morning
Gave me an opportunity to say so when you reminded me that I had all night to hold you, as I returned for a return affair this morning

 

But, pride forever gets in the way
Shallow only see things from one side

 

If I was a masseuse, I would try to untie you in all the knotted knobs
But, never been good at taking time
And, so I raced to God to bail me out

 

As I prayed to see what I am dealing with
And, what walls and hallways I was permitted to
God reminded me it wasn’t really you
But, I that needed accepting

 

There are things we know
There are things we are given
But, unable to accept in the present Life we live

 

Those things that only prayer into his being
Into his presence can be availed to us

 

Thanks for allowing me to receive those things that are sometimes physically there,
yet can only be spiritually received

In some ways the one left holding the bag, is the one who hoped or gave the most.

Coincidentally it is same that has to hid for the shame of having giving up so much.

 

Gone so far, I am Monica
Came back in the morning hoping you did not notice

When things didn’t go my way
Raced to God with a list of all things that is wrong
Thanks goodness, he has a short list
Actually a one liner
Had my name on it

Read you came to him
And, you and he and have already worked it out
And, you already fessed to me, as well

So what does Johnny come lately get
Not a lot

I just sometimes wonder about these guys who get to have a long conversation with him
All I ever get is quick rebuke
And, told to go my way

 

Cornerstone Verses

Romans 4:6-8
just as David proclaims the blessedness of the man to whom God credits righteousness apart from works:

“Blessed are those whose iniquities are forgiven, whose sins are covered;
Blessed is the man whose sin the Lord will never count against him.”…

Psalm 32:1-2
Blessed is He who is Forgiven

How blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, Whose sin is covered!
How blessed is the man to whom the LORD does not impute iniquity, And in whose spirit there is no deceit!…

Psalm 130:3-4
If You, LORD, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand?

But there is forgiveness with You, That You may be feared.…

… For with the LORD there is lovingkindness ( Psalm 130:7 )

 

Habakkuk 2:4
Behold, his soul which is lifted up is not upright in him: but the just shall live by his faith.

 

Sermons

  1. #4 Romans by Chuck Missler
    • Videos
      • YouTube
        • Channel :- NarrowPathMatt714
          Published On :- 2014-August-17th
          Link

Kenneka Jenkins and Young African American Womanhood

Preface

I think it was Monday morning through Google News that I first became aware of the Kenneka Jenkins story.

 

Desperation

At face value there seems to be quite a bit lost in translating those early hours of “Innocence Lost” into community participation.

What does one do when a young adult goes missing.

Once someone is 18 they pretty much have a right to self determination.  They can simple say and do their Yeses and Noes.

They can stay gone and missing for a few days.

As I read it her mother woke up and went to the Hotel and asked for help once contacted by her friends and told they could not find her.

It appears she was told by the Hotel Clerks that can only do so much until she files a “Missing Person” report.

 

Womanhood

You could tell the mother loves her.

One could tell her Sister loves her.

I think there was a young man that stood with her mother, as well.

Sometimes during adolescence we try so very hard at holding on to those who love us.

But, more so, at navigating towards our own Identity and the Yeses that come within that.

Seemingly, it is the price of Womanhood.

 

How things look and how they are

Hair done, nails nailed

Face prettied, gowns worn

From the look of things sure and ready for anything

 

But, at nineteen she hardly knows the glasses and mirrors that covers the pond

Just because a river welcomes and receives sunlight does not mean it forever stood idly by

There is often so much washed in and washed away

 

 

Safe

It was a girlfriend’s birthday
And, so not much should go wrong
Take Mama’s Car
Check in and stay indoors with friends
Come back home to waiting family

 

Bitterness

The Psalmist wrote …

The heart knoweth his own bitterness; and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy

 

Time

Each time has its own stories, fables, and myths
Ours is just too much to keep to self
Sharing is caring
And, so I am thinking I will beam it on Facebook
Some come to watch, others to celebrate, and yet others to mourn

There is a little bit for everyone
Items for sale, yet they could be had for free

 

Weasel

Weasel away time
Weaseling away time, like we could have it back
Whistling away life
Like we could whistle the Spirit back in it

 

Courage

Mistakenly uncaring-ness for courage
Mistaken “Made up mind” for ineptness
Pride in “Standing our grounds” like it always been ours
A generation here, a generation there
It could go either way

 

War Within

In the middle of a chess game
Pieces always moving

Wale – Family Affair
Link
You see I gotta go to war

You too young and you don’t know what I’m fightin’ for
This is my Vietnam
You are my strength
And the reason that I’m going

 

You fooled me into thinking it was my turn
You fooled me into thinking half the table was mine
While you knew all along the table was a bit slanted
And, I had few and fewer pieces on it

Morning

It looked like it took all day
Seemingly it took all night
But, come morning
None of the pieces was mine after all

….
….

Car and phone returned to mums

At the very least the ones who loves me knows not to keep calling

Debt

Like in the song “Wildflower” sang by “Color Me Badd
Sincerely it sings about how

always paying, for a debt she never owes

No one else would sign up to pay it
So it rests on her
By morning, hopefully it had been fully paid
And, her Spirit can yield, and float featherless and wingless having yielded the weight of life

 

Between the Lines

Chuck Missler likes to say “the only barrier to the truth is assuming you have it“.

We steadily thinking we know and calling out our enemies.

But, Wallahi, yet sometimes things be more complicated.

See who is satisfied with you fucking up.

See who holds on to his best and shares your worst with the world

The worst in others is the easiest to share

 

Yea, Squeezed

Yea, finally here I am

Into the little refrigerator

Tried so hard

Trying so hard to create spaces between unbalanced relationships

Having to miss mine and others familiar habits

Out from getting squeezed and trapped in my past

Doing too much from ‘ving to be counted and forever pictured into my forever nightmare

 

Spirits

Spirits are beings and people too.

The Devil reads spirits.

Sign up to do same

Have quiet come to God moments and interludes

It takes time and getting used to

But, it is part of LIFE

And, what God wants to give you

 

See you in a Bit

Didn’t say bye as she is quiet not
But, hovers over, watching who say what
Who confessed to what
Who came by to say and face Final Respect 

 

Care

Kenneka, caring is the least we can do.
Though the world seems a little hardened after all that has happened, and is happening
Yet centuries ago, to steady our feets, someone muttered:

two sparrows going for a penny, yet not one of them falls to the ground outside of our father’s care“.

 

Videos

  1. Andrew Holmes
    • KENNEKA JENKINS LIVE UPDATE FROM ANDREW HOLMES
      Channel :- Mek & Jimmie
      Published On :- 2017-Sept-14th
      Link
  2. Chicago Tribune
    • Hotel Footages
      • On hotel video, Kenneka Jenkins last seen alive staggering through kitchen
        Published On :- 2017-Sept-14th
        Link

 

Listening

  1. Color Me Badd ( Tyrese )
  2. Carrie Underwood
    • Carrie Underwood – Don’t Forget To Remember Me
      Link
  3. Patty Loveless
    • Patty Loveless – How Can I Help You Say Goodbye
      Music Video from: Patty Loveless, Only What I Feel, 1993 Sony
      Link
  4. Phil Collins
    • Phil Collins – In the Air Tonight
      Link
  5. Pete Rock & CL Smooth
    • They Reminisce Over You
      FROM THE ALBUM “MECCA AND THE SOUL BROTHER” (1992).
      Link

 

Caitríona Palmer – On the power of mother-daughter love

 

Caitríona Palmer on the power of mother-daughter love at all odds
https://www.penguin.co.uk/articles/on-writing/on-writing/2016/mar/caitriona-palmer-on-mother-daughter-love-at-all-odds/

Of my three children, my eldest, Liam, reminds me the most of my mother. I see flashes of her in his pewter eyes, in the splatter of honeyed freckles across his nose, and in the sweet way he sometimes furrows his eleven year-old brow. He has my mother’s gentle manner too, her unassuming way. It marvels me, this biological reflection, how I can sometimes reach out towards him and almost touch her.

This familial likeness between grandmother and grandson comforts me, for my mother – who I shall call Sarah, although that is not her real name – is rarely present in my life. She and I parted ways forty-eight hours after my birth in a Dublin hospital in April 1972, victims of Ireland’s then shameful intolerance towards the unmarried mother and her child. That day bereft, and traumatized, her breasts still leaking with milk, Sarah left the hospital and tried to rebuild her life.  I, bundled up in blankets in the arms of a stranger, was taken by taxi to a baby home. Within six weeks I had a brand new adoptive family, and a sanitized new name.

I grew up happy and content, fiercely loved by my parents and two older siblings. But in 1999, when I was twenty-seven years old, haunted by an internal dissonance that I could not shake, I decided I needed to know who my birth mother was. We were reunited that Christmas and developed a close attachment. But despite our happiness, there was a catch. In the intervening decades, Sarah had told no-one – not even the man she married or the children they raised – about the baby she’d had in 1972. Terrified that her husband would leave her, that her children would shun her, she asked that I cooperate in hiding my existence temporarily from her family and friends, that we have an affair.

That was sixteen years ago. Since then Sarah and I have met secretly once or twice a year, usually in the oak paneled bar of a north Dublin hotel. She never tells me what lie she promulgated to slip away from her husband and family, and I never ask. We prefer to sit in secluded corners where we are less likely to be seen. Sometimes I meet her alone, other times I bring my kids. We chat and catch up for a couple of hours before embracing and walking away.

It amazes me that I spend, on average, just three or four hours a year with the woman who gave me life and yet, despite these odds, we have built up a powerful bond. In Sarah’s presence I hardly notice our surroundings, so intent am I in drinking her in. Even now, I can close my eyes and recall the velvety softness of her cheek and the freckled outline of her hands. I know her ticks and mannerisms, like the odd noise that she makes at the back of her throat when she’s nervous or embarrassed, and the way she sometimes absentmindedly twists the rings on her left hand. If we were not constrained by the rules of the affair I would know too what gifts to spoil her with for this coming Mother’s Day: her favorite perfume, her preferred wine, a gift certificate to the restaurant in Dublin that she loves so much. I also know, because I once asked, that were she faced again with the same terrible choice that she had in April 1972, that this time she would not give me away.

Skulking in the shadows with my birth mother has taught me many things about myself; that it can be exhausting – and at times demeaning – to love someone who is not quite able to love you in the same way back. I am constantly astonished by the reserves of resilience that lie deep beneath. But it has also taught me that despite nearly three decades apart – and another sixteen years of being kept in the dark – that it is hard to keep a mother and daughter apart. Despite the pain of being kept a secret, and of having to be a child on her terms, I still love Sarah with all my heart.

Continue reading

American Airlines – Flight 3950

Catherine Rampell
May 7, 2016 at 9:19 AM
Washington Post

On Thursday evening, a 40-year-old man — with dark, curly hair, olive skin and an exotic foreign accent — boarded a plane. It was a regional jet making a short, uneventful hop from Philadelphia to nearby Syracuse.

Or so dozens of unsuspecting passengers thought.

The curly-haired man tried to keep to himself, intently if inscrutably scribbling on a notepad he’d brought aboard. His seatmate, a blond-haired, 30-something woman sporting flip-flops and a red tote bag, looked him over. He was wearing navy Diesel jeans and a red Lacoste sweater – a look he would later describe as “simple elegance” – but something about him didn’t seem right to her.

She decided to try out some small talk.

Is Syracuse home? She asked.

No, he replied curtly.

He similarly deflected further questions. He appeared laser-focused — perhaps too laser-focused — on the task at hand, those strange scribblings.

Rebuffed, the woman began reading her book. Or pretending to read, anyway. Shortly after boarding had finished, she flagged down a flight attendant and handed that crew-member a note of her own.

Then the passengers waited, and waited, and waited for the flight to take off. After they’d sat on the tarmac for about half an hour, the flight attendant approached the female passenger again and asked if she now felt okay to fly, or if she was “too sick.”

I’m OK to fly, the woman responded.

She must not have sounded convincing, though; American Airlines flight 3950 remained grounded.

Then, for unknown reasons, the plane turned around and headed back to the gate. The woman was soon escorted off the plane. On the intercom a crew member announced that there was paperwork to fill out, or fuel to refill, or some other flimsy excuse; the curly-haired passenger could not later recall exactly what it was.

The wait continued.

Finally the pilot came by, and approached the real culprit behind the delay: that darkly-complected foreign man. He was now escorted off the plane, too, and taken to meet some sort of agent, though he wasn’t entirely sure of the agent’s affiliation, he would later say.

What do know about your seatmate? The agent asked the foreign-sounding man.

Well, she acted a bit funny, he replied, but she didn’t seem visibly ill. Maybe, he thought, they wanted his help in piecing together what was wrong with her.

And then the big reveal: The woman wasn’t really sick at all! Instead this quick-thinking traveler had Seen Something, and so she had Said Something.

That Something she’d seen had been her seatmate’s cryptic notes, scrawled in a script she didn’t recognize. Maybe it was code, or some foreign lettering, possibly the details of a plot to destroy the dozens of innocent lives aboard American Airlines Flight 3950. She may have felt it her duty to alert the authorities just to be safe. The curly-haired man was, the agent informed him politely, suspected of terrorism.

The curly-haired man laughed.

He laughed because those scribbles weren’t Arabic, or some other terrorist code. They were math.

Yes, math. A differential equation, to be exact.

Had the crew or security members perhaps quickly googled this good-natured, bespectacled passenger before waylaying everyone for several hours, they might have learned that he — Guido Menzio — is a young but decorated Ivy League economist. And that he’s best known for his relatively technical work on search theory, which helped earn him a tenured associate professorship at the University of Pennsylvania as well as stints at Princeton and Stanford’s Hoover Institution.

GuidoMenzio

Guido Menzio, an economics professor at the University of Pennsylvania.

They might even have discovered that last year he was awarded the prestigious Carlo Alberto Medal, given to the best Italian economist under 40. That’s right: He’s Italian, not Middle Eastern, or whatever heritage usually gets ethnically profiled on flights these days.

Menzio had been on the first leg of a connecting flight to Ontario, where he would give a talk at Queen’s University on a working paper he co-authored about menu costs and price dispersion. His nosy neighbor had spied him trying to work out some properties of the model of price-setting he was about to present. Perhaps she couldn’t differentiate between differential equations and Arabic.

Menzio showed the authorities his calculations and was allowed to return to his seat, he told me by email. He said the pilot seemed embarrassed. Soon after, the flight finally took off, more than two hours after its scheduled departure time for what would be just a 41-minute trip in the air, according to flight-tracking data.

The woman never reboarded to the flight.

Casey Norton, a spokesman for American Airlines (whose regional partner Air Wisconsin operated the flight), said the woman had indeed initially told the crew she was sick, but when she deplaned she disclosed that the reason she was feeling ill was her concern about the behavior of her seatmate. At that time, she requested to be rebooked on another flight. The crew then called for security personnel, who interviewed Menzio and determined him not to be a “credible threat.” Norton did not know whether the woman was ever notified that Menzio had been cleared. (He said he was not allowed to give out her name for privacy reasons, and since Menzio did not know it either, I have not been able to contact the woman for comment.)

Whenever there are conflicts between passengers, Norton said, “we try to work with them peacefully to resolve it,” whether that means changing seat assignments or switching someone to take a different flight. When asked how often customers raise similar suspicions about fellow passengers that turn out to be unfounded, he said it happens “from time to time” but declined to provide details about frequency.

Menzio for his part says he was “treated respectfully throughout,” though he remains baffled and frustrated by a “broken system that does not collect information efficiently.” He is troubled by the ignorance of his fellow passenger, as well as “A security protocol that is too rigid–in the sense that once the whistle is blown everything stops without checks–and relies on the input of people who may be completely clueless. ”

Redwoods


whiteroseswithabitofgreen-cropped
Came home yesterday afternoon, went to lay down
Outside of spending time with my brother to get something to eat
Spent the rest of the evening in bed
Woke at 2
But, couldn’t stand to get out of bed 

What the redwoods of California will do for a soul bruised up
What a timely getaway will do
Driving the night and needing a full beam
Made my mind so small

 

Listening to you speak your Heart out
About all the things I said and shouldn’t have
Laying down in a so so Hotel
Pulling you so close
Enough for only you and I to hear

 


I say I am sorry
Asking for forgiveness
And, how I can wait till the morning
to see if you will give it

 


JB: The meaning of forgiveness
JB: People make mistakes

Went to Church, It is Sunday Morning
The pastor made the Altar Call
Something about the Lord
Is ready to forgive


Forgiveness came a day early for me
I didn’t have to hear it
I just had to feel you yield your Soul & Spirit

 


JB: The meaning of forgiveness
JB: People make mistakes, doesn’t mean you have to give in
JB: Life is worth living again

Took a long drive in the California Redwoods
Wished we made it to Oregon
But, came home
And, held it all in
Wish I could stay here forever

 

Listening to ….

Justin Bieber – Life Is Worth Living (PURPOSE : The Movement)
Video

The Gift of No

One of the most pivotal conversations between Dad and I occurred a lifetime ago.

The entire family was at the airport to wish my brother and I safe journey to the U.S.

Our sparse luggage were checked-in and we had time on our side.  And, so we leisurely waited at the airport.

This was before 9-11 and so the boundaries between travelers and well wishers were not nearly so well manicured.

As a young person it is so easy to get caught up in the spontaneous moments that bombards a young mind.  The feelings come rapidly and they slide away just as mysteriously.

Sometimes it is the first kiss, at other times it is the first drink, and in between so many other first experiences and tastes.

At that very moment, it was my first smoke.  And, so I asked Dad if I could have a couple of cigarettes.  He looked back at me, and asked whether I wanted to start smoking.

Life has its many turns and quirks.  And, though it is natural to argue otherwise, the Nos are sometimes the most affirmative Yeses in our shared journey to a well lived life.

 

 

A sad christmas

I was visiting with friends this Christmas as I heard the news about the young Nigerian man who tried to bomb a plane.

Through all the tragedy I found comfort in a song I discovered earlier that week.

The song was written by Leslie Satcher and a bit of the background is detailed below:

It begins in Pittsburgh on election night 2006. Sen. Rick Santorum (R-Pa.), losing to Democrat Robert P. Casey Jr. by a wide margin, gathered his wife and six children around a hotel ballroom microphone and conceded.

The little girl at his side, Sarah Maria Santorum, then 8, wept. She squeezed her eyes and wiped her tears. She buried her face in her father’s arm, pulled away and cried some more — all on live, national television.

As blogs parsed and parodied the image — some gleefully made fun of it, others questioned the wisdom of putting a distraught child in front of the camera — Satcher went to church.

Her pastor held up the Bible:

For these times in which we live, you are going to need this book’ he said.

Satcher scribbled the words into the back of her book.

Courtesy of elyrics, the first stanza is pasted below:


Martina McBride – For These Times

In these times in which we live
Where the worst of what we live
Is laid out for all the world on the front page
And the sound of someone’s heartbreak
Is a soundbite at the news break
With a close shot of the tears rollin’ down their face
Blessed be the child who turns a loving eye
And stops to pray
For these times in which we live

For the next few days, I searched for peace within the reality of evil.

As I spoke to my parents after church on Sunday I started to recognize a thread of hope.

Heaven knows how parents struggle for teachable moments with their children.

Embedded in this story is that of a parent, a father, who shared private moments with God.

And, he recognized God’s voice and urging to get his house in order.

Rather than to lay asleep and hope for the best, he did not and could not find sleep until he approached the US and British consulate about a parent’s worst fears.

I thank God that the shedding of innocent blood shall not be one of the many sins counted against him and especially us (at those horrific hours).

And, for the son I join him in thanking God for all of our many un-answered prayers.

References