lavenderose

I thought that I might dream today...

Friday, June 18, 2004

A Good Read...

The War Prayer

by Mark Twain

It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and sputtering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spreads of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory which stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country and invoked the God of Battles, beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpouring of fervid eloquence which moved every listener.

It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety's sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.

Sunday morning came-next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their faces alight with material dreams-visions of a stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender!-then home from the war, bronzed heros, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation -- "God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest, Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!"

Then came the "long" prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was that an ever--merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; help them to crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory.

An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the preacher's side and stood there, waiting.

With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, "Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord our God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!"

The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside -- which the startled minister did -- and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said "I come from the Throne-bearing a message from Almighty God!" The words smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. "He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd and grant it if such shall be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import-that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of-except he pause and think.

"God's servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two- one uttered, the other not. Both have reached the ear of His Who hearth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this-keep it in mind. If you beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor's crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.

"You have heard your servant's prayer-the uttered part of it. I am commissioned by God to put into words the other part of it-that part which the pastor, and also you in your hearts, fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these words: 'Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!' That is sufficient. The whole of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory-must follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God the Father fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!

"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle-be Thou near them! With them, in spirit, we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it-for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.

(After a pause)

"Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits."

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

Already Occupied

Less than a dark night and already you’ve built a home
Here in a chair that is already occupied,
reserved for a little boy already in overalls.

You are a weaver of time, perhaps?
Already weaving before you’ve checked your facts,
Already expecting the arch of
the stick that will wipe you down.

Still, you seem surprised, like you didn’t think I’d really do it,
Believing I’d have pity on an arachnid--
Your little yellow body bobs along the web in a state of panic,
Bewildered disillusionment for an insect used to living in
The tangled webs that we weave,
Aware or unaware that mothers open car windows
And overnight down sometimes leave.

And from last night...

Today is my 5th day as the program director of the un-named camp down in archer that the kids are calling the “free YMCA.” I’m sitting here, having finished a honeybrown beer, feeling slightly better about camp. I’ve brainstormed all of these great ideas that get my mind going so fast that it can’t stop for me to go to sleep—ideas like a leadership program for the older kids where they learn mediation techniques and listen to inspirational speakers, and field trips, and publicity for our program, and a big buddy program to help out the little kids, and the list goes on and on. I want to take these kids who people pity, and turn their “free charity camp” into the coolest thing that they will remember for ever and ever. Sounds simple, huh? Too bad that I’m practically famous for my day-dreams that almost never turn into reality. But I can do it, huh? I really want to.

Trying to institute some control down there is absolutely chaotic. I feel like a broken record—“Everybody listen up! Listen! Shhh! I need your attention! Hey hey! Sit down! NOW!” or “This is unacceptable! There is no reason for you to act like a bunch of five year olds! I know you are capable of doing what I am asking!”

The first step is to establish a sense of order. I’m not taking ANY kids on a field trip until they can exhibit to me that they are capable of behaving at camp, following directions, keeping focused for more than just a few minutes, being able to be kind to each other for a sustainable period of time.

So tomorrow I will bribe them with the prospect of field trips.

Saturday, June 12, 2004

Let the summer fun begin...

It's official. The vision is coming full-circle. On Friday, I filled out my W-4 forms and signed the loyalty oath on front of a notary--I am now among the ranks of other proud, dedicated, (and loyal) employees of the city of Archer.

That's right, I am the Recreation Director for the un-named camp of kids that congregates each morning on the hot, dry, barren field outside of the old firestation in downtown Archer.

I am the only employee.

But if there were others, I'd be the boss. I am in charge of the volunteers. I make the decisions. I decide what activities we do and how we run things. The success or failure of this program rests solely upon my shoulders.

I answer to no stupid idiots, no incompetent, unprepared, incapable ones.

No, that person is me now.

I am the one who can't get it together, who can't foresee all of the problems that will arise from my schemes, who can't decide which approach to stick with, who is constantly adjusting and readjusting the order and driving my volunteers crazy, changing my mind, running around like a chicken with my head cut off, acting incredibly inefficent and half crazy.

I thought I would like being the boss, but there is no one else to blame when things go wrong.

Which they do.





Sunday, June 06, 2004

Missing a friend...


Alan left this morning. Saying goodbye stinks.


The Quarter That You Gave to Me

The day before your leaving
grew warm in my hand when we sat on the swings,
creating our own motions with our feet in the sand.

A little movement is a good remedy for the stagnant,
for stationary souls resisting forward progress.

I tried to laugh out loud, twisting myself under knots and releasing the tension in the chain,
letting centrifugal force push out my heart’s pain.

I rubbed George’s head clean with my thumb.
My own head felt numb,
and I was glad that you were talking so that I could listen
and watch the quarter glisten.