Mary, Christmas and Joe

"Yes, I'm pregnant," she said between sobs, "I'll say it again, I'm pregnant, I'm with child, I"m whatever you want to call it but it's true, I'm going to have a baby."

He stood there stunned, the girl is was about to marry drops this bomb on him. He hadn't even touched her, the baby couldn't be his. The first thought he had was to beat her and her baby to death, but reality was sinking in and he walked away without a word, the worst he'd do to her was to shun her. Let her live with the stigma of being an unwed mother, it's of no matter to him now.

Later that night while sitting around the fire, all his brothers and friends said the same thing, "We need to kill her, she can't do this disgrace to your good name. First we find who the father is and we'll kill him too. We'll send them to hell together." But once again he was the voice of reason, and refused to be swallowed up in their hate.

"I'm going to bed," he said, "and deal with it tomorrow. Go now to your own house and forget my problem."

Sleep finally came three hours later. He drifted off thinking that he still loved her, even if he wasn't the father of her child. Then came the dream.

"Joseph." the voice said, "Joseph, take Mary as your wife as planned. She will have a son and you will name him Jesus. This is all part of God's plan that He gave through his prophets, "The virgin shall conceive a child".

The next day Joseph what he was told and brought Mary home to be his wife. He didn't touch her until after the baby was born. The baby grew up and to this day people talk of Him. A holiday has been named for His birth and His death. Some say His name with honor and love. Others yell it at football officials and bad driver's. Some love to hear His name, others sue to have it deleted from all society. Some know that He is the only way to salvation, while others choose to make it to heaven on their own. Two Thousand plus years have passed since this baby was born, and still today He is as important to this world as He was to Mary and Joe.

Truly celebrate Jesus this Christmas, after all, that's what Christmas is all about.

A Fabricated Event

My response to a writing prompt on "something in a pocket":


It was that time of year, the time I hate the most, time to get the coat out of the closet and bundle up against the North wind. I wrapped my scarf around my neck and pulled my wool cap over my ears. Walter, the door attendant, opened the door to my building and with a nod, I was headed down the sidewalk.

I looked at the woman walking in front of me and laughed. Her coat had a crease that ran across her back, clearly she did as I did, hang the coat up last spring and forget about it until today when it was again needed. It was the pocket that caught my attention, it bulged out as if her gloves were stuffed inside, but she was wearing gloves, scarf and beret. I started fantasizing about what was in it.

I grinned when I thought about it being a handkerchief and it bulged so because she just emptied her sinus cavities. No, that’s too gross, it has to be her sandwich for lunch, a cucumber sandwich. Yeah, that has to be it, she’s trying to lose a couple of pounds before the office Christmas party. I dunno, she looks pretty good from my angle so it must not be a sandwich. Maybe it’s a wad of cash and she’s on her way to buy something like a Christmas gift for her dear mother or maybe a dime bag or two. This girl of my fantasy couldn’t be a druggie so it must be something else. What could it be?

She suddenly stops and thrusts her hand in her pocket. We’re standing in the middle of a sidewalk filled with people rushing to wherever all these people go at this time every day. She withdraws her hand and in it is a 9mm pistol, she points it at a middle aged woman walking by her and yells something about Allah and the movement. The next thing I see is blood sprayed over Macy’s window. Everything went into slow motion as she pulled the trigger time after time. As she pointed at me the clip ran dry and a hollow click, click, click echoed through my mind. Everything starts to speed back up to normal living speed, I duck my shoulder and do my best imitation of a middle linebacker and tackled her to the ground, my shoulder driving her stomach into the sidewalk. I take the gun from her hand and stand, watching her as she laid there gasping for breath. She made a move to get up and I pointed to her and said, “Stay down, you’d better stay down.” From my right I see a blur go past me, before I could react a lady with blood splattered on her kicked the shooter in the head. Then the stomach. Then the ribs.

I look around me, no one tries to stop the kicker until the police roll up. The shooter’s face had boot tread marks all over it. I walk over and looked down at her, the one eye not swollen shut looks up at me, radiating hate even now. I look her straight in the eye and said, “Merry Christmas” and slapped her across the face with her pistol.

That dear children is how your father spent his first Christmas in New York City, and is why we now live in Oklahoma where I thought we’d be safe until one day in April at 9:01 a.m. when hell decended on Oklahoma City, but that is another story for another day.

Look What The Wind Blew In

A person never knows what a strong north wind will blow in. With a knock on the door, I soon found out it also was a cold north wind. There stood a man dressed in a friar's smock, cheeks red from the wind.

"Could you spare a meal and a hot cup of tea?" he asked.

"Come in and warm up, did your car break down?" I immediately wondered which side of the fence this guy was on, God's side or satan's. At least his frock was not black, like a satanist, but the traditional brown like a monk's.

He sat at the bar in the kitchen, (I thought that was funny, a monk sitting at a bar. "Did ya hear the one about a monk walking into a bar...."), and we talked of life and of faith. He was walking across the United States, carrying nothing but his Bible. He placed it on the bar, the black leather cover worn, cracked and torn. It looked as if he had sewn it back together, the binding and the covers, all stitched together, somehow holding the pages together.

"This is why I'm walking, to tell people what is in this book, the hope and the joy of Jesus Christ. If by begging for a meal I can share the Good News, then I'll beg for the rest of my days."

I was cooking bacon and eggs when I opened the refrig and saw the steak that I was going to cook that night. I pick it up and fired up the grill, fixed a mixed salad and poured the iced tea. While we sat at the table, between bites he told me of his love for his God. He finished up and headed for kitchen, "I'll clean up, it's the least I can do."

"No, you've paid me in full. Your words of wisdom and the passion you have to tell the Story, you not only paid in full, but you have inspired me also. I need to grow to have a relationship like you have, not a church service in this world would have opened my eyes to that."

With that he headed to the door, "Blessings on this house, may all who come here find Jesus waiting on them," and out the door he went. I ran to the door and was going to ask him to spend the night but as I ran outside, I couldn't find him. I ran to the road and looked up and down, the wind reminding me that I should have grabbed a jacket, but no monk. I looked all around and the only living thing I saw was the neighbor's dog, doing what dog's do, in my front yard.

Then I remembered something from the Good Book, "For I was hungry, and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave Me something to drink; I was a stranger, and you invited Me in......"

Thanksgiving Poem

Thanksgiving is the time of year
When family gathers from far and near.
A turkey based all golden brown
The best dressing in all the town.
Gathered together around the dining table

We bow our heads to the one born in a stable.

Thank you Lord, you have blessed us great
You’ve once again overflowed our plate.
But as food fills our physical demands
You’ve blessed us through the scars in your hands.
Salvation is what I’m thankful for
I praise Your name which I adore.

Thank you Lord for saving my soul,
Thank you Lord for making me whole.
Thank you Lord for giving to me

Thy great salvation so rich and free.

The Guitar and the Woman

I'm probably going to get in trouble here, but that never stopped me in the past. Have you ever considered how much a guitar is like a woman? Here is some ways that they are alike....

1. They have a sensual shape. The curves, the smooth touch, the different complexions. It's pleasing to run your hand over either set of curves, to feel them close.

2. They have a sensual fragrance. When you open up a guitar case and the aroma of wood floats to your senses, it makes you want to make music. The fragrance of a woman, even when she is perspiring is a sweet aroma that makes you want to make a different music.

3. They make sensual music. In the hands of a novice, the music is satisfying but often it is rough to the senses. In the hands of an artist, the music is uplifting and reaches to the soul.

Isn't it time to make some music?

A Royal

The silence was deafening as I sat before my typewriter. My deadline is in two days and all I have is a non-descriptive title. Why is it so hard to write about a presidential election? All the drama and glitz and glamor that the muse would need and yet nothing goes from my finger tips to the keys to the paper. The only thing that takes my attention away from the blank white piece of paper rolled into the machine is the pile of wadded up white paper where I had unsuccessfully started this five hundred word report. Maybe it's the sudden letdown after months on the campaign trail and now for a couple of months all I have to do is write this stupid report and
relax.

I long for the ding of the carriage return, the tapping of the keys as they hit the paper, the scent of white-out covering the mistakes. I look at my old gray typewriter and wonder how it will look on my desk in the oval office. It should fit in perfectly, after all it is a Royal.

Fall Back

Changing my clocks. Fall back. I hate falling back, it is dark when I go to work and now when I come home. No sun makes Walk an old grouch. Mrs. Walk don't much care for the grouchy side of me. I get grouchy, she gets grouchy and before long I done went and kicked the dog. We don't even own a dog. The neighbor called the police on me last year which wound up with the SPCA having me doing community service. I cleaned kennels for six months. I can't even look at another dog. The neighbors across the road lost their dog a couple of nights ago. The first door they knocked on was mine. They must have known that if I was within kicking distance of that little fu-fu dog it would have made it through the uprights. Three points! But no, I hadn't seen it and they found out later that someone driving by grabbed it. It was such a good dog that the people that stole it brought it back just to get it out of their house. I imagine it yipped in that high pitched yap that any self respecting dog would hate, until they couldn't handle it anymore and brought it back. They brought it back on halloween which scared the crap out of me. I was sitting here in the dark so it looked like no one was home and from out side I heard that yip yip yipping and thought the mutt was haunting me. I peeked through the blinds and saw the kids playing with the powder puff and smiled that all was right at the neighbors house on this night of fright. And I didn't even have to hand out one piece of candy. It was indeed a good night.