Dwelling Places

Because I believe the Spirit of God
Does not need a house of wood or stone
Does not mean I think He is found in nature alone.

Wherever folks gather in worship and prayer
Then the Presence of God is certainly there.

Whether in tent or Cathedral,
when men try to show
their reverence for God,
with heads bowed low
asking for wisdom to lead lives that are good
and the courage to honor that truth as they should,
I believe God must smile as he watches them pray
glad they are trying to find just the right way
often reaching out to lend them a hand
so that deep in their hearts they will understand
they were never meant to do it alone;
It is the Spirit of God who will show the way home.

God's Dwelling Place

“Unchurched” they say.
Northwest souls gone astray!



A church of wood or stone

Is made by flesh and bone

A good place for a flock

To pray together and talk.



But it was not always so

A few thousand years ago

Men perceived God on mountains high

Where their eyes lifted up to see the sky.



They heard his voice, but would not say his name

God was not something men could claim.



But we are creatures who like to own

Our God must be ours alone.

We must be the “chosen ones”

Specially picked, most favored under the sun.



So Hebrew nomads put their God in a box

And toted Him around over sand and rock.

Only men Holy could touch it they said,

If you try, you will surely be dead!



Although it is said God protested,

Once they had found a suitable place

They built a great temple, with a secret space

To house their God and keep him safe

From the unclean and lowly

So that only men Holy could glimpse his face.



Last week I camped on a high mountain lake

And I swear -- the Spirit of God was everywhere.



In every breeze, I felt His touch,

Knew Love unbound by human clutch.

I didn’t have to search…..He was right there

Talking to me, as I listened in prayer.



Now I must be clear. It wasn’t a human voice I heard

It was the essence of God which requires no word.

I felt myself one with rock, water, and tree
Part of a whole, that still values the special thata is "me".


So ”churched folk” need not despair

God is not confined to a church

He is “Everywhere”.



But most easily found on a high mountain lake

Where the Spirit of God is there just to take.

Seasons

Seasons come and seasons go
Round and round, from sun to snow.

Not only years, but cycles too
The babe, the child, the woman full grown
In which cycle am I? I try not to moan!

For those who shared my last springtime
You know it was great!

Doing things silly, sometimes a bit wild
Enjoying the moment, while around us love smiled.
.
Then summer came on and sped by fast
Now that autumn is here, I hope it will last.

For winter is coming, with cold winds and ice
What can I do to make that season nice?

I will keep logs on my fire and candles burning bright
So no chill can catch me or darkness cloud my sight.

And an apple pie baking in the oven--so sweet smells fill the air
Then invite friends to come over to sit down and share.

I will listen to guitars and turn on all the lights
Reading tales with happy endings way into the night.

Still when my seasons end, I wonder where I’ll be?

On some sunny shore,
with those I knew before—

Or like an atom on the wind, my course may be set afar
Traveling through time to some distant shining star.

Surely it is possible there are wonders yet to see
Or maybe this little ditty will be all that’s left of me.

Her Nordic blue eyes smiling,

Doreen welcomed us to her home in Rockaway,

to share some time together, a relaxed and happy day.

Everywhere we looked, there were wonders for the eye,
An orchid at the window, a plant that snapped a fly!

In her sunny upstairs haven, the sky spilled right in
Splashing light upon her canvas and art that made us grin

Of golden dogs watching as God and man play ball
And cows in party hats staring from a pasture on the wall!

Doreen’s paintings thrill the eye and warm the heart
Revealing that fun and beauty are seldom far apart.

We picnicked in her back yard, amid flowers of every hue
A warm sun on our shoulders, beneath a sky of blue.

With a cocky puppy smile, Piper invited us to play
Nuzzling and nibbling, he soon got his way.

Happily we could have stayed in Doreen’s backyard all day
But we had planned for a hike, and time was slipping fast away.

So while Bob chopped wood, the rest of us walked along the beach,
Doreen said that a distant river would not be too far to reach.

We strolled along, a carefree happy band.
A strong south wind behind us, as waves swept across the sand.

Pelicans from Mexico kept watch upon the tide
As seagulls circled overhead, seeking winds to glide.

Wild Flower Wind

We were out for a hike, a day in the sun
To take a deep breath, partake of some fun.
Bob drove our bus with great expertise
As looking out windows we saw waterfalls and trees.

We were out to find where the wild flowers grow
High on a hill, the Columbia River below.
At last round a bend, we were finally there.
Sure enough, flowers waved everywhere.

The Wildflower Wind greeted us, shaking each one
As it whooped round the bus in a spirit of fun.
We smiled and tried to be polite,
Pulling on our hats, zipping jackets tight.

But the Wildflower Wind just pushed us on our way
Glad for a romp, a few hours of play.
We followed a path through a land warmed by the sun,
Watching the Wildflower Wind through the tall grasses run.

We admired the flowers, birds flying too,
But as to their names, we had not a clue.
We laughed at ourselves for being so dumb

Not knowing the flowers for which we had come.

The Wildflower Wind knew, but said not a word

Secrets are kept by wind, flowers and birds.

After all it had been just a lark,

Showing the slow-witted hikers around in her park.

HAIL "MALE GREGG!"

Bonnie….”, Dr. Sherman said
“Time to wake up, lift up your head”
The O.R. was still, the bright lights not on,
My tummy was flat, the pain was all gone.

I looked to my side and what did I see?
My baby – my son - from my body, now free!
Two tiny fingers in his mouth were held tight
A sweet little cherub, swaddled in white.

Should we call him Gary or Scott? We couldn’t decide
When I asked the baby, he opened his mouth and cried.
To have such dim-witted parents was very bad news,
Having no name would give any babe the blues.
The nurse at first asked nicely, then she began to beg
Finally she simply wrote down “Male Gregg”.

By the time we got home, we had decided on Scott
It seemed to fit the cute little tot.

At 9 months Scott took his very first step
Soon he was running, climbing on chairs
Into my cupboards, down basement stairs.

At a year and a half, Scott made his very first friend
A boy who liked to play cars or just to pretend.
It is now forty years, since that very first day
When Scott and John Pitman got together to play.

A short time later, I was back in the OR
Heaven had sent us another bright star.
Again we had trouble choosing a name for our son
We thought about Gordon, but the name Michael won.

Soon there were three in the backyard each day
Running about, laughing at play.
About the time they entered their teens
Their adventures began to have a new theme.

They had Star Wars fever, and nothing would do
But they make their own movie, and all the sets too.
Scholars of English history, they decided also to try
Making movies about kings in days long gone by.

Hours were spent writing the script.
Reading it over, making sure everything clicked

Then they began to began to build on the ground
castles and churches and a whole medieval town.
They designed each structure and cast each mold
So buildings would look right, when their story was told.
They assembled their cast of small figurines
And cameras in hand, moved them about, scene by scene.

Next they constructed a sci-fi set in the garage
Where captain and crew could comfortably lodge.
This time they acted themselves in the story.
When they entered the Northwest Film Festival
“The Price of Friendship” brought them honor and glory.

25 years have past, Scott is now 42
He’s captained his ship, with a vision that’s true.
He’s had adventures a plenty, known sunshine and rain
Holding fast to the tiller, heedless of pain.
Keeping eyes focused on the star of faith shining bright
That leads travelers through the darkest of night.
For each of us travels through time and space
Not knowing what will happen next
Or just how to find our place.

Scott’s met every challenge, trying to do his best
And in his mother’s eyes has past every test.

BIRTHDAY BLUES!

How do you do,.... 72!
We’ve never met before
I’ve only seen you at a distance
Now I’m knocking at your door.

This neighborhood is new to me
I’m not sure just what to do
I don’t feel that I belong
I need a tip or two.

My old address was down the hill
a fair and happy place.
I used to rise each morning
filled with heaven's grace.
But just last week some disturbing news I learned
I would have to leave, because the calendar turned.

When the calendar turns, there is not a doubt
Your time is up, the clock has struck, and you must get out.

People are tired of your ditzy tales,
You're no longer cute or funny,
You may not drool, but you're no longer "cool"
So off you go, unless, of course, you have money.

Since my purse only holds a nickle or two
it was perfectly clear what I must do.
Climb up this hill, get the lay of the land
Try to find some place not built upon sand.

I've seen some pretty gardens, but some deep craters too
I'll have to watch my step, or I might fall right through.

The dress code, however, seems to be quite clear
I believe I'll have no problem fitting in here,
No need to buy anything new
Whatever is in my closet will do.
Long sleeves are in, short skirts are out,
But jackets are great for those who are stout.

Still I’m not sure about accessories
Like that plastic plug to stick in my ear
so when someone speaks I'll be able to hear,
or those socks that come up to my knees,
to keep my blood flowing with just the right squeeze.

Do I need to go out and buy a new cane
Just to be ready when my knee crumples in pain?

Perhaps we can sit down - you and me
Talk things over, maybe sip tea
I don’t suppose you have anything stronger
That would let me hang on a little bit longer
To that sweet vision of the place I once knew
Before I knocked on your door, ...72!