Eternal Joys

My soul rejoice, for you’ve redeemed,
Your son was sent, the captives freed,
Hands and feet pierced, they let him bleed,
“Forgive them Father”, was his only plea.

The love of God, my soul rejoice,
Laid His life down, cause sin destroys,
“This is my son”, came God’s voice,
So that every man, have eternal joys.


I am not a hero!

I am plain.  There is nothing interesting about me.  I am a real human being.  In the wake of my every footstep, my footprint is left.  There are no gold drops, no glitter, and as for glamour…none.  The experiences I have been through in my life are more than others, but it does not even compare to the life of a baby boy born into poverty in Northern Uganda.  I have nothing worthwhile to say, let alone think.  There really is nothing.  Everyday I wake up, and every night I go to sleep. Same thing, over and over. There are no original ideas generated in my mind.  I am no one.  I do not have war stories, and I have never saved another human being.  I am not a hero!

But God, knit me together in my mother’s womb.  I am created intricately, so that every second, my heart beats.  Without thinking, my body knows that I need to breathe.  Breathe?  Is that all I do?  God created me to be here right now.  And there is a purpose for that.  He did not want me to be anywhere else.  He did not want me to have war stories, and I have never saved another human being.  But God saved me.  He made me with a mind to think.  He made with a heart to love.  I may not show love in every situation, but even so, I was created for a purpose.  I may feel plain, but I am nowhere near plain.  No one else in the whole world possesses what I have…my life.  I was not born into poverty; maybe my purpose is to end it.  I was born in the land of opportunity.  Maybe I need to give opportunity to those who do not have.  My life is not plain.  No one’s life is plain.  Everyone was born for a purpose.  But my question is this, whose purpose are you fulfilling?

-dedicated to R.M.


3:24 a.m.

Cascades of color infiltrate my ever growing pupils.  While it is exhilarating, the hues mean nothing.  And my eyes, my poor eyes, where have they traveled?  Where have they gone?  The lush golden-green which used to be displayed ever so confidently has now… vanished.  And in it’s place, an empty black now resides.  This darkness provokes my eyes to play tricks, and they do.  I see the tapestries dance; like a choreographed ballet.  They are no longer hanging on the vertical, but have grown legs, picking fun at my already distorted perception.  Perfect?  Maybe some would dare call it that.  But the truth is, there are no tapestries.  There never were any paintings on the wall.  I swallow.  My throat begs me to take a drink of water, but I can’t find a cup, nor a faucet or anyone around me that would even consider helping me out.  So I ignore my need, and allow my minutes to whither.  I blink, and in that half second of shutting my eyes, I see it.  The end.  I see my pitiful body laying lifeless on the lawn.  Whatever.  It wasn’t real.  I lean my head down, inhale violently, and bring my head back up.  It tickles my nostril as it enters.  I brush the extra powder off the side of my nose.  The impact of the chemical deafens me for a moment.  I lean back, looking up at the ceiling.  It looks abnormally wavy.  Too much.  I cannot stare at such things right now.  And my ears.  The ticking clock seems to have produced a jingle.  Or maybe the time-teller is broken, or maybe it just ticks on beat.  I don’t know, all I know is that I am here.  Someone asks if I’d like a cigarette.  I thankfully accept, but here, in the warmth of this room, is not the place.  I stand up, put my shoes on, and walk towards the door.  I fumble with my lighter as I step onto the unkempt grass that makes up the front yard.  But then, something stops.  There is no beating, no blood flow, no swallowing, no breathing, no remedy.  I fall straight down.  My eyes still open, I see the blades of grass mock me as I lay dying.  Alone.

“Hey. Hey man.” He nudges me one more time until I wake up.  “You passed out on the bed hours ago.”

“What?” I reply.

“Yeah man, we were gonna wake you up when we went to the bar, but Jillian told me to let you sleep.  so I did.  We’re back now.”

I looked at him, my countenance must have expressed confusion, because he just smiled and let out a chuckle.

“Really?  What time is it?” I ask.

“You must have had a crazy dream!  It’s 3:24 a.m.” He answered.

I sat up, and wiped the sleep from my eyes.  Noise came from the other rooms.  Sounds like a group.  At least five or more.

“Yeah.  It was… a weird dream.” I say in a fatigued voice.

He starts toward the dining room door, “Oh, by the way, my buddy from New York is here. He brought some quality stuff back for us to do.  They’re making lines right now.  You wanna partake?”

My dream flashes back through my mind, “No, I think I’m going to head home.”

The Great Surgeon

It’s bright. The light right above me, shines directly into my eyes. Around me they’re dressed in all white. Each one wears a mask over their mouth and nose; as to not catch my horrid disease. I lay still. The table upon which I lay is made of cold steel. My naked torso shivers as I lay. No one speaks, not even I. I have seen this room before; unfortunately, too many times. I am afraid. What shall He say? Will there be hope?

Then, He enters. He too wears white. But unlike the others, His authority is proclaimed in every step He takes toward the operating table. He does not wear a mask, there is no need. In His right hand, he holds a scalpel. So sharp there is no tissue that can withstand.

“I see you have a disease.” He says.

“Yes I do. I don’t know what to do.” I say in an unsure voice.

“Well there is hope.” He answers, as if He knew what I was thinking.

I don’t reply.  I have heard these words before, but somehow, I’ve left this table only to be right back in the same position; diseased.

He marks the spot upon my skin in which He will make the incision.  Right above where my heart beats.  Beating, yes!  Quite fast!

He makes the proper incisions, and removes the disease.  I am awake during the surgery, He wants me to see the work He is doing.  There is no speaking while he operates, and just like that, the last stitches are implanted into my chest. It’s over.

“It is finished.” He explains. “Your disease is no more, but stay in touch!”

“I will.” I answer.

I get up from the table, and quietly walk out of the room.  He stays in the room, preparing the table for the next patient.  At that, I leave the Great Surgeon to fix whoever else is in need of an operation.