Praying for Rain

Cloud cover came earlier today and teased and tormented me like a heathen harlot does a lonely old man or an unwise teenager. It gave a promise of rain like the harlot promises a peek at what lies beneath or a taste of her sinful, sensuous lips. Like the lying lips of lust, the clouds scurry away, leaving me to deal with the feverish illusions caused by high heat and humidity. Like the lost lyrics to an old, almost forgotten Tanya Tucker song from my childhood, I long for a visit from Lizzie and the rain man. Somebody keep that fire burning. Somebody beat the drum. I don’t have a hundred dollars to pay a phony shaman rain man, but I do have a prayer. Holy Father, send us much needed rain to free us from this heat. In the name of Jesus, Amen.

What Does Abbie Think?

Many times, I look at Abbie, (who is my special needs sister, who for the most part is non-verbal) and wonder what she is thinking.

Is she scared of storms? Does thunder jar her inside and does lightning frighten her?

If they do, she doesn’t show it.

When I glance in the rear view mirror and see her sitting in the back of the car, looking at the scenery we pass, does she enjoy the vistas we pass or is she just anticipating the time we arrive at whatever destination we are going to?

There are some things that are givens with Abbie. It’s a given that she likes cats and dogs, horses, and cows. She loves eating fried chicken, but having lived on a chicken farm with Abbie, I know that she doesn’t like the constant chatter of the hens or the crowing of roosters in the morning. It’s a given that her favorite colors are pink and red and that she loves eating vegetables and macaroni and cheese. She loves eating out and she loves being around people, especially those at church. She also loves being by herself and enjoying her quiet time alone, which is often interrupted by her aggravating older brother, Jacob.

I often wonder if she ever thinks about Mama and Daddy being in Heaven. Then, I think that God talks to her in ways that you or I cannot understand.

The thing I know above all is that my baby sister, who may be mentally challenged, has a heart full of love, and I thank God that He gave her to me as a sister and that I am her brother.

Golden Glitter of the Sun

Outside the window, I look at lush green leaves hanging from cherry and live oak trees. They contrast with the golden glitter of the sun and fall upon my neighbor’s lawn, burning an amber color on its carpet on a late May afternoon.

Already, the sun blazes hot and humidity hangs heavy in the air. Inside, I bask in the protection offered by air conditioning, a luxury I never knew as a child. Sweltering summer evenings were made cool by box fans. On some well remembered and cherished evenings, we ate peanuts my mama boiled and drank either tea she brewed or Coca-Colas from Nick’s Stop and Shop in Monticello. Like vampires, mosquitoes would seek their food from the blood of our bodies. I remember the heat, the mosquitoes and their bites. I also remember the cool, sweet taste of the drinks and the joy that came from eating each salty peanut.

Right now, I am glad that I am inside a house that is free from mosquitoes and the humidity of a hot North Florida summer night. The only thing left to say is “Thank you, Lord, for Monticello summer memories, but also thank you, Lord, for the air conditioning in this house right now.”

Written by Jacob Bembry, May 24, 2013

Riding Rocket Ships

In the early morning hours, just after midnight, I step outside the front door of my house and I hear sounds:

A breeze sings a song as it rustles the leaves in the trees.

Cricket choirs chirp out the chorus of the song.

Truck tires provide harmony as they hum against the asphalt of Highway 90 far away, yet so close.

The rumble of a train heard miles away provides the bass line for the song.

A neighbor’s dog provides a distinct baritone with his bark.

I look upwards – towards the land of dreams. Stars shine brilliantly as they dazzle with their dance against the night sky.

As a child, I dreamed of riding rocket ships to stars and distant planets and finding new lands and new peoples there. The reality of growing up and circumstances put a screeching halt to those dreams.

I’m still a romantic at heart, though, and I know that just like the kid who wanted to be a maverick and blaze trails like Buck Rogers across the belt of the Milky Way that I still have dreams.

I have dreams of beaches I have never walked on, of mountains still to be climbed, of planes to be jumped out of and of someone with whom to share the adventures.

As I grow older, I realize that these dreams too will one day pass and many will not come true but I do know that I have had some adventures of a lifetime and that Jesus Christ has been there with me every step of the way.

Written by Jacob Bembry, May 28, 2013

Poets and Madmen

I once lived in warmth in the cocoon of innocence, now I wallow in the squalor of madmen and poets.

Favor and grace from God are the only two arms that reach to pull me out from the whirring dervish of my mind before I sink. Sin sings her siren call of enchantment, offering me pleasure but only for a short season. Pain sends the blade of her knife sharpened on the whetting stone deep into my heart.

The Sword of the Spirit strikes blows in my defense, as the Sword sings the song of salvation and my Lord rescues me and other poets and madmen from the mire.

Pickpocket

When I get it, a little jing in my pocket
And think I may get a chance to sock it
Away for a rainsoaked stormy day,
Trouble always comes and takes it away.
It may be jolly little Saint Nick
With his big fat bag of tricks,
Telling me Christmas comes early to mess with my head,
Or my car won’t start with no gas or a battery that’s dead.
Could be a pretty woman making my heart sing,
Making me waste my living buying her pretty things
With no promise of profit or return,
Only a broken heart and money that burns
Like NASA’s fieriest space rocket
Because love like life is a pickpocket.

Written by Jacob Bembry, October 2018

Masterpiece

If I were a poet, I should, I could, I would write a book of verse, with you as the rhythm and meter of each line.

And the book and its verses were written just for you.

If I were an author, I would write a book about a kind and lovely lady like you. Each metaphor, each simile, every word would breathe life, recreating my rapturous view of you.

The book was written. It now sits on a shelf, gathering dust, never having been cracked open, even for a peak.

If I could paint in oils or water colors, or sketch with charcoal, or draw in pastels, I would create a masterpiece as I captured your beauty on canvas or paper.

But the masterpiece will never be created. I don’t have the talent of a Rembrandt, Degas, or Van Gogh, and even if I did, I could only capture the false facade of beauty, revealed by your face and body. I could never capture the true source of your attractiveness which comes from within.

Your True Artist took a lump of clay, and started molding you and making you and He continues to do so today. Many times, it hurts as He has to smash and break you and start over again.

He writes and edits your story and poems and songs, and goes over them, laboriously looking for misplaced commas, dangling participles, and sentences ending in prepositions. As he makes cuts with a blue pencil, it feels like a dagger stuck in your belly.

The Artist paints your portrait but He has to destroy several canvases and begin again.

The True Artist never makes a mistake. He is a perfectionist who never stumbles or fumbles with pen, clay, or paintbrush. The only faults are those of His subject, but you are human and make mistakes as we all do. It hurts when He has to rip our canvases, shatter our molds of clay, and rub an eraser on paper to correct our mistakes sometimes. He does it with grace and kindness. It hurts when we know we hurt Him. He loved us enough to send His Only Son to die for us. None of us deserve that love, but He gives it to anyone who repents and asks for it. You are one of His greatest works. You are a masterpiece.