Now there is time to wait at the window.
Now there is time to do something new.
Now is the time to let go of regret.
Now is the time to recognize the gift
of now; not then, not when, not ought.
Now is the time to breathe.

A Parable for the Hour: jumbled thoughts on reading Luke 8 for morning devotions, Jan. 31,2020

Truth revealed or
Truth concealed?
Heart is hear with a ✝.

The shape of the cross
His story across history.
We might ask, like Pilate,
What is Truth?

The world is scorched and barren
and thirsting for truth to fall as dew
on the parched ground.
The seeds need truth to
blossom and grow into fruit.

But the seeds have fallen among the thistles,
and truth is concealed
by the thorns and in the shadows
what passes  for truth has congealed
into a mass of lies.
Is a deal with the devil
worth the compromise?

Fruit without a ✝
is easily turned into ruin.

Stand is sand
without a ✝.

Here is Luke’s Parable of the Sower.

Under the Shedding Sycamore

With apologies to Henry W…

Under the shedding sycamore tree
The irritated gardener stands;
The gardener, a busy woman is she
With aching back and hands,
And the muscles of her flabby arms
Are weak as rubber bands.

What, what to do with all that bark?
Now strewn out all around
It covers the the porch, the roof, the yard,
And every scrap of ground.
Why are apples in short supply,
Yet worthless bark abounds?

Her back is tired from bending,
The garden cart piled high
With quirky pieces of papery bark–
There a nose, there a mouth, an eye
A mask of camouflage, faces of wood
Still all on the grass they lie.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear the litter fall,
Achenes in spring, bark in summer
Giant brown leaves in fall.
And the branches come down every season
With no regard for all.

Cursed, cursed are those who planted
This regal sycamore
With no thought to it’s future girth or height
Just ten feet from the door,
When we would prefer its litter to fall
All on the forest floor.

Onward through the yard she goes;
Each morning sees the same task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
How long, how long must this go on
Before she has earned repose?

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Don’t plant a sycamore near thy house
Or all thy days will be fraught
With leaves, achenes, bark, and twigs
And thy battle will come to nought.