the rosebud...

A new minister was walking with an older,

More seasoned minister in the garden one day.

Feeling a bit insecure about what God had for him to do, he was asking the older

Preacher for some advice.

The  older preacher walked up to a rosebush and handed the young preacher a rosebud and told him to open it without tearing off any petals.

The young preacher looked in disbelief at the older

Preacher and was trying to figure out what a

Rosebud could possibly have to do with his wanting

To know the will of God for his life and ministry

But because of his great respect for the older preacher, he proceeded to try and unfold the rose,

While keeping every petal intact.

It wasn’t long before he realized how impossible this was to do.

Noticing the younger preacher’s inability to unfold

The rosebud without tearing it, the older preacher began to recite the following poem…

“It is only a tiny rosebud,

A flower of God’s design;

But I cannot unfold the petals

With these clumsy hands of mine.

The Secret of unfolding flowers

Is not known to such as I.

God opens this flower so easily,

But in my hands they die.

If I cannot unfold a rosebud,

This flower of God’s design,

Then how can I have the wisdom

To unfold this life of mine?

So I’ll trust in God for leading

Each moment of my day,

I will look to God for guidance

In each step along the way.

The path that lies before me,

Only my Lord and Savior knows,

I’ll trust God to unfold the moments,

Just as He unfolds the rose”

an earnest prayer...

There is a desire in my heart, a want in my soul

Aching for a new start, yearning to be made whole

For I have come a long way, and have yet far to go

Arrived at points I wished to stay, proceeding with the future I do not know

I have stopped many times to reflect, to see of all that I have become

Only to see a life full of neglect, and evil desires to which I’ve succumb

I have little to show for my years, a little good, some bad, and a lot of fears

A lot of happiness and also tears, many compliments and many jeers

For I have lived a common life, similar to what many will

The ebb and flow of harmony and strife, but here I sit… still

For what does this all mean? What is the purpose of this?

I lose sight of the faint gleam, I get lost in this worlds abyss

I cease to make a difference, to the start I have come once more

Now I come in humble deference, seeking for you to restore

Over and over I come, to the same spot at which I began

Desiring more and more to be done, realizing it must be done again

“Vanity is Vanity” is what the scholar said, I simply don’t understand

Sanity oh Sanity in vanities stead, Father guide me with your hand

For I have lost sight of the goal, the prize faded from mind’s eye

The very thing to make me whole, your Son, crucified

For too long I have strayed, far too long I have roamed

For this to you, I solemnly pray, Lord, bring me home!

...The inkless pen...

Right off you may be wondering, what is with the title, “The inkless pen”? Obviously there is something that has to be said (the whole point of a blog if you think about it), which would nullify such a thing as an “inkless” pen. This argument would find my agreement.

However…

There is a profound reason for this title… This is a stated realization that I, in myself, have nothing to say that has not already been said. The words I place on this page are a mere rephrasing of what men have uttered for a lifetime.

In the words of Rabbi Shapiro, we don’t really own anything. Not even our own words. Those words were neatly packaged to us through what we know of as the English language. However, it was given to us, not originated by us. Even what we say is not our own.

So following this line of logic, I have nothing original to say… My voice is indebted to those that have come before me… and I pray that my voice will be heard by those who follow…

For words are written down on a page, to create a story within

to start such a story, how does one begin

an impossible measure, the opportunities have no end

and to start such a story, with an inkless pen…