To view my other blog “One A Day, Your Spiritual Vitamins”
CLICK ON THE FOLLOWING URL
RUST ON MY SOUL (A Novel) (Published by Bridge Press in 1985 & Distribued Internationally) (Thursday & Sunday will continue to cover a variety of subjects as in the past)
PREFACE
Some years ago on a television program, the hero asked the heroine, “Who are you?” What’s your name?” She replied, “Who am I? What’s my name? Which do you want? They’re entirely different.”
In this diary the writer has been too busy to confront this timeless question with the great answer. The words “Be still and know that I am God” have had no place in the daily rush of his life.
But when the inner workings of his soul have a word with him, a journey begins within, and “passing through he valley of weeping, (he) make(s) it a place of springs.” (Psalm 84, The Amplified Bible”
INTRODUCTION
In an old loose leaf notebook, Thomas Kettering wrote when there was a cry from his heart. He wrote when his inner longing spilled over into the reality of his days. He did not write every day, only when he felt he must. How often he wrote or when is not important. The journey is what counts, for it is a diary about all of us, to all of us. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” and even a stumble is a step.
Evening
I heard the shot. It shattered the Sunday morning quiet. Ian was a big man. Sitting behind his corporate desk his power and physical bulk betrayed no sign of weakness. But one time last fall, down on his knees in his garden, his humanity briefly showed. For just a moment there was agony in his eyes as he said to me, “Tom, my garden used to be the one place I could find some peace, but I really just don’t give a damn about anything anymore.” Why didn’t I hear the warning bell?
The name on my office door says Thomas Kettering but who is he? Perhaps my neighbor asked the same question of himself, and not finding an answer, chose suicide as a solution.
Nancy is over visiting with his wife now to help. There are no children. His wife must bear this time of emptiness fearfully and alone. But what can one say?
Your husband failed as a human being…he made it to the top of the ladder but he couldn’t stand the altitude…your husband has been dead the last several years anyway. “No! You mumble platitudes, politely leave if the minister comes by, and damn God for it all…with a terrible ache in your soul.
I’m afraid. Afraid of today and what it has brought. Scared to death of tomorrow.
Morning
I didn’t really know him. I knew Jim’s face well enough; a prominent jaw, pale blue eyes beneath a shaggy brow. I knew Jim's dog better than I knew Jim– now who will romp with him in their front yard? Side by side we lived, yet a million miles apart.
The muted roar of the expressway one quarter of mile away says life. The projects and appointments in my schedule book say life. Even my pain and problems, and sometimes joy, say life. But for Jim there is now silence.
He left this life with a wail cut short. That’s what suicide is; an inner scream that finds no listeners. And then one day, the piercing, turbulent volume of regret becomes too much.
“Goodbye, Jim, whoever you were. I never took the time to find out. I really didn’t care.”
Late night
Remembering is like turning the blanket of your mind inside out. It is then that you find all your yesterdays that have sifted through. They are evergreens in the forests of your thoughts. They are paths that should be rewalked from time to time.
It is good and bad, therapeutic and hurtful, this journey I suggest. But it is a voyage from which I must not veer. The time for forgetting is past. I can no longer afford the luxury. As I pull up one cluster of memories I know others will tangle along for the ride.
Some people just bite at a thought and swallow it whole. I can’t do that. When it comes to thinking, I’m a slow eater. I have to chew a long. It helps my mind to digest.
Will I be able to handle this searching of deposits on my soul? I don’t know. I do know that if I go around many more circles I’ll wear a hole in my brain. I’m beginning to feel like a man with a ton of problems and only a pound of fortitude.
TO BE CONTINUED
(Complete book available on amazon.com) (great prices)
Neil is also the author of THE SPIRITUAL ABRAHAM LINCOLN (His last book)
Neil Wyrick newest book
“LETTERS TO 21st CENTURY AMERICA FROM CHARLES WESLEY, Hymn Writer Supreme
is coming out in 2010 by CSS Publishers
To view my other blog “One A Day, Your Spiritual Vitamins”
Some years ago on a television program, the hero asked the heroine, “Who are you?” What’s your name?” She replied, “Who am I? What’s my name? Which do you want? They’re entirely different.”
In this diary the writer has been too busy to confront this timeless question with the great answer. The words “Be still and know that I am God” have had no place in the daily rush of his life.
But when the inner workings of his soul have a word with him, a journey begins within, and “passing through he valley of weeping, (he) make(s) it a place of springs.” (Psalm 84, The Amplified Bible”
INTRODUCTION
In an old loose leaf notebook, Thomas Kettering wrote when there was a cry from his heart. He wrote when his inner longing spilled over into the reality of his days. He did not write every day, only when he felt he must. How often he wrote or when is not important. The journey is what counts, for it is a diary about all of us, to all of us. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” and even a stumble is a step.
Evening
I heard the shot. It shattered the Sunday morning quiet. Ian was a big man. Sitting behind his corporate desk his power and physical bulk betrayed no sign of weakness. But one time last fall, down on his knees in his garden, his humanity briefly showed. For just a moment there was agony in his eyes as he said to me, “Tom, my garden used to be the one place I could find some peace, but I really just don’t give a damn about anything anymore.” Why didn’t I hear the warning bell?
The name on my office door says Thomas Kettering but who is he? Perhaps my neighbor asked the same question of himself, and not finding an answer, chose suicide as a solution.
Nancy is over visiting with his wife now to help. There are no children. His wife must bear this time of emptiness fearfully and alone. But what can one say?
Your husband failed as a human being…he made it to the top of the ladder but he couldn’t stand the altitude…your husband has been dead the last several years anyway. “No! You mumble platitudes, politely leave if the minister comes by, and damn God for it all…with a terrible ache in your soul.
I’m afraid. Afraid of today and what it has brought. Scared to death of tomorrow.
Morning
I didn’t really know him. I knew Jim’s face well enough; a prominent jaw, pale blue eyes beneath a shaggy brow. I knew Jim's dog better than I knew Jim– now who will romp with him in their front yard? Side by side we lived, yet a million miles apart.
The muted roar of the expressway one quarter of mile away says life. The projects and appointments in my schedule book say life. Even my pain and problems, and sometimes joy, say life. But for Jim there is now silence.
He left this life with a wail cut short. That’s what suicide is; an inner scream that finds no listeners. And then one day, the piercing, turbulent volume of regret becomes too much.
“Goodbye, Jim, whoever you were. I never took the time to find out. I really didn’t care.”
Late night
Remembering is like turning the blanket of your mind inside out. It is then that you find all your yesterdays that have sifted through. They are evergreens in the forests of your thoughts. They are paths that should be rewalked from time to time.
It is good and bad, therapeutic and hurtful, this journey I suggest. But it is a voyage from which I must not veer. The time for forgetting is past. I can no longer afford the luxury. As I pull up one cluster of memories I know others will tangle along for the ride.
Some people just bite at a thought and swallow it whole. I can’t do that. When it comes to thinking, I’m a slow eater. I have to chew a long. It helps my mind to digest.
Will I be able to handle this searching of deposits on my soul? I don’t know. I do know that if I go around many more circles I’ll wear a hole in my brain. I’m beginning to feel like a man with a ton of problems and only a pound of fortitude.
TO BE CONTINUED
(Complete book available on amazon.com) (great prices)
Neil is also the author of THE SPIRITUAL ABRAHAM LINCOLN (His last book)
Neil Wyrick newest book
“LETTERS TO 21st CENTURY AMERICA FROM CHARLES WESLEY, Hymn Writer Supreme
is coming out in 2010 by CSS Publishers
To view my other blog “One A Day, Your Spiritual Vitamins”
CLICK ON THE FOLLOWING URL http://oneadayyourspiritualvitamins.blogspot.com/
And,
yes, if this site has met any of your needs share it with a friend.
Just have them go to “Google Search” and type in “Wyrick’s Writings”
And, yes, maybe they will back track a few weeks to read other of my musings.
DO YOU HAVE A BLOG OR FACEBOOK? IF YOU ENJOY THESE WRITINGS COULD YOU
CALL ATTENTION TO THIS BLOG? IF YOU DO, THANKS IN ADVANCE
CLICK ON THE TO RIGHT SIDE OF THIS SCREEN WHERE IT READS “CLICK HERE TO WATCH NEIL AS WESLEY, LUTHER, FRANKLIN & LINCOLN”…His presentations have been called equal to Hal Holbrook and were presented all over the world
Or click on the following URL http://wyrickswritings.blogspot.com/
And, yes, maybe they will back track a few weeks to read other of my musings.
DO YOU HAVE A BLOG OR FACEBOOK? IF YOU ENJOY THESE WRITINGS COULD YOU
CALL ATTENTION TO THIS BLOG? IF YOU DO, THANKS IN ADVANCE
CLICK ON THE TO RIGHT SIDE OF THIS SCREEN WHERE IT READS “CLICK HERE TO WATCH NEIL AS WESLEY, LUTHER, FRANKLIN & LINCOLN”…His presentations have been called equal to Hal Holbrook and were presented all over the world
No comments:
Post a Comment