Written in Blood

On By Charis PsalloIn Just folks, Photography5 Comments

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Some of the things I post are written in blood. My blood. They have cost me plenty and were a struggle to write, but I knew there was gold in them.

Apparently no one else, or at least very few, noticed the sparkle.

I don’t check blog stats most of the time anymore. I am realizing that some concepts I struggle  to articulate are mostly the result of my need to process something that matters only to me and perhaps a handful of others. They are not without value — just without hits.

Some of the things I’ve posted are more like quick sketches on the back of a junk mail envelope. Sometimes something I wrote in 15 minutes catches the attention of readers. A friend with a large following shared one of those recently. Within a few hours I received an unexpected notification from WordPress that it was receiving thousands of hits. (Thanks, PM.) I desperately wanted to go back and fix some details, the kind of awkward bits I am nose-blind to until I sniff around from the vicarious position of an expected house guest, but too late.

I wonder what it was like for serious composers who spent years struggling to write symphonies and operas and oratorios only to have their reputation hang on a simple song they wrote for a local playhouse because they needed quick rent money. Bobby McFerrin is a brilliant classical and jazz musician. What is he known for? Don’t Worry. Be Happy (which I actually enjoy listening to on gloomy rainy days like this one.)

Fans are fickle. God is committed to my good. I need a reminder not to get them confused. He showed us how to be who he created us to be when wrote his message in blood long before anyone (including me) had any idea of what he was talking about.

For an audience of one.

(But you can read this too — if you want to.)

All the Way

On By Charis PsalloIn Mountains, Photography, Trees and forestsLeave a comment

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I held the hand of an elderly friend after she learned her disease was in the final stages. She asked me to sing for her.

“What would you like me to sing?” I asked.

All the Way My Saviour Leads Me,” she answered, without hesitation. I sang.

All the way my Savior leads me,
What have I to ask beside?
Can I doubt His tender mercy,
Who through life has been my Guide?
Heav’nly peace, divinest comfort,
Here by faith in Him to dwell!
For I know, whate’er befall me,
Jesus doeth all things well;
For I know, whate’er befall me,
Jesus doeth all things well.

After the second verse she said, “It’s true, you know.”
She smiled. “Sing that verse again.”
I did.

All the way my Savior leads me,
Cheers each winding path I tread,
Gives me grace for every trial,
Feeds me with the living Bread.
Though my weary steps may falter
And my soul athirst may be,
Gushing from the Rock before me,
Lo! A spring of joy I see;
Gushing from the Rock before me,
Lo! A spring of joy I see.

As I looked through a cache of photos I took of a winding country road near Turner Valley, Alberta a little while ago, I thought of her. It wasn’t until her home-going celebration that I included the last verse. With tears rolling down my cheeks I sang:

All the way my Savior leads me,
Oh, the fullness of His love!
Perfect rest to me is promised
In my Father’s house above.
When my spirit, clothed immortal,
Wings its flight to realms of day
This my song through endless ages:
Jesus led me all the way;
This my song through endless ages:
Jesus led me all the way.

It was as if all nature was proclaiming with her, “It’s true, you know.”

 

All the Way My Saviour Leads Me, lyrics by Fanny Crosby

Well, I’ll Be

On By Charis PsalloIn Photography8 Comments

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“She’s done it again.”
“What’s she done this time?”
“She was supposed to have surgery this morning, right? The doctors said she needed it or she could lose that kidney or even die.“
“So, what happened?”
“She told him that she saw Jesus at the foot of her bed during the night and he told her she was healed.”
“Jesus! She’s crazy.”
“I know. That’s what I said. This is so embarrassing. I told her I wouldn’t be a part of it. I walked out.”
“Did they cancel the surgery then?”
“They had to. She refused to get on the gurney. She got dressed, signed herself out against medical advice and took the bus home.”
“Can she do that? I mean she was in so much pain when I saw her the other day. How could she even get on a bus?”
“She did it. She came home and washed some things. I watched her hang them on the line, then – you’re not going to believe this — she went out to meet Mrs. Dipple for tea. She said not to worry, she’d pick up something for supper while she was downtown.”
“Well, I’ll be.”
“I’ll probably have to drive her back to the hospital.”
“I don’t know…”

This is a conversation I overheard when I was a teenager.
Grandma was fine. She lived another twenty years, worked as an international tour guide until she was 81 and never had another problem with her kidneys.
Well, I’ll be.