The Price That They Paid

King of Peace's Memorial Garden with the flags out for Memorial Day

The following poem written by King of Peace's own Dale Bundy is one to share this Memorial Day as we remember all who paid the ultimate price for our freedom.



You rest now dear,
She told him,
As she sat down,
On the bench nearby.

Every day,
She'd make the walk,
And this time she swore,
She'd not cry.

But the memories came,
Of their life.
And their love,
'Till a war took his life away.

And the tears that she shed,
Every time she came here,
Meant more,
Than could words ever say.

Sometimes she brought flowers,
To place on his stone,
Or she'd read him,
A letter she wrote.

And when she got to the end,
It was always the same,
An "I love you",
Would catch in her throat.

It was hard to leave him,
Alone in that place,
But she carried him home,
In her heart.

When he died,
She vowed,
To never forget,
His sacrifice and she did her part.

This Memorial Day,
Remember the ones,
Who may be forgotten,
And gone.

Take a moment,
And remember,
The price that they paid,
Don't leave their memories alone.

Sepulcher

by George Herbert

Oh blessed body! Whither art thou thrown?
No lodging for thee, but a cold hard stone?
So many hearts on earth, and yet not one
Receive thee?

Sure there is room within our hearts good store;
For they can lodge transgressions by the score:
Thousands of toys1 dwell there, yet out of door
They leave thee.

But that which shows them large, shows them unfit.
Whatever sin did this pure rock commit,
Which holds thee now? Who hath indicted it
Of murder?

Where our hard hearts have took up stones2 to brain thee,
And missing this, most falsely did arraign thee;
Only these stones in quiet entertain thee,
And order.

And as of old, the law by heav’nly art,
Was writ in stone; so thou, which also art
The letter of the word,3 find’st no fit heart
To hold thee.

Yet do we still persist as we began,
And so should perish, but that nothing can,
Though it be cold, hard, foul, from loving man
Withhold thee.

_____
1. toys. Trifling things.
2. took up stones. See John 10:13.
3. The letter of the word. See Hebrews 8:10 and Proverbs 3:3, 7:3.

Source (for poem and footnotes): George Herbert: The Country Parson, The Temple (The Classics of Western Spirituality; 1981)

Sermons We See

I'd rather see a sermon than hear one any day;
I'd rather one should walk with me than merely tell the way.
The eye's a better pupil and more willing than the ear,
Fine counsel is confusing, but example's always clear;
And the best of all the preachers are the men who live their creeds,
For to see good put in action is what everybody needs.

I soon can learn to do it if you'll let me see it done;
I can watch your hands in action, but your tongue too fast may run.
And the lecture you deliver may be very wise and true,
But I'd rather get my lessons by observing what you do;
For I might misunderstand you and the high advise you give,
But there's no misunderstanding how you act and how you live.

When I see a deed of kindness, I am eager to be kind.
When a weaker brother stumbles and a strong man stays behind
Just to see if he can help him, then the wish grows strong in me
To become as big and thoughtful as I know that friend to be.
And all travelers can witness that the best of guides today
Is not the one who tells them, but the one who shows the way.

One good man teaches many, men believe what they behold;
One deed of kindness noticed is worth forty that are told.
Who stands with men of honor learns to hold his honor dear,
For right living speaks a language which to every one is clear.
Though an able speaker charms me with his eloquence, I say,
I'd rather see a sermon than to hear one, any day.

—Edgar Guest

The Heights I Cannot Reach

I love the heights I cannot reach,
I love the truth I cannot preach,
I love the song I cannot sing,
I love the joy I cannot bring.

For heights some foot persistent reached,
For truth some prophet-soul has preached,
For notes some minstrel-heart has raised,
And Joy revealed, O God be praised!

Heights glacial though I may not scale,
Dwelling within life's shadowed vale,
Drinking from low-descending brook,
Yet to heights I still will look!

—Ernest Earle Osgood, Rector Emmanual, Brook Hill, VA (1903-1925)
From the Dove Tales newsletter of the church

Pieces Of Life

Dale Bundy, who attends the early service at King of Peace, offers the following poem about putting back together the pieces of a shattered life with God's help.

The vase had been a wedding gift,
A beautiful thing to behold,
Hand made and hand painted,
By a craftsman’s hands,
More precious in some ways than gold.

She treasured the vase,
And gave it a place,
On the mantle for all to see,
Visitors always would comment,
On its beauty and intricacy.

The years went by,
And the vase held it’s place,
Among her possessions it was most prized,
A delight to own and to look at,
Pleasing to heart and to eyes.

Then one day while dusting the mantle,
The vase was knocked to the floor,
It cracked into numerous pieces,
Too broken it seemed, to restore.

Heartbroken, she picked up the pieces,
And with tears in her eyes she tried,
To put the vase back together,
Dejected at the loss as she cried.

But soon the pieces were glued back together,
Carefully one by one,
And you had to look closely to see the repair,
She marveled at what she had done.

Then, when the task was completed,
On the mantle it was again placed,
Not quite as before but still lovely,
A new smile now on her face.

When life is shattered in seconds,
It may seem hard to repair,
The pieces may seem too many to hold,
And the task may seem to much to bear.

But with faith and trust,
The pieces will fit,
The cracks will heal and wane,
The sense of loss will diminish,
And time will lessen the pain.

Have faith in yourself,
To fix what seems lost,
Pick up the pieces again,
Don’t leave a life broken,
When it could be restored,
With love and God’s help,
It will mend.

All things counter, original, spare, strange

Glory be to God for dappled things —
for skies of couple-color as a brinded cow;
for rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
fresh firecoal chestnut falls; finches' wings;
landscapes plotted and pierced —
fold, fallow, and plough;
and all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
with swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
he fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
praise him.

~Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

Lord, Purge Our Eyes to See

Lord, purge our eyes to see
Within the seed
a tree,
Within the glowing egg,
a bird,
Within the shroud,
a butterfly.
Till, taught by such we see,
Beyond all creatures,
Thee.

—Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

The Pearl

The following is a poem from George Herbert (1593-1633), an Anglican priest and poet. On his ordination, Herbert went to Bemerton, a rural parish 75 miles southwest of London where he preached and wrote poetry. The son of a wealthy Welsh family, he helped to rebuild the church out of his own funds. Herbert died of tuberculosis three years after being ordained to the priesthood, leaving behind a treasure of poetry.

The Kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man, seeking goodly pearls; who, when he had found one, sold all that he had and bought it.—Matthew 13.45

I know the ways of Learning; both the head
And pipes that feed the press, and make it run;
What reason hath from nature borrowed,
Or of itself, like a good huswife, spun
In laws and policy; what the stars conspire,
What willing nature speaks, what forced by fire;
Both th' old discoveries, and the new-found seas,
The stock and surplus, cause and history:
All these stand open, or I have the keys:
Yet I love thee.

I know the ways of Honour, what maintains
The quick returns of courtesy and wit:
In vies of favours whether party gains,
When glory swells the heart, and moldeth it
To all expressions both of hand and eye,
Which on the world a true-love-knot may tie,
And bear the bundle, wheresoe'er it goes:
How many drams of spirit there must be
To sell my life unto my friends or foes:
Yet I love thee.

I know the ways of Pleasure, the sweet strains,
The lullings and the relishes of it;
The propositions of hot blood and brains;
What mirth and music mean; what love and wit
Have done these twenty hundred years, and more:
I know the projects of unbridled store:
My stuff is flesh, not brass; my senses live,
And grumble oft, that they have more in me
Than he that curbs them, being but one to five:
Yet I love thee.

I know all these, and have them in my hand:
Therefore not sealed, but with open eyes
I fly to thee, and fully understand
Both the main sale, and the commodities;
And at what rate and price I have thy love;
With all the circumstances that may move:
Yet through these labyrinths, not my grovelling wit,
But thy silk twist let down from heav'n to me,
Did both conduct and teach me, how by it
To climb to thee.

Holy Toilet Bowl?

Today at 2:30 p.m. a memorial service for Robert Jolliffe, a part of the congregation at Magnolia Manor for whom Bill Bruce played each Wednesday and King of Peace provides fifth Sunday services. Below is a poem that blends Bob's faith and his playful side:

I never thought of a toilet bowl as a metaphor for Holy,
but look it up, the point comes out as preaching makes it clearer,
Consider pure: and consecrated, set apart for specific purpose.
And look at pure, "free from defilement, chaste and unpolluted"
Attributes into which our faith is deeply rooted.

It takes a military mind set, to fight a spiritual war
The weapons carried into the fray must be kept in working order.
Metaphors are often used in war's vocabulary.
They stick in ones mind to make it quick
and keep the worrier wary

Keep in mind the toilet bowl, keep it clean and ready
dispose of all that isn't God and hold a course that's steady
Take the waste of sin and shame and soil that slows life's Battle rush.
Deposit it in your Holy bowl
and don't forget to flush!

Bob Jolliffe
11-23-98

Patience

SOMETIMES I wish that I might do
Just one grand deed and die,
And by that one grand deed reach up
To meet God in the sky.
But such is not Thy way, O God,
Not such is Thy decree,
But deed by deed, and tear by tear,
Our souls must climb to Thee,
As climbed the only Son of God
From manger unto Cross,
Who learned, through tears and bloody sweat,
To count this world but loss;
Who left the Virgin Mother's Arms
To seek those arms of shame,
Outstretched upon the lonely hill
To which the darkness came.
As deed by deed, and tear by tear,
He climbed up to the height,
Each deed a splendid deed, each tear
A jewel shining bright,
So grant us, Lord, the patient heart,
To climb the upward way,
Until we stand upon the height,
And see the perfect day.

-Geoffrey "Woodbine Willie" Studdert Kennedy (1883-1929)

The Lanyard

Billy Collins offers the poem The Lanyard about rethinking his camp craft lanyard many years later. I think it reads like a parable of our relationship with God, seeing all God gives us and what we give in return. That's my take. Read the poem and let me know what you think. peace, Frank+

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.