One jaded Christian’s Christmas wish

It’s Christmas, but (for what it’s worth)
what’s grounded in the Savior’s birth
is buried neath a holiday
politically correct.

The teachers call it Winter Break.
That makes me mad. For goodness sake,
two billion people in our world
are followers of Christ.

It seems to me a bit absurd.
We sing of Santa’s flying herd,
but when it comes to caroling
it is a silent night.

I’m warned about the way I greet
the ones this month I chance to meet.
To wish them “Merry Christmas” is
considered quite uncouth.

Those life-sizes creches on the square
have been outlawed. It’s so unfair.
The First Amendment guarantees
my right to celebrate.

Good Lord, these changes make me sick.
What once was yours is now St. Nick’s.
The meaning of the virgin’s child
is hardly understood.

If only I could help folks see
just what this season’s meant to be.
Then maybe, Lord, the world would know
the peace you came to give.

Craving the coffee Mrs. Olson brewed

Mrs. Olson, brew the Folger’s.
It’s the richest kind.
Plus, I’m running out of Star bucks.
That place robs you blind.
At the Bucks the blends are costly.
You could lose your shirt.
And the beans they boast are bitter.
Ground, they taste like dirt.

Lattes, fraps and cappuccinos
seem to be the rage.
But, I miss the simple pleasures
of another age.

Who banned Yuban?
Where’s Hills’ Brothers?
Not at Maxwell’s House!
“Sanka’s not designer decaf!”
snooty housewives grouse.

Perk me up with no-frills coffee
like my grandpa sipped.
I don’t need designer decaf
just to prove I’m hip.

Coffee black! No cream. No sugar.
Just a cup of Joe.
And I think his last name’s Olson.
He’s just great! You know?

Passing the buck for our imperfect bodies

Gene Poole is the cause of all
the things ’bout me I hate:
My hair, my nose, my body shape,
my ears, my height, my weight.

And though I’ve never met Eugene,
I think he’s pretty cruel.
Without my knowledge or consent
he deemed I’d be a Poole.

Although I work out all the time,
I’m blessed with ol’ Gene’s gut.
And just like all my relatives,
I’ve got his ample butt.

He robbed me of my thick black hair
and my unwrinkled skin.
He stole my runner-lean physique
and left a double chin.

It’s Gene who found a way to loot
my body of its looks.
And based on what he stole from me,
I’d call that thief a crook.

A poem for Breast Cancer Awareness Month

I looked into my doctor’s eyes
and saw concern he couldn’t hide.
The words he uttered stole my breath.
I feared I soon would dance with death.

“It’s cancer,” he explained quite grim.
“But don’t give up. Let’s fight to win.”
Tied up in knots, I thought the worst.
“I’m doomed,” I sighed. “My future’s cursed.
 It’s just my luck to die this way.”
My doubts refused to let me pray.
They robbed me of the my trust in God
convincing me my faith was flawed.
My fear of what tomorrow held
could not be eased, erased or quelled.

And then last week I got a note.
I wept at what a new friend wrote.

“I heard the C-word trumped your hand.
I know your fear. I understand.
Some years ago I, too, was ill.
I lost my faith, my hope and will.
Upset at God, I couldn’t pray.
My world was dark both night and day.

My treatments left me sick and sore,
a prisoner of a horrid war.
At times I wished that death would come
for after all my life seemed done.

But then one day out of the blue,
amazingly, somehow I knew
that God was really in control
of my sick body and my soul.
That He still had a plan for me,
that one day I’d be cancer-free.

From that day on, I looked ahead
and rendered all my doubts as dead.
I started living without fear
because I knew the Lord was near.
Unwrapping each day as a gift,
my view of life gave me a lift.

It also helped me start to hope
and day by day I learned to cope.
And then by God’s grace I got well.
The plight I’d known that felt like Hell
had disappeared. So too my fears.
Praise God, my MRIs were clear.

And so I’m writing you today
to say don’t fret if you can’t pray.
Let God surprise you as you face
the cancer that you now embrace.
You’ll find that He won’t let you go,
although today you’re feeling low.”
I held the letter in my hands
and whispered, “Yes, he understands.
Although our friendship’s rather new
he knows what I am going through.

He knows the nausea and the pain
and how exhaustion stakes its claim.
But even more, he knows that life
is more than what a surgeon’s knife
can surgically remove at best.
 He knows that when you face a test
the Lord Himself will lift you up
and help you sip from suffering’s cup.
Then when you’re weak, He’ll carry you
until this dreaded journey’s through.”

A simple letter from a friend
confirmed that cancer’s not the end.
The mailman didn’t have a clue
what he delivered helped renew
my faith in One who loves me so
and will not ever let me go.

That cherished letter gave me hope
to scale this slippery, scary slope.

The fall elections are anything but child’s play

What Henry Hyde’s vacating
a guy named Roskam seeks.
He’s running strong and confident
to claim that long-held seat.

His foe’s a female veteran
who feels the war is wrong.
Ms. Duckworth quacks a liberal tune
some anti-Bush folk song.

For Roskam, freedom matters.
For Duckworth, tolerance.
For him, the bucks are raised in-state.
For her, they’re East Coast funds.

The pundits of both parties
are focused on Chi-town.
A race for U. S. Congress there
has foreheads knit in frowns.

This campaign’s a bellwether
of how the rest will go.
Will those who back the President
survive? We soon will know.