You are there when I need you,

To remind me when I need reminding,

To comfort me in my sadness,

To advise me when I am troubled.

 

Most of all you are the voice of God,

Not just words on a page,

Or music in a song, you are all that as well.

But a psalm touches my heart as well as mind.

 

As if you wrote it just for me. Which you did.

 

“God helps those who helps themselves”

I hear my mother proclaim for the umpteenth time,

In this case a faint, but noticeable voice from the kitchen corridor,

As I made my exit avoiding the call.

 

Others can help us in our discernment,

Even if we have a rebel thought to auto-reject,

Like the change going into the parking machine,

From times gone by, before ATMs serviced our every need.

 

Listening for the small, still voice is a mode I try and stay tuned to,

But sometimes it’s a strong, resonating voice, coming from another body,

Someone who cares about us, sees us through God’s eyes,

Who calls us to inaction, from a deep sleep, induced by indecision not discernment.

 

Perhaps even laziness. For when does discernment become inaction I ask myself

 

 

Sometimes, we seek Peace by leaving the building,

Taking time and leaving the everyday,

Separating ourselves from all that is our lives.

Repelling it.

 

Bursting with unending chaos or unfulfilling boredom,

We head for the “way out”…  the exit,

Getting away from all those annoying people,

Even those closest to us.

 

But this cannot be real Peace, the “false” peace of separateness,

All this can do is reveal our path,

Illustrating the fork in the road ahead,

Tasting beauty helps, but the wonder is already present.

 

In our everyday.

Regrets worthwhile, lay on the street or the field of some forgotten place,

Where a decision, or not, was made to encourage a friendship,

Whether an invitation was given or taken back,

Each provided the backdrop of a life we left behind at that moment,

Perhaps never to return.

 

But my effect on them helped form the other, as it formed me.

I can remember the color of the clothing wore on an English summer’s day,

The shade of the trees, the air full in the excitement of the new,

Walking in a country park, worthy of a Bronte novel.

The painting like a John Constable; with life inserted.

 

Such is recall, not to be confused with recollection,

Or evening remembering.

Remembering is tinged with the scent of regret, or a repainting of what recall tells us.

Recall is true reliving of the experience, but now, somehow, with understanding. Unhampered by time.

 

It is understanding of what each moment means, and how it has affected others, including me.

What use is a life unlived for good?

And who defines what is good?

Both natural and supernatural laws make it clear,

If we are not animals, we should follow both.

 

But Good will prevail. Love will persist.

Always.