Thoughts on a Good Friend

This reflection was shared at the funeral of a good friend.

He was not afraid of anything;
He faced life with nothing in
his hand.
Old people, children, and dogs
felt safe around him.
He was a builder, impatient
with imperfection;
His temper flared sharing sparks
within
And more to know about this
interesting man.
He did things well or not at all.
Lucky are you who has anything
turned out by his hand.
He was patient in his work,
turning dull stones brilliant,
Discarding, cutting away and polishing
until the light
Caught and reflected the beauty
he had imagined.
Then he shared what he had created.
He was manly enough that he
didn’t hesitate to
Mention how the golden day lilies
stood out.
In front of the blue iris.
His interests encompassed the
ocean, sky and the land,
And he read and he learned more.
The earth produced for him
when he tilled it
And yielded up stones and artifacts
for his examination.
His humor could catch you unaware
Until you remembered what a
tease he was.
He was proud and deserved to be so,
And we are proud to have known him,
And sad that men like him are
so few.
His life was full of neighborly acts
and wonderfully generous.
His death weighs heavily upon us
Like Apache tears, grief turned to stone.

Psalm for Today

When the morning sky brightens
I thank my God.
When I get up from bed, I praise my Lord
Who created me and all living things.
When I think of my home, the green earth,
My gratitude knows no bounds;
Still, sometimes my way seems murky
With no clear path and I am troubled.
Even though I wander away from your great example,
You have promised to forgive.
What have I done to deserve such generosity?
How can I repay you for your faithfulness to me?
Keep me close, I pray, clear my vision and
Give me an understanding heart.
Instruct me in the way that leads to peace.

My Bed

**Happy Birthday, Gram!**

(Inspired by Vice President Rockefeller’s bed)

I have tried to make my bed attractive. The brightly colored pillow cases I made from calico to compliment the old patch-work spread my sister gave me because she knew I’d appreciate the tiny quilting stitches. The edge was badly frayed but I rebound it.

I bought the sheets on sale. The blankets are chosen for wash-ability and endurance. The pillows are soft, non-allergenic and two for five dollars. On a good day everything goes into the old wringer-type washer and is hung in the sun to dry.

The bed itself is about eighteen years old. It has no head board, just a bed and a mattress, regular size and adequate for my husband and me. After a busy day it brings rest, companionship and refreshment. To the eye, it is bright and clean. I enjoy making the sheets fresh and arranging the blankets neatly with no wrinkles.

Turned back in the evening the white sheets and bright pillows invite. When we are away and the night comes on the thought of it draws us home. It is all that one could want; sturdy and firm, yet soft enough for comfort. It keeps the cold away.

We give up our bed when we have company since it is the only double bed we own, and sleep on adjoining cots downstairs. These are also our winter beds since we shut off the upstairs to conserve energy. When the ones we love visit, cots spring up around us and we have the sight and sound of them sleeping near.

Beds take a lot of care. There is the daily making of the bed, the weekly washing and changing sheets and the seasonal cleaning and turning of the mattress. When the sheets wear thin we make them into pillow cases or crib sheets or use them for the backing of string quilts.

I suppose a bed can be a symbol of conquest or luxury or even art. To come it may represent a battlefield or nameless nocturnal fears.

My bed is an old friend.