Dewdrops And Trickles

Not every written word in western life turns out to be "Cowboy Poetry." Sometimes the thoughts a man has when he's sittin' quiet and alone just have to follow a logical path. Somehow that path turns into a kind of philosophy about how things work. Sometimes it’s real clear. At other times the thoughts just have to meander awhile. Eventually a man ends up where he didn't know he was goin'. Fer example: I was thinkin' recently, "How can one Scripturally motivated prayer every day make a difference in anyone's life?"

As I was sittin’, contemplatin’, the Lord said to me, “Son, when you come to your secret place of prayer and devotion, I’m going to make sure you don’t leave empty-handed. When you open My Word and I show you an insight, you can be sure that it will impact the life for which it was given. It might be yours. It might be a child, a nation or a friend. You take that insight and pray it over them. The next day will be the same; then again and again, till one thought turned prayer becomes two, three, and four. Years down the road those daily insights, dewdrops of mercy, have turned into little trickles. Those trickles turn into streams and streams turn into to creeks. Creeks turn into rivers flowing from on high, over falls and then empty into great gorges moving steadily to mighty oceans.” That's what God said.

So it all begins when one little dewdrop of water falls quietly, unnoticed and unseen. That dewdrop falls silently, softly, unnoticed into a leafy forest bed, one upon another. One by one the drops form a trickle moving slowly, steadily down ancient pathways. Leaves and branches form tiny estuaries of mist and dew leaving small watery trails behind them.

An insightful pilgrim travelin' Oregon soil captured exactly this scene as he took in the beauty of Wahcella Falls:
 "Many powerful amazing things start from secret sources…No one may know all the good things you do quietly every day [the God thoughts you have or the prayers that you pray]. But some day their result will pour forth in glory [Behold, a small drop can become a grand story.]” (1)

A prayin' dad, a prayin' mom, granddad, grandmother – these come quietly day by day with a steady drip, steady prayers that become a silent, secret trickle. Those dewdrops, all taken together, one by one, over time become mighty powerful rivers and finally great oceans of prayer.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that God is found mostly in quiet, out of the way secret places. He speaks to men not so much to write books, give grand speeches or eloquent sermons. God intends mainly to simply set His folks to prayin' in secret.

From a Scripture thought comes a prayer; 

A dribble that's a drop, great things to be heir.

One dewdrop upon another until soon they become a trickle. That tiny trickle wanders through a wilderness seemingly without direction. It knows not its final destination. Somehow that trickle finds an infinite irresistible force, a river, an ocean that can’t be stopped and proves eventually its majestic and mighty power. (2)

Yep, “dewdrops and trickles” is how one Scripturally motivated prayer day by day can make a difference. And that's why God says we should pray without ceasin'.

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1 Ken Duncan, (Australian photographer), Walking With God In America, 2008, Thomas Nelson Publishers, (Pg. 121).

2 Some thoughts here were inspired by Karl Rahner (1904-1984); The Contemporaries Meet The Classics On The HolySpirit; Compiled by Randall Harris; 2004, Howard Publishing, (Pg. 40).



DEWDROPS & TRICKLES

This piece comes straight out of my Morning Watch notes, April 4, 2013.

It was one of those pensive morning times with the Lord; one of those

times when He just dumps a load and you do the best

you can to pick it all up.





© RWHollar, www.bootheelramblins.blogspot.com, January 19, 2014

The Magic of Christmas Is Holy

I have some dear friends who attend my church. Their names are James Milburn and his mom, Jean. James is a retired Air Force Staff Sergeant. His mom is as sweet and pleasant a lady as ever was born. James is always there to give me a pleasant greeting and an encouraging word. When Christmas rolls around he never forgets my family. I get a card from him every year.

This year he gave me a card and a special Christmas piece written by his mom. Since this blog is just a place for some ramblin' it seemed fittin' that I should share this beautiful writing by Jean Milburn.

The Magic Of Christmas
Is Holy

Why is Christmas so commercialized,

    So covered with glitter and fantasized?

Well, it goes way back to one Wondrous night,

    There was a star in the East that was awesome bright.

While shepherds guarding their sheep gazed with awe,

    Our Precious Savior lay asleep in the straw.

With all the Wonders this birth brought about,

    Faith and Hope and Charity no doubt.

There's a desire to reach out amidst the glow,

    Wish "Merry Christmas" to folks we don't even know.

The Manger Scene is displayed on the mantle,

    The flame from the candle so soft and gentle.

We think of old friends we love so much,

    Send greeting cards to keep us in touch.

The first of the gifts were from there wise men.

    And that's how the gift of giving began.

There's shopping to do in the Christmas rush,

    Remembering those not as fortunate as us.

Little sleepy heads cannot sleep they're so thrilled,

    Santa's bringing toys and their stockings will be filled.

Enjoy the music and the Christmas bells.

    Give thanks for the glorious story it tells.

The magic is Holy that looms in the air.

    And only God's Christ Child can put it there.

When Christmas preparations are finally done,

    Family and friends enjoy Holiday fun.

Embrace the Season that is Spiritually divine,

    Because the Magic is Holy and it's been there all the time.

Celebrate the season it will always hold true.

The Greatest of Gifts He has given to you.

Hazlewood

Some time ago I'd been working with some people, former prison inmates and their families; just sharin' the love of Jesus with them, tryin' to meet their needs. A man (name's James Hazlewood) was helping. At some point during the evening's activities he stepped up to me and shoved a napkin into my hand with some writin' on it. I put it in my pocket nonchalant like. Later, when I got home, I pulled the napkin outa my pocket and read it. What a blessing. Thanks pard. You're a blessing.

This is what he wrote. I just call it...

                           Hazlewood

Just an old Gospel cowboy ridin' on a wilderness range;
But he rides for the Master, gathering up His strays.

And he seeks for halt and lame ones and ornery crosseyed bulls;
He knows they are all precious to the Savior who he serves.

When at last the herd is gathered safe in the heavenly home;
He'll hear his name called softly and then "Partner, well done."

The Best Sunday Service Of All

*In memory of Julius "Jay" Bruner

(March 30, 1931 - November 28, 2010)

Well, it was Sunday mornin' early when I heard that distant call.
I'd been a'mendin' fences since Thanksgiving; two, three days as I recall.
The alarm goin' off seemed early, but I jumped right out of bed;
It was time to dress for worship, Sunday service, straight ahead.

Yes sir, it was Sunday mornin' early when I heard that distant call;
Time to go to worship, givin' thanks to God for all.
Seen Lucy fixin' breakfast; gosh my Lord is good.
She's my pardner and my sidekick; I let her know just where I stood.

Yep, it was Sunday mornin' early when I heard that distant call.

Felt a strange sensation 'bout the service I'd attend;
Knew it would be special, spendin' time with God and friends.
So I stepped on through that kitchen door; time to pray, and eat , and go.
But what came next, to my surprise, a feller could not know.

Music was a rignin' out with sounds I'd never heard.
It was singin' so angelic it caught my off my guard.
It was Sunday morn in heaven and a service to beat all;
Jesus high and lifted up said, "Jay, I sent that call."

Yep, it was Sunday mornin' early when I heard that distant call.
I'd exchanged a world of mendin' fences to join... 
"...the best Sunday service of all."

(c) RWHollar 
November 30, 2010

*Talked to my friend Kip, son of Julius, on November 30, 2010. We talked about how his dad was getting ready for church the day he went home to be with the Lord. We kidded a little about getting ready for church and waking up in heaven. Kip said, "Yea, that would be the best Sunday service of all." Now, I don't claim to be any great hand at cowboy poetry, but my friend's words got me to thinking. So I sat down and wrote these few thoughts about a dad revered, remembered, and loved.

Walkin' Under The Shadow Of The Broad-brimmed Hat

Walkin' down on Main Street

Jes' the other day,

I noticed the shadow of a feller

A'followin' me along the way.

Couldn't tell the character

Of the image that I saw,

But the broad-brimmed hat that he was wearin'

More less spoke it all.

The shadow of that broad-brimmed hat,

Its dark and creased tall crown,

Gave me pause to stop and think awhile;

Walkin'. Lookin' down.

I find that there's a quick respect

When another's eyes meet mine;

Its like they knows and jes' expects

I'm walkin' that fine line.

Truth be told 'bout that broad-brimmed hat

It freezes a frame of days gone by,

When a man's good word meant somethin' sure

And in the saddle he rode certain high.

Now, I don't mean to git all romantic

'Bout those old times and places,

But it can make a body proud

Of his heritage and traces.

So when you're walkin' down on Main Street,

Ridin' carriage or a plane,

If you're wearin' that creased and broad-brimmed hat

Folks take note; I'm jes' sayin'.

Make sure the feller walkin'

Under the shadow of that broad brim

Is livin' up to life and work,

Doin' all that's 'xpected of him.

(c) RWHollar

September 28, 2012

The inspiration for this piece came as I was walking down Houston Street in Fort Worth, Texas. I spotted my shadow on the sidewalk and the broad-brimmed hat just sort of jumped out at me. I got to thinking about the culture of the old west, the tradition of the cowboy and all that seemed to me to be embodied in the solitary shape of the cowboy hat. A shadow is pretty non-descript...until you get to the hat. What a symbol of pride and respect. 

*A Pardner True

The woman I love is the woman I trus'.

She always does me good, even when I fuss.

N'er a bad word spoken; no selfish thought or aire.

She jes' has a way of keepin' faith and always bein' there.

She's is a pardner true, my equal in many ways.

Sometimes she jes' knows things; knows how they plays.

Ain't no other woman so good and so true,

Who'd have a man like me, who sometimes jes' don't have a clue.

Life without her? Now that's a thought.

Naw. Not really. That'd put me in a heck of a spot.

'Cause I need a pardner true with a whole lot of grace,

To keep me straight and sometimes put me in my place.

Yep, the woman I love is the woman I trus'.

She's a pardner true; no ifs, ands, or buts.

(c) RWHollar

May 8, 2010

*Based on Proverbs 31:11&12 (New Living Translation)
11) Her husband can trust her,
          and she will greatly enrich his life.
12) She brings him good, not harm,
          all the days of her life.

(This piece was written on the occasion of a Mother's Day. This, after near forty years of wonderful marriage to this saintly woman, was one of my gifts to her. 'Course, it don't compare to her gift to me or our children.)