Author: Mack Ames

When trouble
  Assails,
   Then 
  Even storms 
Raging and 
  Fierce cannot 
   Alarm. 
  Loving, mighty 
Lord
Secures.

Day in and out their view is the same.
Concrete walls, locked doors,
Regulated life, till their time has been served.

For some it becomes home, and they fear the outside.
Others resist and refuse to adapt.
The resilient change what they can; accept what they cannot.

Crime is not required to imprison a mind or body. 
A begrudging character can limit as well as a cell.
Freedom comes to those that endure with grace.

Natural beauty moves my heart. 

Often cloudless spring days turn dark and dreary, but not this time. Azure skies, verdant trees and pastures—the splendor of creation breathtaking, and I am at a loss for words.

Wildflowers bloom along the highway, purple, yellow and white interrupting swaths of hay. Trees in the new green of spring. Young leaves flutter in the light breeze. My soul is stirred. I am poetic in heart, but not in writing. Words fail me. 

The air is warm and comfortable, like a lazy, midsummer afternoon. Forests and hills as far as the eye can see in the distance, framed by manicured lawns and brick buildings of a stately college campus. Glory!

Hospitalized February 6th
“It’s pneumonia and Influenza A,” she said the next morning.
“They want you and the boys tested. Love you; see you later.”
We did not speak again for six weeks.

Lungs and kidneys quit February 7th,
placed on complete life support, and coma induced.
I am quarantined with flu and cannot visit. 
Doctor calls, “She’s not likely to make it. This is the worst I’ve seen.”

Allowed to visit February 10th,
informed, “We almost lost her last night. She had a heart attack. I 
must be honest with you; I’ve never had a patient in her condition 
survive.”

I thank the doctor for his candor, add, “If it is her time to go, then we will find a way to go on, but…” and he turns to me…
“we have thousands of people around the world praying for her.”
“Then I will add my prayer, too,” he said. 

Doctor calls February 11th.
Reassures, “She’s fine,  don’t worry. I go off-shift tomorrow. 
I think your prayers are working.
For the first time since I attended her, I think she’s going to make it.”
I believe him. I thank him, hang up, and cry. 

Each step of the way she shatters expectations.
Surviving. Breathing. Walking. 
“Expect months in the hospital.” It was weeks.
“Expect months of dialysis, maybe a year, maybe a transplant.” Kidneys recovered. 

Thousands prayed, many gave, the Lord answered with a Yes.
In our deepest darkness, he carried us again, teaching us to trust always.
Next week, she goes back to work.
Once again, the Lord gave me my wife, my miracle.

My wife of 21 years nearly lost her life in 2019 from a horrific bout with flu pneumonia that caused her lungs and kidneys to fail, and then caused a mild heart attack that almost took her life. Her treatment and recovery have drawn us, our family, and our church family closer together in ways we never thought possible. As we have said from the beginning of this saga, to God be the glory!

Counting the days until the twenty-fifth,
He gazes longingly at all the trappings of the season
Really, though, he knows
It’s not about presents, trees, lights, and
Sugar-laden treats.
The true reason for all the celebration is the
Man sent to earth below from heaven
Above to die on a Cross for lost
Sinners.

All the wrath of God was poured out on this Man, bringing
New life to all that submit and believe that He who
Died for sinners now lives.

Whether mankind believes
In the Savior or 
Not, the
Truth
Eternally
Remains.

Farewell to the Wood Harvester

I walked back via the perimeter road
to clear my head. It’s a tough day
when a coworker has died.
I didn’t know him well, but he always greeted me by name
and had a smile on his face, even when he was mad.

His friends told me today that was because he knew
someone was about to hear from him;
we all chuckled about that as we processed our loss.
Eight weeks ago, he was healthy but for a stomach ache.

“Cancer, stage 4,” and he knew then it would soon be over.
He declined treatment; took care of business for his wife, 
and with his Maker. Conversed with his friends, 
settled matters for his adult children, and prepared for the end.

A stroke immobilized him Sunday, and Death claimed him Wednesday. We found out later his expectant grandson was born before J died. Small blessings in times such as this.
We all agreed today that in the mercy of Providence, 
neither J nor his dear wife had to bear a lengthy illness.

But his friends will miss him–those he mentored, most of all. 
“There’ll be some long walks in the woods,” one said, 
as they come to grips with their grief, “as we remember this good man, and say farewell to Joel.”

He will be missed, by colleague and inmate alike.
A man of good character like Joel is hard to find.

This man taught wood harvesting at the correctional facility where I work, and there are men there whose lives have been forever improved for by his guidance and direction. I wrote this just to get these thoughts off my mind, not to be poetic, necessarily.

Autumn came to Maine today

(it’s been here right along)

its colors beckoned me to drive,

soak in the hues like a song.

Autumn came to Maine today

orange, red, purple, and some green,

Grey clouds contrasted by the yellow brilliance

of leaves looking so pristine. 

Autumn came to Maine today

but soon it will be brown;

a Nor’easter looms just offshore

to blow the colors down.

My paternal grandfather and I share the same first and last name. I don’t remember him well, because he died when I was six years old. What I do recall is that one Christmas his and my presents got mixed up in the family exchange. I was very excited to receive the beautiful outdoor thermometer decorated with bright red cardinals; moments later, I was crestfallen when it was taken from me and given to him. I did not begrudge Grandpa getting that gift, but I was sorry not to receive something so pretty and useful.

Grandpa M was a carpenter, and he passed those skills to his elder surviving son, my Dad. Sadly, they did not pass to me. I am not particularly useful when building or repairing must be done. I have seen some of my grandfather’s work, and it is impressive.

Unlike the memories I have of Grandpa A, I do not recall the sound of Grandpa M’s voice, or any sayings of his. But this I do know for certain: Grandpa M knew the Lord and trusted himself to his Savior. Gram is there with him, and so is Mum. That’s what I know of Grandpa M.

My maternal grandfather lived to age 91. I was in my early twenties and living overseas when he died. I was sad when he passed, but his time had come, and I had seen him before moving to Japan, so there were no regrets on my part for “not seeing him one last time,” or anything like that. Our affection for one another was rarely spoken, but neither was it a secret.

Grandpa lived in Eastern Connecticut until I was about 7 years old. I loved visiting him there. Their yard was sloping, with well-kept grass, surrounded by flowers and graceful trees. During the afternoons, he’d take us for walks down the hill to a corner store, where he’d buy us M & Ms and 7Up and ice cream. When I grew up, I learned he was making a power play for our affections by doing that, trying to ruin our appetites for whatever Grandma was cooking for supper, but at my young age, I knew nothing of such politics. Sadly, Grandma died with I was six. Grandpa remarried soon thereafter and moved to northern Illinois. Visits to him became less frequent, but much more of an adventure.

Grandpa loved the Boston Red Sox, and one time when we were visiting his house in Connecticut, my older brother told me that Grandpa was going to take my Dad and my brother to Fenway for a game the next day. I wanted to go, too, but Dad thought I’d be bored, so I was left behind. It was the only chance I’d had to see the Sox with all three of the men I admired most.

A more treasured memory of my time with Grandpa was his dark green, 1968 Ford Mustang. As a junior high school student visiting him in Illinois, I washed and waxed his Mustang every day. When I visited him in my college years, he let me drive that beauty. It’s a thrill I’ve never forgotten.

Many of Grandpa’s little sayings have stayed with me over the years, and my siblings and I remember him fondly. “Pip, pip!” he’d say on his way out the door. Soft-spoken, with a twinkle in his eye, he’d part with this advice: “Stay out of the rain and hot sun!”

My faults are many. I wear my emotions on my sleeve.

My coworkers do not; they become weary with mine, or so I perceive.

They don’t warn me away, but grim faces show when I come near;

They change subjects quickly; I’m not welcome there.

We share some interests but differ sharply on others.

My faith is questioned because of my views.

“I don’t get how a Christian could possibly vote for ____,” I am told,

And when I defend myself, they are shocked by my answers.

Friendship seems to fade, replaced by mere civility.

I am isolated. Once, they supported me; now they seem to shun.

Not all are like that; one is positive, encouraging, and friendly.

“Find the positive today and focus on that!” he says.

I struggle to maintain. Pressures mount from boss and colleagues,

Meager savings and mounting bills, daily expectations weighing down.

“Take your lunch break,” the boss says, though complying leaves work undone.

“Do your work right,” the boss says, though complying means work through lunch.

My schedule does not work because of his changes.

Do more with less, like everyone else.

He covers his bases but I am left dangling at the end of my rope.

Is it any wonder that my faults shine through at times like this?

Lord, help me! I am flailing, losing hope, falling down on the job!

Only you can set my feet on the right path.

I bring my failures to you, for you are faithful and righteous.

In your mercy, hear my plea for help!

I cannot do this without you.