The Pile

The rain pelting against the window sill

My heart laying far down upon the hill

How did I become so far removed

So entrenched in the road I've grooved

Through my lonesome, weary heart it spans

Over broken hourglass desert sands

Past deserts, over chasms, my traveled feet now stand upon this hill

Only to endure the bite of winter's merciless chill

A farce! I cry, a counterfeit and fake!

And far beneath my crying eyes my heart begins to ache

What happened to the stories, the stories loved and told

Of maidens fair, tyrants cruel, and warriors brave and bold

Perhaps I made too much of these

And only inquired enough to please

My youthful curiosities

Are they the recounting of deeds noble, fair, and true

Or are they only set up as lies and careful rue

To keep the hearth of youth ablaze a little while

Before they too crumble and become part of the pile

A pile made of things wished but not received

Of all the hopes and dreams the dead had once believed

I am just a traveler, the latest to find my way

To top the hill where night over takes the day

Bear the Load

Discontent with life, dreams my persistent itch

I've scratched and bled and dried with time the healing stitch

Time rots my hopes to a stinking stench

But I remain unmoved on my apathetic bench

Distance not traveled, goals unattained

Long nights alone I have entertained

The darkest thoughts a man knows how to bear

Each new vision another burden, another care

Nothing to ignite, nothing to brighten my weary soul

No happiness on earth from pole to lonely pole

Even the heavens offer nothing less than death

They fill you with a void that steals your earthly breath

There is no ease, no slowing, and no stop

If there is a drink it's as a mere drop

God of heaven split the sky above your servant

Shower me with love and Your anger do not vent

But who am I to command one such as God

Who before such high majesty I could never plod

Without, by his glory, being killed outright

Or at the very least, be blinded by the sight

So now I bear my load alone with clenched teeth

For the hope of His presence and a golden winner's wreath

Dad & Stars

I dim the headlights and squint as a car passes me on an otherwise deserted highway. Up and down, left and right I weave along the narrow mountain road. Last week's snow looks stale in the yellow of the headlights. I'm listening to music, but not hearing the words. I cross over bridges spanning unseen rivers. It's so dark, I think. There are stars, but no moon. The stars don't seem to be giving light though. Instead they appear to be little holes in a drain and that the last little bits of light are getting sucked down. I think about life and death and how they are not the same. Death is not a part of life. Who could think that? Death ends your life. I speed past impossibly tall pines. But I slow down at my father's favorite place in the road. Here he had told me he loved the trees, especially when they were covered in snow. Now the trees lay silent and dark. Did they know? Were they mourning the loss of the man that drove by them everyday and admired them. No. As old as those trees are, they are none the wiser for it. The life is gone out of them. Here on the straight stretch with trees covering almost all of the sky I switch out my lights. I look up between the trees to the only revealed strip of sky. I see the stars creating another pathway to mirror the road I drive. A celestial pathway. No, my father isn't there I assure myself. No matter how many Disney movies say he is. He is at a place far better than those stars. Those stars are broken too. They are wearing out just like our little earth. The distance of their death serves to make them seem immortal. Death is only real when it is close. I've never been closer to death than this; to lose my guide and protector. But my father's death was not so recent. He died a long time ago at a small Baptist church in Georgia.

On November thirtieth my father walked into fullness of life. My dear dad was killed while working on a snow plow truck up on the mountain pass he used to maintain. He and the crew worked to keep the road clear for people traveling to and from central Oregon. He was a good man. He was not a great man. Great men have buildings with their name's on them. Great men have foundations and charities. Great men travel and lecture. My father did none of these things. He was a good man though because he was humble. To be humble is to have a modest or low view of one's own importance. In a culture where self confidence is paraded as the key to success and happiness my father knew he was but a speck in the universe. This knowledge alone would help in creating a correct view of one's self, but this was not the only knowledge my father possessed. He knew that he was a speck that was loved. This love was the key to his life, the life. He knew he was no good on his own. He knew he could not save himself. So in spring of 1983 he gave himself over to the One he knew he could trust. My father followed Jesus Christ. He was buried with Him by baptism into His death. In 1983 my father died. He died to himself and that little voice in all of us that says that we are God. My dad knew he wasn't God and lived like a servant.

As I slowly pass the trees he loved so much I don't have to ask why. My only question is when. When will I be born upon the wind to join my father and our Father. Being so close to death I've never felt so close to eternal life. No bitterness, no regrets. Only life and love and joy, forever. Coming out of the trees I cast my gaze where I know mountains should be. However, there are no mountains to see. There are only spaces where I cannot see the stars. In a time of grief My Comforter is like those mountains. You look where He has been in the past and he is not to be seen. Yet, He is there, watching and waiting and pouring out hope through unseen hands. Yes, in a time like this my Shield is closer than ever. A pillar unmoved by the most terrible adversary. He must wrap the void around Himself lest we die from His glory. Mountains and streams and the tallest trees all shrouded in darkness serve to show me the light of His glory and grace.

His son,

Aaron

Holding In Common

There is a saying that goes around. It is used especially when one is selecting friends. It is usually spoken like this, "Well, I just don't have anything in common with them." I wonder how many times I have uttered that phrase and not given thought to what I say? Who on earth is unlike me? Who has not felt pain or rejoiced at some small event? Who is it that was not created by the union of man and woman? Who has not seen the sun? Who has not felt lonely? Who has not thought of their impending death and given a little shudder? Long could one search this green earth and never find such a man. For there is not a man been born since Adam that has not felt despair, or that could not use a little love. How often have I dismissed whole persons because we did not have "things" in common? Now in a moment of solitude I see relationships are not built on things.

All of humanity that walks the earth holds this in common with me: life. Life is a tricky business though. There seems to be two kinds of life, as different as could be. The first, and more widely held of the two is akin to mere existence. One rises in the morning and goes about his daily toil, but there is no sense of meaning, nothing that drives his spirit except the will to remain in the current state of existence. He bears his burdens with no hope of relief. Day in, day out, his mind and hands go about their business. Yet this worker of the field, a friend and fellow man, is not fully alive. His muscles work and his reason calculates, but his poor soul is quite dead. So these men, one may venture to say are only half-alive. Yet, can one say such a thing as "half-alive?" No, half-alive is wholly-dead as any honest man will say. So there is one of the two sorts of men, sad as it may be.

What are the others, are they worse off? Nay! These are the brothers and sisters, the children of the King. Full of joy and life they are exuberant everyday. These were once the lonely ones, those lost in quagmires of despair. They were counted among the dead, and change came unforeseen. God the Son gave up His brilliant palaces and clothed Himself in the flesh of fragile man. He, the only perfect one, took upon Himself the curse of the walking dead. He died the final death for all who would believe. Fruitless toil and despondency, the marks of humankind, were buried with Him. Three days passed and He was raised again to the glory of the Son He has always been. "Trust and believe," were the words from his mouth. It seems so small a thing when the reward inherited is considered. So small a thing indeed, but not of small price. The Son came and paid it all so that those half-alive and wholly-dead may be saved. To those that have trusted He has given life, to those that received He gave the right to be called children of God. These children are the ones set free. They have been bestowed with rights, given pleasure and gifts without end.

So there are the two sorts of men. When next you think, "I have nothing in common," think hard and well what it means to be human. Perhaps this person is brother or sister. If so, a song of praise for Him who set you free is in order. If it is amongst death that he walks show him the Way and and he shall be eternally thankful. If you are a man we have most things in common. If you are a child of the King we have everything in common through the blood of Jesus Christ.

The Gender Venture

Women are beautiful, wonderful, and fair creatures that man is not worthy to walk with in this dreary life that they so warmly color with the slightest smile. I feel I must put this disclaimer, or rather, confession, of my true feelings about women at the fore of what will follow. While women do dazzle us (yes, even the Brothers Yankey find their charms bewitching), they have a side to them that produces the greatest consternation in man. Perhaps, it is not a side of them, but a whole part of us men that produces the mystery. We lack a certain understanding of their basic elements. One may see from my very masculine language about them being made up of elements that I do not know them thoroughly. The Brothers Yankey are not the only ones who feel, at times, a slight frustration with the enigma of woman, be it that the fault (if there is any fault to be found) is found in man or woman. Amongst our confused company are the greatest and least of men. I shall quote a few that I have stumbled upon.

"Or if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool, for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery go, and quickly too." - Hamlet to Ophelia in Shakespeare's Hamlet

Ichabod Crane, "would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was- woman." - From Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

"Let men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along with it the utmost passion of her heart! Else it may be their miserable fortune." - Speaking of Roger Chillingworth's failure to secure the heart of Hester Pryne in Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter

Women are indeed wonderful. At times they are downright fantastic, and that is why every great epic piece of literature involves a woman or many women. Man's achievements are not fulfilled until a woman gives him her arm. I believe that any real gentleman would much rather pass a fleeting hour in polite conversation with a lady than spend an afternoon whitewater rafting or out on some other escapade. For in women is found an adventure that goes beyond the tangible reality of raft and oar, or of football and grass. Women excite a part of our mind and spirit that cannot be gotten to by any other means. That polite conversation is a great mission for the gentleman. He tries his best to make the lady laugh at all the right times, but not too much. He makes sure to communicate to her that her beauty is unique. He comforts her with his words and does his best to ensure her safety. He guards her purity and steers away from rude or coarse jokes. All this happens between a lady and a gentleman during the course of a conversation. This is amplified ten thousand times in the scene of marriage. Indeed, women are an adventure, a quest, an odyssey for men. That is not to say that they are to be conquered and shown off as spoils of victory. Nothing could be further from the correct manner of things. Knowing a woman is a prize unto itself. Real intimacy with a woman is a God-given desire. That is what it means to have an adventure, to traverse the inner workings of the other while maintaining the distinctiveness that God grants to each gender.

Confusing or wearisome as they may be at times, women are a gift from the Father.

A of BY

Salutations

Greetings gentle reader,

If you happen to be reading this the chances that you are family or a close friend are very high. So thank you family or friend or (if we are lucky) soon-to-be friend. Thank you for being there for us. Thank you for your friendship that at least extends to the length of indulging us in viewing this blog. If you are a simple internet wayfarer passing along: greetings, and thanks to you as well. To whoever you may be, welcome.

This blog is dedicated as an outlet for the Brothers Yankey. There is no specific focus really, just a smattering of thoughts as soon as they come to us. This is for at least two reasons. First, we Yankey Brothers have an immensity of thoughts. That is not to say they are all good thoughts, or even that most of them are good thoughts. But regardless of quality we have myriad thoughts everyday. In order to be rid of old thoughts, whether clever or dull, we must furnish some way for the thought to be realized and thus come to fruition. If that fruit be sweet or bitter we will entrust to your judgment gentle reader. We must make room for new thoughts, at any rate, and this blog ensures that those old thoughts are not cast aside and completely forgotten. Second, we Yankey boys are not born of stingy stock. We want to share whatever bit of insight, wisdom, humor, or even illumination that happens to come our way. We hope that by sharing these thoughts with you the grey cells of your brain may be stretched to house some notion that may just help you get through the day.

There may be a million or more reasons why we share this blog with you, but brevity is a sign of a gentleman. We will hold you no longer in the welcoming embrace and invite you to sit down with us and look at the world through our eyes for a moment or two. Perhaps you will see something you have never seen before or maybe something in just a slightly different light. The thoughts, poems, quotes or whatever else may follow this initial word from us are directed to you gentle reader. They may be internal reflections, absurd conjectures, or an unoriginal observation. Whatever the contents of this blog may become in time, we promise you that it will always be sincere.

Join us in this loony life,

The Brothers Yankey