Snippet #2601

But whose counting? You walk in a dog park there’s going to be poop. There are two kinds of people in a dog park: those who pick it up and those who don’t. I’m of the former set and my husband of the latter. Tonight, in exasperation, I actually said, it’s a waste of brain power to remember where the poop was in order to avoid it when you walk around again in the coming darkness when you could just pick it up when you see it the first time. So I get the just desserts of those who speak their conscience but don’t act on it. Gulliver decides to roll in the grass, on purpose, exactly in the place where a nice bit of warm, soft poop was left behind. Only I didn’t discover this till he runs over to us for a quick how-do before taking off for an old acquaintance. I rub the soft hair at the back of his neck just ahead of his harness and, oops, there it is! I was smeared. I raise the offending fingers to my husband and say, THAT’s why we pick up the poop when we see it! He doesn’t seem to make the connection. So I repeat myself, bringing the hand closer to his face. He asks if it smells bad. Now, on a good day, I’m not the finger sniffing type. At dusk, in the dog park, even less. Of course it smells bad, I shriek, it’s POOP! I can laugh at myself now, after Gulliver’s had a bath. After the power struggle to see who’d end up the wettest is over. After I force his bum down over the drain in the kitchen sink for the umtieth time, yelling, SIT! as close to his muzzle as possible without getting a mouthful of dog hair. After his near instant licking forgiveness threatens to bring me to tears. After I scrub him dry, at first roughly, with the hand towel my husband drapes over a chair in the dining room when I ask for the BIG BLACK TOWEL. After I cocoon our four-legged son in the big towel I have retrieved from the linen closet and, more gently now, clean his ears, dry his tail and toes. After I imagine I would sit there rocking a damp dog on my lap forever or at least until one of us had to pee. But then and there, in the dog park, when I had opportunity to enjoy confirmation of having been right, again, and couldn’t, I was far from being in a laughing mood.

Blessed Are The Pure In Heart

Oswald Chambers does it again! This time, with Matthew 5:8. Imagine:

Not only must the inner sanctuary be kept right with God, but the outer courts as well are to be brought into perfect accord with the purity God gives us by His grace.

To maintain the heavenly vision, simply aver, “That man, that woman, perfect in Christ Jesus! That friend, that relative, perfect in Christ Jesus!”

RAY
A poem by Ibtisam Barakat

There is a ray
In the word prayer

Do you see it?

I hold onto it
With my soul

Until I reach the court
Of God

Where everyone
At all times

About all matters

Can have a hearing. . .

Do you hear me?

And the judge I discover
Is me!

Have I been true
To the desires

Put in my heart
Like seeds

By the hand of the one
Who hung that fruit
In me

Have I unwrapped
My presents

Moment by moment
Or let them wither
In Waiting

Knotted with the ray
Of an unsaid prayer . . .

My question to you:

What kind of tree
Are you?

What kind of fruit

On the open t-ray of time

The forever feast

In the garden of humanity

Ibtisam Barakat 2010