Pride

Here's another one of Terry Andersons, accompanied by an excerpt from his memoir, "Den of Lions."

"I rarely ask God for freedom anymore. He knows how much I want to go home - I've already told Him so many times. Instead, I pray for patience, acceptance and strength for myself. I give thanks for what I've had. I havent become a saint, or anywhere near it. I still rage, and sometimes I want to scream in frustration. But less frequently. I'm still deeply unhappy and lonely. But I know I'll live through this. I will be free someday, and I will use what I I've learned about myself properly.

PRIDE

Pride goeth before a fall, they say.
I fall often, but my pride remains.
My dignity is tattered,
my reputation a bit bespattered.
My hair goeth, and my teeth.
My belly saggeth; my arches, too.
But pride stands regally,
a stubborn Ozymandias
astride his crumbling kingdom,
my, and man's, despair

In Your Sight

Psalm 27:10

"My father and mother walked out and left me,
but God took me in."

These are the lyrics to a song that I wrote last year, after seeing a documentary about a remote Australian community called Balgo, in the Northern Territory.

One night in Balgo, the local Anglican Priest, a gentle looking man with pale skin and watery blue eyes, the way a priest should look, was called by a community elder to cut down three teenagers that had tried to hang themselves in the same park.

Saw it on the news today
Another teenager died
A lost girl in a fatherless world
Had to take her own life

I dont understand
I just dont know why
All these forgotten and fatherless kids
Cant see how precious they are
In your sight
In your sight

If I could hold it out in my hand
A cup of treasure untold
Then just maybe they'd feel the dawn
Of loves kiss on their soul

But I dont understand
I just dont know why
All these sons and daughters of yours
Cant see the love in their lives
They are in your sight
They are in your sight

A survivors Tale

Zarifa Klepo, lived under the siege of Sarejevo for two and a half years. In the Age, Sat, 18th march, Rachel Gibson writes:

"Mrs Klepo recalls one story from that time in a halting voice. One sunny winters day, in early 1993, a friend allowed her two daughters, aged 5 and 7, outside their apartment to play witha group of chidren.

Easily visible on the white snow, the girls were murdered in a targeted burst of shelling."

This poem was written by Mrs Klepo after she arived in Australia in 1995.

Stay alive
Stay alive
You'll find a better place
stay alive
You will get a chance
Stay alive
Sounds like a fantasy
When a war is reality
Stay alive, stay alive, stay alive.

( the Age, Sat, 18th March 2006)

Exile

This used to be exile
Coffee, book and notepad
Sitting alone and anonymous
An outcast in my own land
Now I feel like its home again
Which of course it always was
That shimmering pool that rises
And spills joy from my eyes never strayed
But Ah! Exile is still a hard place
When you're there
No hope of home or hearth is visible
In those barren times
And you weep for your Jerusalem
Spirit of Grace springs eternal
Even in arid places - it doesnt leave
Though you might be left
Never realising it was there
Until it brings you home again

The Little Moth

The little moth, struggling to be free
From the cocoon that it built
In a bit old tree
Wriggles and squirms with all he can muster
so that his untried wings may begin to flutter
But along happens a caring but unthinking man
who says, "I must free this poor creature if I possibly can!"
And without a thought that it might be too soon
The man begins ripping apart the moths cocoon
"You are free," cries the man.
" the battle is won! you need struggle no longer
and fly home to mum."
But what the poor man failed to note
as he watched it plummet to the earth
was that without the struggle from its dark cocoon
the poor moths wings would never work
Now you may be praying to God in heaven
to free you from lifes muddle
And take you from your dark cocoon
without the pain and trouble
But be sure to note from our little tale
Of the moth that avoided struggle
that the wings of life will gain no strength
Unless you are prepared to suffer

(Head of Christ - George Roualt)