Who is my neighbour, do they live next door? What if they’re ugly, or drunk or a whore? What if they really are just not like us? Quiet, refined, not making a fuss.
Who is my neighbour? Not just in my street, Surely my neighbour is all whom I meet. They’re black, they are white, they are straight, they are gay They’re the every day folk, that I meet every day.
I shall not judge them and they’ll not judge me. They’re my brothers, my sisters, and all should be free. My neighbours, they cover the face of this earth, So I’ll love and respect them for all they are worth.
But one day there will be a reckoning for all, Black, white and ugly, the big and the small. On that day, a sorting, the wheat from the chaff, And then the down trodden will have the last laugh. The wheat go to heaven, the chaff down to hell, You’d best love your neighbour or you’ll go down as well.
Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said, “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.” Hebrews 13:5
Contentment lies not in what is ours but in whose we are. When we come into a relationship with God through his Son, Jesus Christ, we understand whose we are and what we have. Envy causes us to look horizontally at what others have — and so we are never satisfied. We pursue the God of money, thinking about what it can buy us. Contentment invites us to look vertically at God. When we look in his direction, we know he is enough.
Contentment is the secret to inward peace. It remembers the bare truth that we brought nothing into the world and can take nothing out of it, including our money. Life, in fact, is a journey from one moment of vulnerability to another. So we should travel light and live simply. The reality for most people is that we have enough — whatever enough is. We would be well-advised to be content with what we have.
Being content with less stuff and not envying those with a lot are tough challenges that require a dependence on and satisfaction in God. We must trust him and not money.
Too often we take our eyes off God and put them on earthly pursuits, with money most often being at the top of our lists. Money has the frightfully dangerous power of overshadowing
God in our lives. The heart can only love one thing at a time. When we choose to love God, we will discover the marvelous benefit of contentment and the lack of satisfaction from money. Keep your focus, therefore, on God. He is enough. ♦
This is not one of my poems, I have reblogged this because it is so beautiful. Please read slowly and aloud listening to each phrase, it may move you to tears, or it may not. Look up the poet and follow her work. She’s has some really fantastic pieces.
Ever thought? How sin caused by pleasure, Can cause so much pain after. And that pain my mind could not contain And my heart bled with loss It’s because my king added to it Because he left me.. With no sun and without a son I had no love, no consolation
So I discovered another pen Bleeding with ink, not indelible one this time And a paper to bleed on I adopted poetry as my daughter She was free, yet came at a cost So cheap, yet carrying a value unmatched And here we are, talking to you, sharing us. We hope you hold on, as we sail with you On this journey that never ends
At thirteen, Rupert thought he was the unhappiest boy in the world. He had no friends, his parents were far too busy being busy to even remember they had a son. Materially, he wanted for nothing. He had nice clothes, designer brands only. He had the latest technology, and the biggest television ever. What he really wanted, however, was a little attention. He wished for a different, better life, not one filled with possessions, but one filled with love. But it wasn’t going to happen. Dad was a filthy rich stockbroker, and his mother, a stuck up socialite, flitting from one fundraiser, charity event or cocktail party to another. One morning, after his shower, he was just about to get dressed when he caught sight of his back in a mirror. It seemed very lumpy as if the bones were sticking out a little, and his spine seemed to protrude out at the base, almost like a small tail. He thought nothing of it, perhaps his recent growth spurt had extenuated his bones, though, it wasn’t evident around his ribcage, where he had what looked like a scaly rash. He wouldn’t bother telling anyone, no one would be interested. A week later, it was worse, and his shoulder blades seemed to be more prevalent than usual. He shrugged, said nothing and just carried on as usual. Another week passed and mother was hosting a party of her own, marquees were erected in their two-acre garden which stood inside their seven-acre wood. “You boy, what’s your name again?” “Rupert, I’m your son.” “Yes,” she said, “I knew that, make yourself scarce, the guests arrive soon.” Rupert didn’t argue, he just slinked off indifferently towards the woods. Unlike the manicured lawns which made up the garden, the woods were unmanaged, truly wild and almost impenetrable. He waded through the thick bracken and jumped over a fallen tree, as he leapt, he caught his shin on a broken branch. “Oomph!” he exclaimed, as he did so, a little puff of smoke blew out of his mouth. He looked down at his torn brand new Versace jeans and let out a howl of disgust. A long column of flame came from his lips, scorching all around him. He closed his mouth and put his hand over it as if to stop the flow. His hand, it was green and scaly like a lizard, his jacket began to rip as wings unfurled behind him, he was turning into a… “Dragon!” he exclaimed. He launched upwards and circled round the crowds below, now he would show them. He swooped, belching fire onto the canvas marquees, setting ladies hats on fire and burning the Daimlers and the new Maseratis parked in the drive. He carried on torching everything he despised so much, house and all. He rolled over and opened his eyes, his smiling mother stood by his bed. “Bad dream love?” she said, stroking his hair, smiling. “No mum, it was the funniest.”
This poem is quintessentially British and my followers from the Americas or other far flung lands may not appreciate the institution which is The Shipping Forecast. Broadcast on the BBC four times a day from very early each morning until late evening.
The Shipping Forecast began after a powerful storm off the coast of Anglesey in 1859 led to the deaths of 800 people and the loss of 133 ships. Following this tragedy, the captain of HMS Beagle and founder of the Met Office, Robert FitzRoy, started maritime storm warnings, which evolved into the Shipping Forecast and weather forecasts as we know them today.
My dear Yemen, I hope that you too can one day grow from every rock that you’ve been diminished to.
I have always known you as the only country whose name I could take if y landed on me during a game of atlas. I have always known you as the country who causes the game to end if its name has already been said. But today as I have grown and read up on who you really are, I worry about your own end. You see, when I search up your name and the only images I see are of destroyed buildings that used to be historical landmarks, malnourished children being carried away by volunteers from NGOs, tall men in kurtas carrying rifles larger than the graves of new born babies, and not even one woman outside her house, I cannot help but wonder, what really happened…