Stories and Poems from St. Andrews'

This essay on Saint Andrew was written by one of our children who is going through confirmation.

By: Stephen Quick

      St. Andrew was born in the ancient city of Bethsaida, in the Holy Land.  He and his brother, Simon Peter worked as fishermen on the Sea of Galilee.  St. Andrew is known as the First Called, or the first Apostle.  He was a follower of John the Baptist, and met Jesus through John the Baptist.  Andrew learned that Jesus was the Messiah.  He couldn’t wait to share the news with his brother and his cousins.  He brought his brother, Simon Peter, to meet Jesus.  Simon Peter later became known as Peter.

      After Jesus completed teaching the Apostles, was crucified,  rose from the dead, and ascended into heaven, Andrew spent the rest of his life telling others that he had found the Messiah and reminded them to follow Jesus.  Andrew wanted everyone to share in the happiness that he had found by following Jesus.  He spent most of his life leading people to Jesus, both before and after Jesus’ crucifixion.  He was a missionary in Asia and Greece, and in areas of modern Russia and Poland.  Eventually, Andrew was crucified on an X-shaped cross for his preaching, but even on the cross he continued to tell people to follow Jesus.  It is said that he preached from the cross for two days before he died.

      St. Andrew is the patron saint of fisherman, Scotland, singers, gout, sore throats, unmarried women, and women who wish to become mothers.  His name means strong or manly in Greek.  St. Andrew is symbolized by a fishing net, a saltire (x-shaped) cross, a fish, a man bound to a cross, a man preaching from a cross, and a preacher holding fish.

      St. Andrew was devoted to bringing others to meet Christ.  He set an example that we all should follow.  St. Andrew is important for this reason.   

This speech was given by a dear friend and church member  who is part of our Huber ministry. Her poem/story moved us all to tears of  love. Thank you Lavern for sharing your story with us.

By: Lavern Hayes

3-2-03

I asked God to guide my hand as I wrote this because I know not what to say:

"What is in your Heart Child"

I have so many thank you's, so many sorry's, so many why's? So much to ask but not knowing how.

For the questions you seek are all in prayer and are answered every day. Just because you cannot see them (your blessings), hear them, feel them, touch them, taste them or understand them, does not mean that they have not been answered.

Today you arose from your bed
a young woman was raped and killed in her dorm room

You grab your morning cup of coffee to get your day started
 a forgotten man shakes uncontrollably waiting to ease his pain with that first shot of liquor.

You stop at home to draw out money for today's shopping
a junkie sells their body to get that much needed fix to keep them alive.

You finish off your day.
 You get home, kick off your shoes, eat a good meal, watch a little television then head off to bed for a pleasant night's sleep
 a teenager lies in a pool of blood caused by a drive by shooting.  His house is spattered with bullet holes.  One shoe lies on a step from where he has fallen. A women leans over him screaming and crying "why, why?"  Her groceries scattered across the ground where she had dropped them as she watched her child fall while he was coming to help her carry them in

The local news on the television is stating "brought to you live",
" We have had another drive by shooting just minutes ago, that has claimed the life of yet another one of our bright young children"
 at the end a poverty stricken mother kneels beside her children's bed and prays." Help us dear Lord. Open our eyes so that we can see our blessings.  Open our ears so that we can hear your words.  Open our minds so that we may understand.  Open our hearts so that we may share love.  Help me to rest tonight, dear Lord."

AMEN

Once again Lavern speaks from her heart.

By: Lavern Hayes

To A Dear Friend

Today you called me, your heart full of sorrow

Scared and alone, not wanting tomorrow

 Your mind so confused, filled with all kind of fears

 You try hard to smile, but can’t stop the tears

 You’ve suffered a hard blow with such a terrible loss

 But you must stay strong, no matter the cost.

 So you try hard to sleep but you just can’t rest

 You feel like you're losing, though you’re trying your best

 My friend, you must know that you’re still truly loved

Your mother is smiling down upon you surrounded by angels above

 She’ll always be with you, in your heart and your mind

 With precious memories of her love always gentle, always kind.

If she could talk to you right now, you know what she’d say

 Don’t worry, my darling son, I’m doing okay.

I don’t want you to hurt or continue to cry

 So please let me help you to say good-bye

And remember one day along down the road

 There we’ll meet again, after you’ve grown old

So until that time comes, do something for me too

 Live a good life and let happiness find you.

From A Dear Friend.

The following poem was written by another dear friend and church member as a memorial to his sister who died quite suddenly. Thank you Greg for letting us into a very personal part of your life.

The Matriarch

By g.l. bass ( the ghostbear still lives)

For Sandy
My beloved sister
4/04/03

The Seronera twists and turns
A winding artery
Through Serengeti’s vast grassy plains.

Tall Acacias, their fragile heads
Held broadly against the sky,
Map the river’s life giving way.

A myriad of
A deep green streams
Struggling  through the
The Serengeti’s heart
Bring life and abundance
To Dry Season Plains. 

Dust devils tornado
Their upside-down trunks
Spinning red powder clay into the sky.
Smoke from plain fires chase
The wind in search of other places
To burn.

Across plains,
From short grass
To tall reeds,
The elephant herd marches
Driven to find deep dug
Gorges,
Pools of dark water
Caught in dark mud holes
Where Elephants
Gather, roll themselves
Into cool relief,
Shower in dust,
Clay and spray,
And then extend
Their long trunks
To drink before marching
On again.

All in unison they march
Across the prairie,
Invading the river,
Embattling the shoreline,
And marking for all,
Pathways across the
Serengetti where all of life
And death depends on
Rivers and rain. 

The herd abides by the Matriarch
Who leads them from prairie to river,
And back across the plains.

She teaches all the meaning of life,
Where the river bends,
Where there’s safety,
When it’s time to move on again.

Her daughters follow close
Beside her,
All her grandchildren hide
Inside the circle her daughters’
Decide.

It is the circle of the herd,
The circle of the family,
The circle of life,
Over this circle the
Matriarch lovingly abides.

As they march from prairie to river
And back again,
She remains
At the front,
Her family.

By her side,
All in a line
Her family follows,
She is the center of
Life and time.

The Matriarch leads,
Loves, protects,
Forgives and Respects
All the herds’ wishes and desires.

She teaches the way of the river,
The meaning of lion prides,
The truth of midnight Hyena cries,
The safety and danger
Of storms in the sky.

Even the young bulls
Give her respect
And understand
They owe their lives
To her caring heart,
And plains wisdom
She wears so deeply in her eyes.

As years pass by,
The Matriarch leads
Sisters, Daughters,
Young bulls and Children
From migration to migration,
From days of dry, parched plains,
To entrenched and drenched
Times of rain.

The Matriarch remains royalty
Of the Serengeti plains.
Even the lions give way
And concede her reign.
She protects, guides, and
Teaches all the herd
The trials and truth
Of life
On the Serengeti Plains.

While the Matriarch may
Leave the herd one day,
And find her final
Sacred place
Along the cool, deep grass
Of the Seronera,
The herd will always wear
Her spirit in their hearts.

Another will assume her reign,
And continue the story
The Matriarch began.

Her legacy of love and family
Will forever remain
The spirit of  life
Upon the Serengeti plains.

This is another poem written by Greg. He dedicated it to a client of his who loved one of the pictures from his Africa Trip, a lioness hanging in the Y of a tree. Greg said he also had a spectacular moment with the lioness, so to speak, taking the shots he took.  This poem expresses that moment.  

Thank you Greg

The Alpha

By g.l. bass ( the ghostbear still lives)

For Ellen
1/4/04

Wide open African Skies
Sun centered ways of life,
Through binoculars as far as
Eyes can stretch,
Golden grassy plains,
The Serengeti
Dried from months without rain.
At the edge of vision's reach
Smoke entrails sweep
Up into swirling winds of heat.
It's hard to keep smoke from dust clouds
Clear.
Trails of the herds migrating
North,
They know the course of Rivers,
Rain, and the flow of life and death
on these Serengeti plains.

 Down the Seronera,
Elephants find River pools,
Mudholes for play and wash.
Youngsters roll deep in clay muck,
Mothers drink and spray trunkfulls
Into rainbow mists,
While young bulls terrorize
Riverbank Acacia's, tall grass and reeds,
Leaving their own trails
Of torn and scarred remains.

Across the river,
Where the road dips and bends,
Three Lions defend rights
Of the pride.
Up into trees they escape the
Onslaught of marching herd,
And young bulls who circle
Round to outflank and prove rank
On Lions of the Serengeti.

 Tall Acacia's never intend
To be such friends of
Lions Amidst the change of season,
Or marchings of the herd.
Out on a limb She stretches,
Looks back across the plains,
And growls in loud proclaim.
She's not into Elephant games,
But still She maintains
This is her domain.
The Alpha Lion,
One sister,
One daughter,
The Acacia is their sanctuary
Until darkness falls,
When once again,
They will gather the pride
And reclaim their reign
Over life and death
On these Serengeti plains.

The Alpha surveys
Down river and back across the plains.
Her deep eyes like still madness,
She understands more than the rest,
How life and death
Will always be the Serengeti's
Ultimate task and test.
For years She's stalked
And claim hunter's rights
To these plains.
She's even given into
The changing of Monarchs
From time to time.
Yielded them all children,
Had her families torn apart,
Raised sons and daughters,
Battled troops of Hyenas,
Defended her realm,
And still she maintains
Her dignity and reign
Over life and death
On these Serengeti plains.

To her I am but a stranger
Of trespass on the road.
Perched high above me,
She stands upright,
Peers down,
Growls, then roars.
Her piercing glare
A warning that She's aware
And has little use,
This day,
For a photographer's
Desires, cares, or camera wares.
She moves along the limb,
And climbs directly above me
Where a "Y" reaches high,
She hangs, hind legs down in mid air,
Rests her head and closes her eyes.
As I capture her at the length Of my lens,
She opens her eyes again.
Behind the camera eye,
I come to grasp with her Eye to eye.
In that moment of freeze,
Her eyes into mine,
It is clear to me,
How great her cold passion,
How controlled her killer's madness,
How deep her wisdom
Of these plains.
Life and death in an instant
Here, in one maddening moment,
She pierces me eye to heart.
From that moment
I cannot part
Her deep cold stare
From my heart.
Little is left to explain,
Except what the Alpha
Left on me as mark.
If one can understand
There is such beauty,
It is clear ,
Deep in the Alpha's stare,
Where pain and beauty are the same.
It is the eye to eye,
Of life and death
On these Serengeti plains.

Another beautiful Poem from Greg.

In his own words :

"I wrote this just tonight.  While it is still in rough form, I thought, after I read it over, that are many people who I know and care about that might be able to relate to this poem-Deep Winter.  I've been thinking about asking our pastor if I could read in church because there's a whole lot of people in our Huber program that could also relate- I wrote after wandering for a whole day in the Kettle Moraine forest looking to shoot (photograph) Owls, turkeys etc. The only turkey I saw was my own reflection in the water, and Owls always manage to fool me even when I go back to where I think I've seen them before-I hope you enjoy-Greg"

Deep Winter

By g.l. bass (the ghostbear still lives)
February 2004

It has been
One of the deepest winters
We have had in years.
The snow in the woods
Lies in layers
So that following trails
Is almost guess work.
At times, when you think
That you’ve done your best
To stay on the trail,
Marking your Sun in the west,
Your dark blue skies in the east,
The wind chasing you down
Quietly shedding it’s northern secrets
Through the tops of crowded Ponderosas,
Down in the bottom of a kettle,
Knee-deep in week old snow,
You realize,
You’ve really gone off the trail
Following some dream
You thought you captured
In the sun glint in your eyes,
Or some adventure mapped out
By some snowshoe adventurer
You’d swear you understand
But really never met,
Or some dazzling promise
Of a herd who wandered
Down inside the stomach
Of this Ponderosa forest,
Merely to rest out of the storm.
 

But what you find is that
You’ve really wandered
Off the trail,
Down into the bottom
Of a deep gully
Where even winter
Can’t hide a wandering spring
Penciling it’s way through
Deep drifts,
Heavy hung in snow layers
And yet you can still hear
It’s small voice whispering
The promise of life
In the cold, crystal clear,
Water which flows so quickly
Down the steep side
Of these kettle walls
That it will not freeze.

In the end,
While you’ve really
Lost your way,
You have found ,
Not the end of the adventurer’s tale,
Not the magic hideout of a mysterious herd,
Not even the solution to the dream
You thought you had,
But a small whisper
Of new life,
As if it was only
Meant for you,
This day, this hour,
This moment,
Whispering from beneath
Deep Winter’s best attempt
To hide it and freeze it
Away.
 

But it is here,
Flowing quickly,
Promising that should you just stoop
To drink it,
To taste it’s promise,
It will satisfy any thirst
You’ve built up from
Your wandering ways,
Your lost adventure,
Your climb to the bottom
Now knee-deep
In soft, crusted snow.

You must examine your choices.
You’ve drunk your fill,
So now you must decide.
Do I climb out
Back the way I came?
Do I follow on the old tracks
Of the former snowshoe adventurer?
Or, do I make my own way-
Up through the thickets,
Up the steep walls
Of the deep rocky Kettle,
Climbing out in knee-deep snow,
Climbing out where
No one has gone before,
Climbing out
To find your way again,
To find a new trail,
That in the end,
Will take you exactly
Where you wanted to go
In the very beginning,
Through deep Winter’s forest,
To where you really discover
Where your home really is.
 

Squinting up through bright
Afternoon sun,
Staring its’ way back down upon you,
The glare off of the snow shimmering
Like millions of jewels cast
Out across the bottom of this
Deep Kettle,
You know you must decide.
It’s time to move on.
The sun will not hold back
The darkness much longer.
And in darkness there is less
Hope of finding the right trail
That will guide you
On the right way home.

There really isn’t any decision,
Each time you think about it,
Whether you turn into the sun,
Up against bright blue sky
Beyond the spire like tall pines,
Or back against the voices of the wind,
You really knew,
All along what
Your choice would be,
What it has to be.
So, you venture forth
On you own,
One deep step at a time,
And there isn’t any
Dream or question
About it after all.