Last fall, I went through what some would call a "bad patch". A bad patch is an experience that comes at the wrong time, just like when one is driving through a bad patch, it causes sluggishness to one's wheels.

A friend of very long standing had died, a friend of more than the Christmas card variety. And so many old memories came into play. Things we had enjoyed doing, and then events in my past that I felt sorry about, began their dance in my memory.

A habit of long standing is daily devotion, and added to it now is the "Daily". Here at "Daily" are writers who are right there, bringing the word; writers who, like a sermon on Sunday, bring a gift to our imaginations, just at those times when we need it most. A push of the button, a few words, and then, the presence of being connected, the joy of being able to share with someone else the joy and healing they brought to you.

I wrote our Editor, "Could it be that God, seeing so many become disenfranchised, spurred the Internet into being to give voice to these who thought they had no voice? I believe He did."

Now when it's "computer time," buttons are pressed, "Bookmark favourites" engaged, and connection is made in daily renewal with our "Daily", and with our Lord.

Prayer: Lord God, we give thanks for being able to receive and respond to your kindness and the generosity of those who share their thoughts in praising You. Amen.

What do you say at a memorial, or funeral service where the deceased has lived a lifestyle not quite like yours?

A few years ago I was called by a mom and dad whom I had married some years before. They had a son who owned a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. One morning it spun out on a curve and the son was killed. What a feeling when I got to the funeral home to find hundreds (yes — hundreds) of bikes lined up outside. Leather was everywhere and with it the insignia of Hell's Angels.

In the chapel every corner was filled. Bikes, biker ladies, bikers and a few family friends. There I was, in clerical collar and cross. And here is where you can believe that we need not be anxious. I opened my mouth and it said: "I believe in perhaps the strangest thing one can ever believe in, and that is that One has been raised from the dead so that we too might be raised up." And on I went. At the end one big guy, oil and leather, came over and hugged me — really hugged me. Another came over, shook my hand and said that he believed what I had said as well. Then I saw the group, looking like the others, only the insignia on their backs was a cross: "Bikers for Jesus". And what a procession there was to the gravesite: hundreds of bikes, bikers and biker ladies, all with helmets off. And there, I took the sand, and, making the sign of the cross on the casket, said the words "In hope of resurrection to eternal life." Nearly all there came, took some sand, and added to the sign.

Others may not have hope in being raised on "that gettin' up mornin'", but we who have the Word can speak it. And it will not return empty.

Prayer: Lord, you see the sparrow fall, it meets your tender view; may we always live in knowing you love us too, each and every one. Amen.

Dear Heavenly Father, each day I praise you and give thanks for all your mercies. But today, suddenly a spirit has come over me that wants to say thanks to you in ways not often done before. Thanks for gifts I have not often acknowledged.

From you has come the gift of choice. And you alone know how often that gift has been abused. Decisions were made; poor results followed; and who did I blame? Those whom I thought had given the poor advice. Sharing the blame were those who paid my wages; they were never 'big' enough. I blamed the vague imaginations that were misread and misunderstood. I blamed fate that was deemed to be uncontrollable.

I did not blame myself for not talking with others about what mattered. I could do it myself; I could decide not only for me but for them. I could simply walk away, sulk, be miserable, hoping to just get over it. And it was then, I see now, that, amid all the celebration, I walked away in silence.

And again you came with a further gift. This was the precious ointment of your presence. You didn't abandon me. Alone, yet not alone, for you supplied other choices, choices to which there was a newness.

And so today there is a song in my heart. Remembrances of foolishness, pride, envy and even greed, are all ashes now, I hope, but the new song needs to be sung: a song that is ageless, a song that revives the soul, a song that gives thanks for not being abandoned, for having been given a choice again and again.

Thanks again, Lord, for choice, and having chosen us in Him who is our light and our salvation, even Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Sunday's reading from Job 38:1-7 really got to me. And not for the first time either. Even when not reading it, its essence entraps me. "Who do I think I am?"

It all became a bit much. There I was, retirement just around the bend. The allotment of three score years and ten almost upon me, when parts of the sky began falling. Two more weeks to retirement and a urologist says, "You've got cancer; not serious, but it's there!" Checking it out, lightning hitting me on the golf course was more likely to do me in, but why not carry extra baggage? Then a growing aneurysm needed repair. "Wait your turn" was health care's answer.

And so it goes. The aneurysm was at last repaired; the oncologist called for a blood test. I really didn't want to go away for a few weeks of treatment. And POW – numbers are down, no trip for radiation. Do I dare say "Hallelujah!"

On my way from the office, heady with my good news, and I find that a young mother of two, who some years before had stood before me while she and a young man made their wedding vows, has received the opposite word to mine. Now with tears, hers and mine, she is on her way for treatment.

Tears, a falling sky; others, young, so much to live for, and I am being blessed. Not strong enough to play golf yet, but life is mine. Life added to life, and where are the blessings for the others?

"Why me Lord?" has been a constant question. Why me, when others need blessing as well. Out of the greying mists brought on by tears there is no thundering voice to bring an answer. Yet, there is a word from the One who laid out the foundation of the universe while morning stars sang, and angels shouted for joy.

Knowing this, continuing discipleship calls for continuing faithfulness. Stop at 65 or even 70? Worry about PSA numbers? Start to fret again about another aneurysm they say needs attention? Not a chance! There are things to do, prayers to offer and work to do, rather than ask questions.

Prayer: Lord, you know I'd rather worry. But you have shown the faces of those who truly have problems and we can help them. Grant us grace, we pray, to do and not grow weary or question, and bring you our constant praise for all your goodness. Amen.