A Day to Rejoice

Here is a new hymn I wrote for the following composition by Kevin Pace:

This is a day to rejoice in gladness.

This is a day to forget all sadness.

This is a day to confess your blessing,

This day the truth will replace guessing.

This is the day you accept the gospel.
This day a new song you'll sing.
For the life of The Son, you will raise your voice.
..This is a day to rejoice.

Wait for the day when, all sins forgiven,
Evil desires from your soul are driven.
Wait for the day when His love enfolds you,
Captures your heart as His hands hold you.

Wait for the day to be washed in glory,
Singing aloud all your praise.
For to know such a day you have ever dreamed.
..Wait for the day you're redeemed.

Dream of the day when the earth rejoices,
Hearing the choirs of angel voices.

Dream of the day He descends in glory

Come to fulfill prophecy's story.

Dream of the day He accepts His Kingdom,

Dream of the song you will sing.

All the wheat gathered in while the tares He burns.

..Dream of the day He returns.

Blessed the day when the lamb and lion
Gambol and play all the day in Zion.
Blessed the day peace and plenty foster
Lives where the meekest of all prosper.

Blessed the day when you rest from labor,
Blessing the world with your song,
Where the children are all taught to love His Word.

..Blessed the day of the Lord.

Fog on the Fringes

by Mark Fotheringham

Rising from darkness, up toward the light,

Why am I ever engaged in this fight?

Why don't I stay where the sun always shines,

Instead of retreating to shadowy climes?

Climbing the mountain, too often I stall.

Flirting with danger, I slip and I fall.

Can't seem to endure celestial heights,

Preferring the valleys and much dimmer lights.

Am I just a fake, am I just a fraud,

Calling on God, then releasing the rod?

Stumbling forward, forgetting to pray,

When left to myself, I will soon lose my way.

Fog on the fringes, obscuring my sight,

Gathers around me to swallow the light.

Turning again and again seeking grace,

I find it here, smiling, from one perfect face.

Leading me back to a more perfect road,

Hope reignites as you lighten my load.  

You hover above me, gently, sublime.

I reach out to touch you, and then start to climb.

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My neighbor Kevin Pace decided this poem could be set to music.  Here is the result:

(last 4 lines are repeated at the end)

The Good Ship Zion

A talk from General Conference by M. Russell Ballard ("God is at the Helm") was on my mind when my composer neighbor sent me a beautiful tune he had penned this morning. I knew immediately after hearing it, that I would write a seafaring lyric.

If you want to hear the tune click the play buttton below.




The Good Ship Zion
by Mark Fotheringham

VERSE 1
Sailing home upon the Good Ship Zion,
Weather fair, the breeze is at our back.
Sun and stars of glory here to guide us.
In the hold, there's nothing that we lack.

Sailing home upon the Good Ship Zion.
Our Dear Lord, as Captain, takes the helm,
Ever leading us to ports of wond'rous light,
And at last, to His celestial realm.

VERSE 2
Storms may blow upon the Good Ship Zion,
Tossed and turned, she navigates the waves.
Though the clouds may gather low and threat'ning,
Still she sails, yes, every storm she braves.

Sailing on, upon the Good Ship Zion,
Ever stronger, 'til the storm is past.
Guide us true, to land on long forgotten shores,
Sailing on to bring us home at last.

Thumped by the Alpha

Still thumpin'

Remarks from the funeral service for my brother Steve, who passed away on Feb 8, 2015, after a courageous 8-year battle with colon cancer. I have written about him before: Here and here.
______________________

You might expect that the sibling closest in age to Steve would have the most memories of him, but I'm afraid that's not the case. My memories are muddled at best and as Laura can attest, I can hardly remember what she told me two minutes ago, let alone what happened half a century ago. However, I do recall as a child dedicating a great deal of time and energy avoiding confrontations with Steve, because there was no doubt I would lose any battle ever engaged. Steve was the basement's Alpha Male and we all knew it. Being the Alpha, it was only natural that he would determine the boundaries of his domain. So, back when the three oldest shared an awful pink-carpeted bedroom, we all knew where the invisible line of demarcation was, separating his half of the room from the other half shared by Rob and me, and which we were forbidden to cross except, by his leave, to visit the common bathroom that was on his side.

I think I can thank Steve for my career in Public Relations because of all the early high-pressure training in talking my way either out of a fight or into the bathroom. I never had any knock down, drag out fights with Steve; the threat alone of physical harm was generally credible enough to cow you into fearful submission, unless you were Rob, who probably never backed down from a perceived injustice in his life; so he can thank Steve too for turning him into a lawyer. 

One memory that stands out from that time is the image of Steve sitting on the stomach of either me or one of our brothers, arms pinned under his legs as he administered what he lovingly called "The Chinese Water Torture."  I remember the sight of that middle knuckle raised ever so slightly above the clenched fist as it came thumping down on your unprotected sternum, then slowly raised to a height of about 12 inches only to reverse course and come thumping down again, and again, over and over in a nightmarish Asian prison camp parody. And no matter how hard you struggled to buck him off, he was just too big. You took your lumps until he either tired of the game, or Mom would hear the half-laugh, half-cry of the victim and come downstairs to investigate. Even though we all claimed to hate it, it was actually kind of an honor to be picked for poking. Because it meant that the Alpha was paying attention to you, that you were worthy of his touch, even if it was a thump in the chest.

About the only other things I can remember about Steve as we became teens is that he always had the coolest clothes, listened to the coolest music, and sported a Linc Hayes Afro to die for. He was one cool dude who taught me an appreciation for quality rock and roll to accompany the appreciation for quality classical music that Mom and Dad instilled with cello lessons (OK, maybe just Mom).

By the time I was ready to go away to Korea as a missionary, I was no longer afraid of my older brother's physical advantage, but we still were not close. I think Steve felt a little bad about that, however, because the day before I was to leave, he tried to break through the wall of what was then a kind of mutual toleration society by trying to give me some brotherly advice. Never mind that it was terrible advice that I had no intention of heeding; the point is that he was trying to show that he cared for me. And I missed it. He was giving me another little chest thump, but I just rolled my eyes and went off to Korea.

By the time I returned, Steve was off a-wandering and I got busy with college and Laura and career and family and before you knew it 25 years had passed away with only a handful of meaningless contacts between us.

Well most of you all know what happened next so I wont retell the story that I later wrote, about the day Steve came to my office so we could go to lunch and he could tell me he was sick. You already know about how I totally misjudged Steve and his intentions. It was my own fault. I'd been doing the same thing for decades. For too long I had wrongly assumed Steve was little more than a misguided, selfish addict, bouncing between addictions, homelessness and the occasional lawlessness. It was an unattractive cop-show stereotype and it was wrong. But I had held to it for so long that I didn't realize that I was the one becoming the stereotype: the rigid, unforgiving and seemingly uncaring brother who refuses to rejoice at the return of the prodigal.

But all it took was one question from Steve at lunch that day to crumble the carefully crafted cardio-protective shield I had constructed around my heart. When he asked me if I was OK or if he had ruined my life, it all came crashing down like bricks before an old Chinese Kung Fu master with one curiously raised knuckle.

And over the past 8 years, Steve has been thumping away again like crazy. With each cool or crazy little Christmas or birthday gift for the kids, with each gummy smile at one of your jokes, or with each hug after you go over to help fix his TV or computer, once again, you are honored to be thumped by the Alpha.

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Endnote: I'd like to express my confidence that Steve is OK. Not only because I suspect that two great sets of grandparents were there to greet Steve and will shepherd him along his path, but mostly because I have known the unmatched goodness and love of Christ and I know He loves Steve more than any of us can imagine. I know my Savior lives and because I know this, I know that Steve lives too. And one day when we meet again, we will find Steve happier than we have ever known him to be.

Here Am I, Send Me

Those who know me, know also that I am a huge fan of J.R.R. Tolkien's works, especially "Lord of the Rings." One of the pivotal moments of that book (and movie) is when the Hobbit Frodo is listening quietly to the great and mighty representatives of Middle Earth discuss who should carry the weight of a dangerous quest into the heart of the enemy's territory to destroy the ring of power.

At the end of this long and contentious council, Frodo quietly volunteers: "I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way." It is the kind of quiet heroism that changes everything, not only for the hero, but for all around him. 

It reminds me of the choice of Homer's Odysseus, whether to stay comfortably in the realm of Calypso to live in comfort as a god, or to face untold hardship to return to home and hearth. It is in those moments of decision between comfortable existence for self versus sacrifice for the good of others where great heros are defined. 

Perhaps these literary decision points awaken in us the heroic impulse because we personally witnessed just such a moment, long ago, before birth, in a pre-mortal council that is now just beyond memory, but described in scripture. In honor of this world-defining moment, I offer the following as text and chorus for heroic lay:

Here Am I, Send Me

by Mark Fotheringham

Before creation had begun, the Father had a plan

To bless His children with the joy reserved for righteous man.

To bless with bodies and with laws to test their agency,

To prove in trial and faded light, through all adversity,

To show the strength they could achieve if they would choose the right,

The plan would center on the One, Beloved in His sight.

"Here am I. Send me," He said, "And I will do Thy will.

"Though dark and lonesome is the path, I'll go for good or ill."

He trusted that His Father's love, would always with Him be.

To guide Him through the darkest hour. "Here am I. Send me."

When all the children of our God who'd one day come to earth

Were told they could become like God by miracle of birth

And following the Spirit's lead, a shout of joy was raised.

The love of God was manifest. Upon their God they gazed.

He said that One would need to go to suffer for them all,

Atoning for their sins, He'd have to drink the cup of gall.

"Here am I. Send me," He said, "And I will do Thy will.

"Though dark and lonesome is the path, I'll go for good or ill."

He trusted that His Father's love, would always with Him be.

To guide Him through the darkest hour. "Here am I. Send me."

Another plan was given there by one with pleasing voice,

Who sought God's glory and His pow'r, denying gifts of choice.

"I'll save them all," he lied in spite of all from Father heard

About the need to sacrifice and learn to love His Word.

"Whom shall I send?" the Father asked. "How shall these souls be won?"

The eldest of our brothers stood and said, "Thy will be done."

"Here am I. Send me," He said, "And I will do Thy will.

"Though dark and lonesome is the path, I'll go for good or ill."

He trusted that His Father's love, would always with Him be.

To guide Him through the darkest hour. "Here am I. Send me."

I wonder if He understood the task before His face,

To reconcile perfection to a weak and troubled race,

To help all men return to God by suff'ring for their sin

And taking on all pain and grief, their wand'ring souls to win.

Oh yes, I think He knew full well the depth of what would come.

His love and faith were deeper still for each and every one.

"Here am I. Send me," He said, "And I will do Thy will.

"Though dark and lonesome is the path, I'll go for good or ill."

He trusted in His Father's love, e'en in Gethsemene.

Alone He'd face His darkest hour. "Here am I. Send me."

Alone He'd face His darkest hour. "Here am I, Send me."