What’s In A Name…

Closing my Bible, I looked up to see James Dupree coming towards me, two cups in his hand, one of which he handed to me. The big Irishman smiled at me over the steaming coffee, strong and hot in the cool morning air.

“Top of the morning to ya, boy,” he said in that almost over dramatized Irish accent. “You seemed to be studying. Looking for anything in particular?”

“Only what’s in a name,” I said, then looked up at him for a moment, sipping my coffee. “I had a strange dream last night. Saw someone that said he was the angel Gabriel.”

“Truly now,” he asked, “And this angel lead you to look up a name did he?”

“Among other things,” I couldn’t look him in the eye as I spoke then, thinking of all that Gabriel had told me. I was still not sure if it were an angel or only a dream, brought on by my desire for answers. “He told me you were like the Levites of old, that stood in that day to slay even their own for the sake of God’s will.”

“Don’t take it to heart, boy,” he said, as he stood up and started to walk away. “We are not grand priest called on by God, we are but men, out to save those taking from HIS hand of safety.”

“The child’s name was Mynling,” I shouted at his back, and he froze, “And I, for one, want to thank you for burying her like you did.”

As he turned, I saw the pain in his eyes then.  Though I did not know his past, I could tell that was not the only child like he had buried. He looked at me for a few seconds, but it seemed to last for some time, the pain giving way to anger that made me feel he was going to shout out. Instead he calmly spoke, then walked away,”You ain’t nothing but a pup, boy.”

We spent the rest of the day in that camp, on the edge of a clearing. The ones we had rescued were sent off by truck to Thailand, where they would catch a plane. I had asked one of the nurses for some paper and pen, and wrote down all I could of the events that had taken place over the past few weeks.

I also wrote a letter to my mom that was never sent, maybe out of fear that she would not understand, or that she would worry herself too much. I had never told my family of the work I had done, in my search of doing the Lord’s will. In that I feel some shame. Later, I changed the wording of the letter around into a poem, though at the time I didn’t think any would read it, or understand the true message behind it.

To my dear mother, I write to say,
This very day I came of age.
The twenties are the age of the youth to plan,
Building a family, becoming a man.
Yet one man I met, lost that will,
For on this day, that man, I killed.

When I began, long ago it now seems,
The mission way was the life for me.
Yet as I learned to struggle with pain,
Bombs and bullets, wind and rain,
I found myself then a child so young.
Those around me, older still,
Already know the thoughts I feel,
They just laughed, and call me son.
But no more, the youthful names,
For on this day I came of age.

My commander said, “Never fear.”
But tell me please, Mother dear,
Why could not another take my place,
When I killed a man, face to face.

His words so cold, but very true,
“Remember this day, in times to come,
Though great the lost, the day was won.
And though you try to forget the way,
Lives were taken, in battle foray,
Remember this, young boy, if you can,
This was the day you became a man.”

Dear sweet mother, tell me please,
Is there something wrong with me?
And what of father, was he such a man,
Did he watch another die, to become a man.

The look on his face, his last moment alive,
Of loss and pain, and one of surprise.
Were his thoughts like mine, death not one,
Completely invincible, a rock with a gun.
If so, at the moment, he took his first life,
Did he think of the man, with kids and a wife,
Or did he just shoot, not thinking just then,
Of the dead man’s home, if he had friends.

So to my mother, these words I write,
Am I wrong, am I right?
Who was the enemy, whose blood I shed?
Was he mine, or God’s instead?
Did he write home, to his mother say,
He was a man, he had come of age.
So, dear mother, I am writing to say,
Your boy has grown, in a soldier’s way.
Bombs exploding, don’t seem as loud,
Bullets flying by, don’t bother me now.
A long day’s march, in wind and rain,
Nothing at all, if the day is gained.
And if my time should come tomorrow,
I go to the Lord, with no more sorrows.
And when the enemy comes, it is now ok,
I will go on with strength unknown,
For on this day, I came of age.

The next day we headed north to a place James had been called to, how he was called I didn’t ask. It seemed every time I spoke to him, he would laugh and tell some old tale, or story of one king or another from the Bible, and always end it by walking off, to leave me wondering.

It took us three days to get to the place we were heading, though he never said a name, just the direction, and that we were needed. The night before reaching the village, the men were in a study of sorts, more joking back and forth about scripture they didn’t understand.

At one point they started speaking about the beginning of days and how glorious it must have been. I joined in to tell then of a study I did once on the beginning, and how the Lord had set all things in motion in that first week, even to the basic outline to salvation. They seemed interested, and asked questions back and forth. It was like good- hearted fellowship, between Christian men, sitting in a summer camp, after the kids had gone to bed.

The next morning we were up early and on our way. James told us we were nearing the place and that all were to remain silent. The four scouts, as they were called, were sent ahead, and we waited, then separated into groups and headed off into the trees, as silently as we could.

It was much the same as the last village we had went through, small huts and shacks surrounding a larger stone and mud building. Mortars would fire on the grounds in front of that building as we came in from three sides.  Orders were the same: shoot anyone with a gun.

When I asked why, James just grinned, “You silly pup,” he said, “He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword.”

As we entered and shots fired around me, I didn’t seem to notice, as though it were not my actions, but my body just going through the motions of following orders. At one point, as I neared the main building, a man came out, and I was about to shoot, but he didn’t have a gun. I was at a loss, only for a second, as he came at me with a sword in his hand. I used the rifle I carried to block him, but his movements were so fast, I could see myself getting cut to shreds in a moment.

After finally hitting him in the side of head with the gun I carried, he staggered back long enough, and I shot. Quite winded at that point, I found myself on the ground beside the man, trying to catch my breath and look around. I saw James walk up, I picked up the man’s sword from the ground as I watched him.

“I told ya to shoot ‘em,” he said, as though I had done something greatly wrong. I shook my head and held up the sword for him to see, like it was a trophy, and told him, “He didn’t have a gun.”

He looked at me and laughed, and I knew I had gotten to him with that one. He walked by shaking his head, speaking under his breath, “Nothing but a pup.” For some reason that made me smile. I followed him then, as we came to the main building. The shooting had slowed to a few shots now and then, and I knew it was over for the most part.

There were four missionaries held there, and one was in bad shape when we found them, having to blow down a wall to get them out. It was getting late by then, and the front of the building had been hit, so we could not get to them from there. We stood waiting, as charges were placed to blow the corners of the wall out. To get the attention of those inside I shouted a prayer for God to protect the innocent.

Four men come out, two ministers, a teacher, and a doctor. The doctor was the one in bad shape. He had been beaten badly the day before, and as the others didn’t know how to care for him, all they could do was try cleaning the cuts and bruises, and keep him warm. Of our group, we were blessed that time, and lost no one.

As we were leaving, something came over me. I saw the body of the last man I had shot, and it seemed like guilt leaving them there, unburied, unmourned. I stooped then and said a prayer for God to have mercy on their souls, for most were just young soldiers, following orders.

As we got back to the camp from that morning, it was after dark, but a meal was already cooked and waiting. By lantern light the nurses saw to the doctor, making sure there was no lasting damage done, cleaned and dressed his cuts. I felt a need to help the others get settled for the night, and got them food and water.

Again the next morning I checked on them, then found James at the edge of camp, leaning on a tree looking out into a clearing. Figuring it was my turn to bring him coffee, I grabbed a cup, and joined him. I asked if he were ok, he looked at me for just a second, then nodded once, and went back to looking out across the small field.

“What you did,” he said after a while, still not looking at me. “Praying for the lost. It does them no good, their souls were lost, and ya can’t change the final judgment.”

“I still felt lead to do so,” I told him. “They were humans, lost souls, yes, but still part of God’s creation. I know they turned, but I felt God weeping for them.”

He looked at me again, a question in his eye, but just told me to go get my Bible. When I came back, he lowered himself to the ground, like it was a great effort just to move, and pointed to the ground beside him. I sat down and started to hand him my Bible, he just waved it off. He sat silent for a moment then started to speak.

“When I was a lad in Dublin, I grew up in a hard way. Me folks were hard, as times were hard, and getting from day to day was a struggle. That’s life boy, it happens.” He sipped at his coffee, and pointed out to the other side of the clearing, where a small type of deer had walked out to feed on the grass.

“We grew up in a time that life gave us,” he went on after a bit. “Me da worked most days from before sun up, well past dark, and me mum was just the same. Cleaning house and working a garden, just to keep food on the table, mind ya. Me da never really wanting youngens, and made a point to tell us every day, ’til the day he passed.” He drained his cup and went on.

“I was the youngest, and had a mind to make me da proud. My one brother was a scraper, always in trouble of one kind or another, and me sis, she was off and married at fifteen. I worked hard, but not hard enough to make the old man happy. Then one day at church, I saw the look in his eye as he listened to the preacher speak. He was looking to heaven, boy.”

“I knew then how I could make me da happy,” James said, seeming lost in a memory. “I started to study the Lord’s word, thought to be a preacher, even looked to bein’ a mission worker, but even that wasn’t good enough. He kicked, and prodded, poked fun at anything I did, called me everything but a son.”

He pulled a chunk of wood from the ground, and started picking the bark off, slowly stripping it to the bare wood. I watched him, trying to see in my mind the child he must have been, working hard for acceptance, and getting nothing but cold remarks.

“I love me da,” he said after a bit, “and every memory of him. He treated me like I was nothing but a dog, and from it I learned something. A good dog is always loyal to his owner. Kick it, beat it, speak harsh as ya want, and if the dog is yours, truly yours, it will always love ya.”

He looked at me then, and told me to open my Bible to Matthew chapter 15, I did so, and he started quoting the verses, 22-27, word for word without even looking.

“And behold, a woman of Canaan came from that region and cried out to Him, saying, ‘Have mercy on me, O Lord, Son of David! My daughter is severely demon-possessed.’ But He answered her not a word. And His disciples came and urged Him, saying, ‘Send her away, for she cries out after us.’ But He answered and said, ‘I was not sent except to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.’ Then she came and worshiped Him, saying, ‘Lord, help me!’ But He answered and said, ‘It is not good to take the children’s bread and throw it to the little dogs.’ And she said, ‘True, Lord, yet even the little dogs eat the crumbs which fall from their masters’ table.’”

James stood up and reached down a hand to pull me up, then pointed back across the camp. I looked at all the men and the women, going about their daily life, cleaning gear, cooking, talking to one another, caring for one another. But I also started seeing more, those I had met along the way, the ministers, pastors, the good people and the homeless drunks.

“We ain’t nothing but dogs,” James said then, and he didn’t mean it harshly. “Jesus came to his own people, and they turned against Him, but those of the world, kick them, beat them, trial after trial, and we still seek any reason we can to love Him. And you boy,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You ain’t nothing but a pup, a wee little Jesus pup.”

As I watched him head back toward the cook station and fill up his cup again, I noticed one of the men that were rescued the day before, his name was Jia, a school teacher from India. He was watching me closely, like he was seeing something not really there. I nodded my head in his direction and said good morning.

He came over and asked what my name was. I looked over at James, drinking his coffee while he talked with one of the nurses. “Who am I,” I thought to myself, looking back through the years at all the trials, the pain, the struggles just trying to get by, and who it was that actually carried me, step by step through it all.

What is the worth of a name? There is none. I struggled so hard to do good, only to fail at every point and had to start over, again and again, getting nowhere. And here I was still lost, not knowing where I would go, but I knew who would carry me the rest of the way.

As I looked back at the man, I smiled and said, “I’m Jesus’ Puppy.”

* * * * * * *

Well, for what it is worth, there you go. The story of my nick name, and how it came to be. Not so grand when you see it all there, not something so mysterious. I lived through a lot, to come by that name, but nothing that others haven’t lived through as well.

I stayed on with that group for another two months then went back to California to work in the mission there. Finally heading back to Kansas where I lived for several years, working in a factory, until I moved out to the west coast.

I have seen riches fall from the hand of the wealthiest, and beggars do the greatest of deeds. I have watched in visions, as suns came to life, and at the same time, I have watched the destruction of our world. I have had heartaches and hardships that greater men have fallen away for, and yet I still hold to my faith, just barely at times, but still there.

I have great shame in some of the things I have done in my life, the people I have turned away with nothing more than a simple prayer to see them on. I have lived in grand homes and cardboard boxes, walked in peace down a crowded street, and huddled in fear in the darkness of my own soul. I am by no means perfect, and I would be the first to tell anyone, I am nothing but the lowest of men, in a world with little care, and even less love.

Hardships, heartaches, trials and tribulation, I have been beaten, kicked, and cast out as worthless. But through it all, I know whom I believe in, and no matter what comes my way, good or bad, blessings or pain, I will always love my God. He is my Lord and King, my Savior, and the Redeemer of my soul. In the world, I am nothing but a dog, but to the Lord, I am just a puppy.

In parting I have but one thing to say, if you don’t know the Lord Jesus as your personal savior, I do not judge you, or condemn you. It is by your own actions, or inactions, that you are judged, and that by God Himself. Have you fallen away in your faith? Then repent, that is to say, turn away from that sin, and back to the Lord. He is loving, and quick to forgive, but you need to seek Him first.

Time draws short, and He comes, even as the thief in the night, at a time unlooked for. Will He find us waiting in His will, seeking the lost sheep that wander in a world that is grown dark. Beware, He is a loving God, but His judgment is just– and it will be eternal.

The Trumpet Sounds

The harvest year rings, and the soulful weep,
Sin-filled man laughs joyfully, as the reaper waits.
Time of harvest comes quickly to its close,
The sickle is raised, ready to fall in woe,
Cleaving through unripe wheat to feed the fire.
The flame builds high as the last moment nears,
An ending to sinful strife, non gainful toil.
The fruitless shall end their laughter in torment,
Those that heed not the call, turning in merriment.
Down comes the harvester’s blade,
the hand of God’s fell angel is released.

The grain shall be removed, and the chafe burned,
The fire made hotter, for the day has come.
Off the grain, rotted on the stalk untended,
The juiciest grapes of the vine, malnourished,
Left too long without water, to dry on withered branches.
The fire grows hot as the fuel is laid high,
And the heedless dance to the flames like moths,
mindless of the death to come.

Woe to man for the day has dawned,
The great day of God’s wrath on the enemy.
Judgment, judgment comes, the end is near.
His hand stretches out to take His own to Himself,
All to be made new in a moment’s flashing.
While the evil weep in the torment they prepared themselves,
the flames they have fed all the years.
Woe to the fruitless, as they praise their own worth,
Yet are without life in themselves.
They heard the call yet heed it not in their merriment,
Enjoying the laughter of the devil’s children,
Sin and greed, wealth and lust, a shadow of worldly pride.
Down the stem of thistle and thorn,
as well as the over ripe grain.

They stand in pride of works well done,
Unheeding the Hand that tended their needs.
They know not their root is filled with rottenness,
Decayed by their own willfulness and spite.
The good fruit is gathered in loving hands,
Removed from the burning field to come.
The first chime is sounded, the harvest begins,
The trumpet is yet to sound in warning,
And the flame laid to the stubble.
Down from the sky, fire then shall rain,
Burning and killing, in its heedless pain.
All things shall end, in a blaze of fire,
as with mankind’s evil desires.

When nature itself is gone and done,
Who then will be left to cry, not one.
As the skies change from red to gray,
Life destroyed, in an eternal blaze,
Who then shall mourn the loss of man,
When the trumpet sounds, an end is at hand.
Not yet does the trumpet sound for man’s warning,
His anger not to it’s full.

The world’s children play in their greed,
Casting lies and curses, as they were seeds,
Their willfulness, as it were laws to themselves,
They know not the fires burn against them.
They feed the flames in their haste to seek the world,
Lusting for more, never satisfied, shouting in their greed.
With mocking laughter, the devil hands them dead seed,
And they feed from the woe of his hand.
Slowly the trumpet rises, the servant prepares to sound,
The earth stands still for a moments time,
silence felt in a heart’s beating.

A flaming spark is set to the fuel heaped high,
Yet the soulless dance on, heedless of their despair,
Mindful only of their merriment, desire and lust for more.
The warning sounds, but they hear it not,
For the laughter of their evil way mocks on.
The trumpet sounds, they pause in fear,
Too late they see the flame rain down.
The trumpet sounds, the heap falls to,
Consuming the blooded wine of mirth.
The trumpet sounds, and the flames rage high,
The soulless reap the reward of their greed,
Shouting the torment of their eternal pain.
The Trumpet sounds, as the Hater mocks on,
laughing at man’s despair.

Beware…

      When the final trumpet sounds, I shall stand ready,
               sword in hand, to go forth to battle,
         and I shall stand victorious, in my Lord and King.

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About JesusPuppy

Born in Kansas, with only basic education and learning, Ed Pennewell sought a Godly life in the world, and from the sorrow there, has placed his thoughts to written words. Taking the name JesusPuppy while in the mission field, his greatest goal in life has been to show God’s love and light to all he meets. He places his heart in the things he writes, in hopes they touch an other’s life and bring them hope. JesusPuppy is a simple man, working as a carpenter while writing praise to the Lord, living on the Northwest coast of United States of America. You can find further works as well as Ebooks from JesusPuppy at… http://www.faithwriters.com/member-profile.php?id=13847Or follow the weekly series here at Cypress Time.D14…D14 – Part 1: http://www.thecypresstimes.com/Article.cfm?articleID=20107  – D14 – Part 2 – The Dead Star: http://www.thecypresstimes.com/Article.cfm?articleID=20199 D14 – Part 3 – Rebirth (Pt1): http://www.thecypresstimes.com/Article.cfm?articleID=20400 D14 – Part 4 – Rebirth (Pt2): http://www.thecypresstimes.com/Article.cfm?articleID=20516 D14 – Part 5 – Adam’s Flock:http://www.thecypresstimes.com/article.cfm?articleID=20684D14 – Part 6 – Enoch’s Counsel (Pt1):http://www.thecypresstimes.com/article.cfm?articleID=20815D14 – Part 7 – Enoch’s Counsel (Pt2): http://www.thecypresstimes.com/Article.cfm?articleID=20912 D14 – Part 8 – Enoch’s Counsel  (Pt3) http://www.thecypresstimes.com/Article.cfm?articleID=20993 Beyond the Mirror, is a work in progress that will be added to as the new chapters are completed…Part One, The Wall of Fire, http://thecypresstimes.com/article/Faith/Christian_Fiction/BEYOND_THE_MIRROR_Part_1/21113 Part Two, Paradise Awaits,http://thecypresstimes.com/article/Faith/Christian_Fiction/BEYOND_THE_MIRROR_Part2_Paradise_Awaits/21205 Part Three, The Mirror of God, http://thecypresstimes.com/article/Faith/Christian_Fiction/BEYOND_THE_MIRROR_Part_3_The_Mirror_of_God/21277 You can also check out a few of my poems here as they go online at Cypress Times. It is a selection of Biblical poems and Psalms that speak of my praise to the Lord JesusPuppy Poetry page,http://www.thecypresstimes.com/SubSection/Poetry/Jesus_Puppy/530 Now you can look for the JesusPuppy story appearing in the Mission section of Christian Life.http://www.thecypresstimes.com/subsection.cfm?sectionID=497 Please feel free to comment on any and all articles written for CypressTimes. I welcome all comments or questions.

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