At the turn of the last century my grandfather's brother took off to the Yukon to see whether he could hit "Pay Dirt" in the great gold rush.
To finance his trip he had with him the week's takings which he had stolen from the public house where he worked in county Durham.
Next week I'm travelling in his footsteps up to Dawson City (all legally paid for). You won't be hearing from me for a week but I"ll leave you with this poem which I wrote the last time I was "North of Sixty" when I was panning for a different sort of 'gold'.
The Dalton Trail.
It's from Fairbanks up to Deadhorse where the oil spurts rich and black.
It's across the rolling Tundra and the endless white out-back.
It fords the mighty Yukon and scales the Chandolar Shelf.
It's called the Dalton Highway and it brings Alaska wealth.
You have heard of Robert Service and you wonder what became of the legends of the Klondike and the men he brought to fame.
I have news for you my brothers, they are still alive and hale.
They're the men who run the freight-line along the Dalton Trail.
They're a breed that's set apart from a world that shrinks from risks.
They're a brotherhood of roughnecks with whiskers on their cheeks.
They've been frozen by the blizzard and beaten by the gale.
They're a special band of comrades and they work the Dalton Trail.
You may never read about them but they're heroes in our land.
They haul the pipes and derricks and the tons of drilling sand.
The plywood and the concrete, the 'dozers and the rail,
they're the men who keep things moving along the Dalton Trail.
There's Preacher Jim from Fairbanks.There's Alan, Gord and Dale.
There's Don, who looks like Garfield, who hauls the food and mail.
There's Lester out from Livengood who pulled his teeth with pliers.
He's the man who twists the wrenches and changes torn up tires.
There's Barry on the dispatch, there's Georgie and there's Bill,
There's Flip the man from Coldfoot who gave his truck a spill.
There's Sasquatch John from New York with brawny Tattooed frame.
They're from the poems of Service and they've come to life again.
So when you fill your car with gasoline or turn the heating up.
When you ride the Big Bird skyward as you stir your coffee cup:
Give thought to the men who drive those rigs beneath the Northern Lights,
with frozen toes and fingers, eyes red from sleepless nights.
And thank the Lord in Heaven who made this kind of male.
The one who keeps it moving along the Dalton Trail.
I met these boys this Summer and I'm now a richer man.
It was wealth not found in pipeline oil nor in a sourdough pan.
But let me tell you plainly( and the half has not been told)
It was in the men of the Dalton Trail that I found ALASKAN GOLD. (Acts 8: 26 - 27)
See you in ten days time.
Ian
A couple of months ago Pauline and I took a trip out to a country church and bought two plots in the cemetery.
This place was used by some of the early settlers so we will be in good company.
I thought a poem on the prospect of death would go well with our visit to St John's in Craighurst.
Taking the prize.
It's time to go, Heaven's calling, no sentimental bawling.
The moment's here, be of good cheer, I hear Him calling.
The battle's fought, the race is run and so the work on Earth is done.
Why linger or prolong?
Ahead the Crystal Sea, the Victor's Song.
It's time to go, Heaven's calling,
do not attempt to keep me here by stalling.
Away with tubes, wires intravenous:
The way is clear and He has gone before us.
The Jordan is already crossed, the Blood Stained Bridge laid down.
And now I pass to meet the Heavenly Host,
to take my place and crown.
Let others cling to empty hopes and fading dreams,
My future is not here nor is my home.
I hear the Master's voice and I must go, the time has come.
My memories of Earth are rare and dear,
My wife, my family and friends that I have cherished here.
Now I must go, but in a while
We all will meet beneath the Saviour's smile.
For Heaven is a place where tears shall be made dry,
and sighs and sobbing hushed.
Its gates shall close on every sin and lie;
The Tempter's head shall be forever crushed.
I must go, Heaven's calling,
Bright rays I see and feel His Presence o'er me falling.
The final steps I run and breast the tape
And Christ the Prize I take by faith.
Jubilate.
Ian
A short while ago I was speaking to a men's meeting. Every one present was sincere about wanting to serve God, but they came from Canada and all of them were super-busy.
I went home and wrote this poem which I titled:
CLEARING THE DECKS
I hear the call of God to go,
to preach His Word and save the lost,
And deep within my heart I know
whatever, Lord, I'll pay the cost.
I'll ford that river, climb that peak,
I 'll blaze new trails lost souls to seek.
I'll fast, I'll watch, I'll give, I'll pray,
I'll sell my goods, be on my way
------------- but not today.
You know that I would serve You Lord:
The call is strong.
But the fence requires an extra board
and the grass is getting long.
I'll read your Word ( I love the psalms)
I'll feed the poor and give them alms.
I'll memorize the scriptures too:
But I have other things to do.
Maybe next week I'll find a way
to dump some stuff and run the race
and help some sinner find Your grace.
I'll do it Lord,somehow: but not right now.
The ball game's due to start at eight
and that's too bad.
It makes me sad that job for God will have to wait.....
another week.
But You'll see Lord Your face I'll seek.
I'll do it Lord, You know I will.
I'll get up early, pray for Bill.
I'll sign that cheque, give John a tract,
Now that's a fact.
Today I have a wall to paint. On Sunday
I will be a saint and smile and say "Hello"
But evening at the prayer group "NO"
That time is for my Television Show.
Perhaps next week, next month, next time...
What's that You say?
"MAKE UP MY MIND!"
Jubilate.
Ian
I was preaching at the weekend on prayer. I had written a poem to illustrate a point. One of the ladies suggested afterwards that the poem deserved a wider audience. So here it is. You are the wider audience.
A Place to Pray.
A place to kneel, a place to pray,
A place to sing away the burdens that I feel
and leave the problems of my day.
A place to come just as the sun is risen.
A place to come and find my sins forgiven.
A place to whisper secret heart's desires.
A place to ask the the Lord to light my dying fires.
With noise and turmoil all around,
A place where silence is the only sound.
A place to hear His voice and know His peace.
A place to re-unite my will with His.
And when my mind is burdened and my soul oppressed,
A place to sense again that I am blessed.
A place to laugh, a place to weep, a place to share
my need:
A place of refuge from the storm,
A place to intercede.
A place to come at any hour,
A place to to be re-filled with grace and power.
"And where" you ask, "maybe this place of mine?"
"My friend, it is the altar of the Lord and you are welcome anytime."
Jubilate.
Ian
We have had Jose Henriques visiting our country over the weekend.
He is the man who held daily church at 2000 feet underground after the rock fall in the San Hose mine in Chile.
It's hard to believe that the miraculous rescue of 33 miners took place over 18 months ago.
Henriques is travelling the world with his testimony that God hears and answers prayer and he is willing to go anywhere.
From a venue such as Durham Cathedral to the smallest of house groups, his message is unvaried.
God still works miracles.
And who wouldn't believe that He does after he and his friends were pulled out of their tomb after 70 days underground.
Twenty seven of the group who went into the mine for their fateful shift emerged two months later glad to be alive and praising God.
Said the shift captain:
"I was with God and I was with the devil. But God won. I held God's Hand. It was the best Hand and He brought me through."
Albert Einstein said: " Either there are NO miracles or life is one continual miracle"
Listening to people like Hose Henriques will help you make the right choice.
Jubilate.
Ian
