tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52369359466818317822024-03-13T13:23:18.585-07:00chiomadiru's blogsChiomadiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13271085246896667551noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5236935946681831782.post-78836910675904759502016-10-12T11:08:00.001-07:002016-10-12T11:08:30.128-07:00<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0.75em 0px 0px; position: relative;">
<a href="https://clive-free.blogspot.com.ng/2013/06/in-their-shoes.html" style="color: #888888; text-decoration: none;">IN THEIR SHOES</a></h3>
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It is crazy you might say<br />But I decided for one day<br />To undertake a simple task<br />“Of what?” you might ask<br />The overrated honour<br />of becoming a Pastor<br /><br />Straight to the Church office I went<br />My back certainly not bent<br />On my table lay a gift<br />Not for mean men if you catch my drift<br />It read “Pastor please accept this swatch<br />for the times in prayer you keep watch.”<br /><br />With no hesitation, I slipped it on<br />Relishing my award for a job well done.<br />Thinking the work is bursting with favour<br />While pastors make a charade of labour<br />I rubbed my palms with great expectation<br />Extremely eager for the next visitation.<br /><br />The strangest of cases chose to stop by<br />Circumstances of their lives all awry.<br />“Help me” was the lingua franca<br />of these ones that wanted an answer.<br />Staring at my eyes like opticians<br />Presuming this was the home of magicians.<br /><br />The last was an unsettled couple<br />whose challenging issues we managed to topple<br />Thankful for taking their problems under the knife,<br />Husband turned and whispered to wife<br />“That watch is sure beautiful for a fact.<br />I hope our building fund is still intact.”<br /><br /><br />Feeling famished, I took a stop at a restaurant<br />The waitress I assumed thought me important.<br />Circling and circling around my area,<br />I felt like the Waldof Astoria.<br />She finally spat out with great rancor<br />“I thought you were a Pastor!”<br /><br />“Young lady what is my crime?”<br />My utter confusion at its prime<br />She snatched a bottle from under my seat<br />My heart accelerated its beat<br />In her hand was a big bottle of stout<br />As onlookers began to pout<br /><br />Back home in my bed trying to sleep<br />My mobile phone began to beep<br />“Pastor! My wife is having a C. S.<br />This I’m sure you know is no joke business!<br />Could you keep praying over the receiver?<br />I need her to safely deliver. ”<br /><br />The last attempt to lay my head<br />Which by now was as heavy as lead<br />Turned to be of not much great use<br />As there was no good enough excuse<br />Or merchantable exhaustion story<br />For missing “Morning Glory”<br /><br />I concluded this was madness<br />Terminating my slot with gladness<br />To undertake that extreme task<br />“Of what?” you might ask<br />The underrated honour<br />of becoming a Pastor<br /><br /><b>Written by Chioma Diru</b></div>
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Chiomadiruhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13271085246896667551noreply@blogger.com0