on pope Benedict XVI

Lifeline( www.lifelinemagz.blogpot.com. ’lifeline magz’ on facebook. ’Lifeline Unec’ on twitter) Beyond the call of duty - Alex Perrottet | 12 February 2013 Imagine this. You gave fifty years to the world’s biggest organisation, were based in a foreign land, and had put in a couple of official resignation letters as you were getting old and wanted to go home. You were 78, after all. But then the CEO dies and you get voted as his replacement. Oh, and declining was not really the done thing. How long would you have lasted? I say that the man formerly known as Joseph Ratzinger has gone above and beyond the call of duty. Seven years after the baton was shoved in his hand, Pope Benedict XVI has done what John Paul II couldn’t afford to let him do -- retire. On 28 February at 8pm he will leave the Catholic Church in a popeless situation. That is, until a plume of white smoke rises from the Sistine Chapel --the symbolic product of a beneficial ballot-burning for Pope number 266. But sadly, you won’t hear much praise going the way of this brilliant man who has done the job for nearly eight years in the coming weeks. The politicking that we are led to believe the college of cardinals engage in to get the “top job” seems to me to issue from the same old talking heads that drone on about US Presidential elections, trying on such vacuous titles as “Vatican insider”, “papal expert” and -- my favourite -- “Vaticanologist”, for a little off-season practice. If you are an ex-priest for example, you are definitely the most sought-after voice on the subject, at least in Australian media. I have heard two speak already today. Enough with the political pontificating I say. Do people really think that Benedict threw his own zucchetto in the ring, to swap it for a white one as a fitting reward for his years of dedication? A New Zealand priest was once credited as saying that when a Pope dies (or resigns!), all the cardinals travel to Rome and, before heading home, leave one behind to be crucified. It does happen. At least it used to. The first successor of Jesus followed him to the cross, albeit upside down, as he didn’t feel worthy enough to die in exactly the same way. Dozens of others were brutally martyred in other creative ways. But anyone without a chip on their shoulder can see that every pope does get crucified in one way or another. And each one, in their own way, expresses the humility of a humble servant like Peter the Apostle did. I was with Pope Benedict on Sydney Harbour during World Youth Day in 2008. We were just cruising around, and did a little trip from Rose Bay around to Cockle Bay. Nice day, just him and me. Well OK, there were another few hundred on the boat, and hundreds of thousands lining the harbour. But it felt like we were just there together. Particularly at a moment when he looked directly at me - I was about three or four metres away and had been waving and smiling rather enthusiastically -- as if no one else was looking he changed his expression at me for a split second. He shrugged and gave me a look which clearly said: “Hey, I’m human after all, what’s with all the fuss?” The face matched his first ever words as Pope identically: “The Cardinals have elected me, a humble servant in the vineyard of the Lord.” The fact that Pope Benedict has dedicated the rest of his years on earth to prayer is a good sign to Catholics that his shock decision is a result of prayer. They can rest easy that the man knows what he is doing. With a great deal of humility and self-awareness, he has the clear notion that he is no longer up to the task. The fact that he has done things differently to Pope John Paul II is no slight on either of them. I was also lucky enough to meet John Paul II, who was recognised globally as an extraordinarily charismatic man. Should he have resigned, he would still have commanded all the world’s attention and certainly taken it away from his successor. I think that’s one reason he went right to the end. His body may have given out, but his mind was sharp as an arrow. Read anything from Pope John Paul II from his final years and you will be impressed. Pope John Paul II gave a heroic example of perseverance and commitment usually only seen and lauded when war heroes and, more commonly, sports heroes strap on the boots for another tour of duty. Pope Benedict XVI is a different man but equal in stature to John Paul. I am sure there is a great deal of wisdom in his decision, because he is the world’s wisest man. But ultimately, not a single soul other than him will ever know the deepest reasons he has. Only the Pope knows, and pundits can only pontificate. Alex Perrottet is a radio journalist based in New Zealand and was Master of Ceremonies at World Youth Day with Pope Benedict in Sydney 2008. Culled from the net.

He's mine

He’s mine   Given you’ve heard on the grapevine Trust me; it was like God’s design The time for my noon clock to chime I know he’s a catch, I mean I still pine I understand why you’d whine But please don’t cross the line I don’t owe any girl a dime I have told you like I told the other nine Trust me; I won’t waste your time I mean, do I have a contract to sign I’ve said this a thousand times He’s mine         _ Emodi Ifeyinwa(lifeline poet)

Back of the stage-017 welcome party

017 welcome party- back of the stage.

Monday 10/12/12. 6:15pm. ‘Kene...!’ So, some warm greetings were exchanged. ‘I really made it hard to be here…’ So, some minds were rubbed together. 7:00pm and we had arrived the scene. It was empty! So some tirade was served; ‘punctuality,’ they say, ‘is the soul of business.’

On a sombre note it started and on a tingling account it was summing up, we dashed away. ‘Can we be back in 45minutes?’ We were heading for the hospital. After a ‘heaven sent’ driver took over, we tipped the 140 bound where, in our mischievous minds, we hoped to pick them back up. 9:30pm. Accosted by the order, the driver’s license was absent!

‘I am a doctor, I’m rushing out…’ all but lies were pummeled into beauty. Off we drove. Yet another then yet another order and it was we left to crack soft jokes of respect commanded by various orders most notorious of which had a dragon for the emblem. Nigeria was the country. As we reminisced then fading memories, the forlorn tarmac submitted itself and the distance.

‘There, there, there!’ I never thought we could miss the gates! As inviting as it frowned, the track of a smile with some dating, admitted us. ‘Yeah, I’m going to pick up my bag in the ward,’ and it was done. Meanwhile, the driver and his accomplice were teasing each other on forbidden matters while doing pen forbidden things which you dear, do not fail to do. You may want to know that the accomplice’s last act before jumping into the ride was some thorough embrace, lasting some enviable while with some conspicuous piety! Am I permitted to laugh?

Hei! Hei!! hei!!! hei!!!!  ‘Oh heavens! Were it not this just eloquent speaker of becoming mannerism?’ He was in sheer dash! ‘Chibuike! Chibuike!! Chibuike!!!,’ and Chibuike put the headlamps off! I Gozie, had a tough job restraining my mouth, tongue and legs at the same time. I would have done their vices on dear Chibuike. The headlamps came back on. ‘It is here! It is here!! It is here!!!’ What was there? Oh my God!

Jumping in beside the driver, Emeka hopped on. ‘Climb it! Climb it!! Climb it!!!’ Bingo! It should be a metre long taken in as it were, straightened, perhaps 3. The diameter were to be that of the tubing for a big close up toothpaste, 2 inches, roughly. Slithering sluggishly on its cursed food, intent on an elusive destination for what colours of motives, the driver was very human! On reverse gear, he was still very human. To compensate our lusting minds, he jumped into the bush. ‘We must have got it.’ A better thought than its opposite, which is the favoured fact. I never went back to check. I didn’t want it to be true! Emeka believed it was lurking underneath. He was very meticulous at inspecting, especially because he did it for ‘times.’ That guy is the wisest. Eve must agree.

Off ahead, that was where we saw it next! Two blinking brilliant spots. ‘Hei, look!’ it turned away. A pussy cat. Nerves on fire! ‘But you should have killed that thing.’ That was the parting word for the night. The students had to be on their ways. Which way? We never knew!

Back on course, through the gate, back on the road, forging ahead, worry was not known, talks, our date they were. The free reins were given to restraints, laughs paid bounteous visits, and chuckles were the page children. We indulged so and so, we were at a fork!

‘It is this.’ ‘No!’ ‘It is ahead.’ Ahead, it was pith black. No light on the horizon. Where are we? Our friends of the order, 2 mobile force units and an army dispatch. They had gone ‘under cover, ready for combat!’ The menacing truck behind of us had disappeared. At a second hopeful fork, there was a barricade! Heavens shattered! I Gozie was strong of mind but now that I think of it, it appears stupid. It was no fun. That was in fact the point of my heightened fun. What imp possessed me?

The others were infected. I am sorry that I couldn’t detect the despair in their minds and all I did was to heighten it. Yet it was good for them. They disputed my first suggestion. We were following it at last. I had earned a last laugh. What imp possessed me? A wave of panic then flew across my mind. ‘Does this road look familiar?’ Of course it was the road to our hospital. ‘No it doesn’t,’ answered the driver. Zoom! ‘ENUGU SOUTH MASS TRANSIT,’ ‘follow that vehicle!’ I shouted. It must be Enugu bound at least. ‘This must be the hand of God,’ I thought. ‘Wow!  This road is beginning to look familiar!’ the smiles became real once again.

We were no more interested and hardly remembered the 140 bound. We were glad to have been back home. We saw the event in new light. Our mouths were filled with tales. We earnestly sought food and got some over abundant. The night was merry. ‘Adventure satisfaction’ ruled. ‘Emeka, care for more adventures?’ You could guess his answer.

                                                                                                                Gozie Cyprain (lifeline writer)

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A thanksgiving close to my heart

‘God, I had been a fool.’ ‘Wow! I’ve never had any picnic like that.’ These were the things on my mind at the end of each of those two respective days. Jesus meek and humble of heart; make my heart like unto yours!

It all started with the salvation of lord. The G.S story was typical of an undulating tale. I had earlier known that the promises of the Lord were ever to be fulfilled, it just played out the course and every one was ‘seeing the dream.’ The joy was boundless. Plans bugged brains.

Events followed events and the thanksgiving arrived amidst the heat of the committee’s admirable scurrying. The hospital visitation brought tears to my eyes. I thought of the world we live in and yet understand not. We grasp only our own very lives, not others. Leaving there, I hoped to go to the Blessed Sacrament to seek for pardon and with the understanding that the only one who understands all life on earth is He hidden in there. Perhaps he could let me understand some so that I could then become less insensitive to the needs of our neighbours. A ‘new bible’ also made my list. I needed to give words of the creator to certain despairing souls there and wanted! I lay on my bed that night, in a sober mood pondering on things which I now cannot recall but feel subconsciously; I didn’t know it when my friend sleep came, he didn’t leave me, I was excused of him by a human being.

After a little delay, principally to my most regretted credit and which was resolutely paid off in some sub wise auto hurry, I made it to my vexed friends. ‘I thank you all’ was preferred to an ‘I am most sorry.’ We were just on time! We danced out ‘David’ at the thanksgiving procession. We awkwardly made it back to our seats conscious of the gazillion eyes bickering at opinions of us as they read out of our countenances.

At the site, on money matters, the ‘caretakers’ refused. God did His thing. Wow! Photo shots, skipping, footballing, setting venue, praying, taking: ice creams, garden eggs with groundnut paste, play competing: thug of war, dancing, pressing up, sack racing and play cards, eating: natural leaves foiled moi-moi and fried spaghetti, toasting wines, cutting the cake and having them, all in a flavouring of good music and in a very flexible framework, was mighty fun.

The day, our friend, had to leave; we had to go very reluctantly. To God be the glory, it was concluded. It would always remain ‘a thanksgiving close to my heart.’

                                                                                                Cyprain Gozie (Lifeline writer)

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My birthday is Christmas

My name is Obikwelu Igwebuike. I am 23 years old. I was born on 25 December 1989. My birthday is Christmas. I am a catholic. I was baptized on epiphany. My parents chose the name ‘Christopher’ for me, but I have chosen Jesus instead. I am His reincarnate.

I know that every Christmas is the celebration of our big brothers birthday. Each time it is approaching, it fills my heart with joy because of so many reasons.

First, I know that the celebration is worldwide. Second, I know that it is apex in bringing joy to the world. Third, I know that it is every child’s fantasy. Fourth, I know that I am every ideas promising platform. Fifth, I know that it will last as the legend of Christmas.

They say it is a christened pagan feast, but all I know is that father Claus will visit. He is a very nice man. With his island of baldness, roughly canopied by a lush overgrowth of walling band of tufted wooly snowy white hair, crystal silver rimmed exquisitely urbane spectacles, everything but appropriate for a merry old man, who is supposed to be demented, judging by his carriage, I can’t help but fall in love with the exaggerated but awkwardly bumpy curves on his belly, chest, thigh and cheeks. His cheeks are his nicest spot, but they are the only ones without any friends of clothing. The hands would, but for the array of gifts, be another forlorn member.

I like father Claus’ gifts. I still remember when I was 8, I had broken the handle to our door and we had to sleep in the garage for a punishment because my siblings ‘covered’ for me. The sun stabbed with its golden sword as it offended from a creak in the blind that morning, there was a blinking steel. I fell to my knees and bowed my head in resignation, the stroke was warm but blood was not spilt. Looking up, amazed at the ‘new life’ that had been granted me, my executioner had absconded. ‘To my dear Christopher,’ that was the label on the wrap, ‘From father Claus.’ I picked it up and, oh my God! It was a thing I never expected! It was a toy gun! I promise to tell you my escapades with that Uzi that blockbuster yuletide some time, in this place, but it may suffice to know that Alexander the great was peer; I conquered many lands! My eldest brother got a car and my youngest sister, a doll. The doll had a beautiful head band. Our picture that Christmas was scintillating.

As today I remember father Nicolas bouncing down the street with his rear jumping up and down in never missing rhythms, his hands, ever lost around the presents on his well circumscribed tummy, I cannot forget the brilliant impression the twinkling lights leave on my mind, because, I never really saw father Claus. Save on the screens, moving and still, I always imagined him walking down our, contrary to his white, red dust alley.

Each of my birthdays is a greeting from doctor Africa. I lie many times because I do not want to take a ‘cold bath.’ My clothes never survive one wear. I take two big bags home for my birthday, the only one celebrated amidst such pomp, because I hope to avoid laundry. Fire crackers set bushes ablaze and oft upon oft times, some masquerades. Those spirits were masked until one such spirit prove to be a little cousin.

Many masses are attended each for which I felt weaker yet to which I must, since I had to escape the kitchen, go to albeit with plan B! Trust me; my B plan always beat the worst. The cars are ever dusty, so am I away ever each morning, at a stream, watching if not walking in water; definitely I cannot hoodwink myself to be  a mini ‘Phelps,’ until 2 complete hours are utterly over at which I would have a ‘blessed assurance’ that the ‘old things have passed away.’ Occasionally though, the fleet were intact; those days, it were like ‘courting a coquette.’ More so, for each extra plate at each mealtime, my benefactor and dish must obligatorily be varied. That ensures a fresh meat. I still would get credit for a desert less course I would soon then serve my then faithful friends.

Now that I reminisce all these, I am very happy, ever more because it were my birthday. Dear Lord, this birthday of mine, a catalogue of delinquencies, leads me closer to farthest away from you. Save me lord, make my birthday yours.

         Cyprain Gozie (lifeline writer)

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