LongShots Media Inc

09/21/2026

ROMAN PRISON BLUES
Paul’s Song from the Prison Cell

I hear the Roman wagons
rolling down the stone,
I hear those soldiers marching
while I’m sitting here alone.
They chained me for the Gospel,
thought iron would make me choose
But you can bind the preacher, boys,
you can’t stop the Good News.
I once was riding angry,
with warrants in my hand,
I hunted down the Christians
all across the land.
Then a light came down from heaven,
and knocked me from my pride
I heard the voice of Jesus say,
“Saul, why do you fight?”
Now I’ve been stoned and beaten,
shipwrecked upon the sea,
I’ve slept beneath the open sky
with death surrounding me.
I’ve known the lash and hunger,
I’ve watched old friendships bruise,
But every scar became a verse
in these Roman prison blues.
CHORUS
These chains don’t own me,
Rome don’t have my soul.
Caesar holds the iron,
but Jesus holds control.
If tomorrow brings the executioner,
there’s nothing left to lose,
To live is Christ, to die is gain,
that’s my Roman prison blues.
There’s a young man named Timothy,
I wish that he were here.
Tell him not to be ashamed,
and tell him not to fear.
Tell him preach the Word with courage,
whether welcomed or refused.
A faithful man keeps preaching
through the Roman prison blues.
Bring my cloak before the winter,
bring the parchments if you can.
There are still some words worth writing
from this tired and beaten man.
Alexander brought me trouble,
and some friends have slipped away,
but the Lord stood right beside me
when I had no words to say.
CHORUS
These chains don’t own me,
Rome don’t have my soul.
Caesar holds the iron,
but Jesus holds control.
If tomorrow brings the executioner,
there’s nothing left to lose
To live is Christ, to die is gain,
that’s my Roman prison blues.
I fought the fight before me,
I have nearly run my race.
I kept the faith through prison walls,
through suffering and disgrace.
There’s a crown that Rome can’t offer,
there’s a King Rome never knew,
and there’s a Kingdom coming
that no Caesar can subdue.
So let the guards come get me.
Let the morning trumpet sound.
They may lead me through the city
to some lonely killing ground.
I belonged to Christ in freedom,
I belong to Jesus bruised
And I’ll belong to Him forever
when I’m done with prison blues.
FINAL CHORUS
These chains never owned me.
Rome never had my soul.
Caesar only held the iron
Jesus held control.
I fought the fight,
I ran the race,
I kept the faith I chose
And when these Roman chains fall off,
brother, I’m going home.

09/20/2026

JESUS WENT DOWN TO GEORGIA
Jesus went down to Georgia
On a hot and dusty day,
Found Johnny with that golden fiddle,
Still proud of how he played.
Folks gathered round the old town square,
Johnny drew that bow,

But Jesus wasn't looking for
The fastest hands they know.
He looked straight through the music
To the man behind the strings,
Said, "Johnny, you can win the world
And still lose everything.
You've played for pride and played for gold,
You've played to make your name
How about you play for broken hearts
And glorify My name?"

Johnny looked down at that golden fiddle,
Then slowly bent his knee.
All the fire he'd carried for himself
Was finally set free.
He laid that golden fiddle
At the feet of Christ alone,
Then picked it up a different man,
His heart had found its home.
PREACH, JOHNNY, PREACH!
LET THAT OLD FIDDLE SING!
PREACH, JOHNNY, PREACH!
TELL 'EM 'BOUT THE KING!

From the honky-tonks to the little white church,
From the highways Johnny roamed—
PREACH, JOHNNY, PREACH!
ANOTHER SOUL'S COMING HOME!
Johnny played through Georgia,
Then Tennessee and back,

In churches and in prison yards,
Beside the railroad tracks.
He played for men with whiskey breath,
For women tired of tears,
For boys who thought they'd wandered
Far beyond the reach of grace

He'd stop that bow between the songs
And tell them what he'd learned:
"There's gold that shines beneath the lights,
And gold that's tried and burned.
I once believed this fiddle
Was the finest thing I owned—
Till Jesus showed me mercy
And called this sinner home."

PREACH, JOHNNY, PREACH!
LET THAT OLD FIDDLE SING!
PREACH, JOHNNY, PREACH!
TELL 'EM 'BOUT THE KING!
Let the rafters shake and the back pews wake,
Let mercy roll like stone,
PREACH, JOHNNY, PREACH!
ANOTHER SOUL'S COMING HOME!

Years rolled on like thunder,
And Johnny's hair turned white.
His hands weren't quite as steady,
But his faith still burned as bright.
That golden fiddle showed the scars
Of a thousand nights he'd played,
And every scratch reminded him
Of the promise he had made.

Then one cold Georgia evening,
When Johnny walked alone,
The devil came around again
To claim what wasn't his own.
"Johnny, you're old and tired now.
Your glory days are through.
Take that fiddle one more time
Let's see what you can do.
Play for pride. Play for yourself.
Show heaven you're still strong."

Johnny smiled and shook his head.
Said, "Devil, you've got it wrong.
I don't play to beat you.
I don't play to prove my name.
I don't need your golden promises.
I don't need your little games.
These hands belong to Jesus.
Every note and every chord.
You can keep your Worthless prize
I ONLY PLAY
FOR THE GLORY
OF MY LORD."

Then Johnny raised that battered fiddle,
And heaven filled the room.
The devil couldn't stand the sound
Of an old man's hallelujah tune.

PREACH, JOHNNY, PREACH!
LET THAT OLD FIDDLE SING!
PREACH, JOHNNY, PREACH!
TELL 'EM 'BOUT THE KING!

Till the final bow crosses the final string
And the saints all gather home
PREACH, JOHNNY, PREACH!
ANOTHER SOUL'S COMING HOME!

And when Johnny crossed that river
And heard the angels sing,
He carried no gold with him
Just the praises of his King.
For the greatest song a man can play
Isn't played for fame or reward.
It's laying every gift you've got
At the feet

09/19/2026

KIA
She Stayed
We travelled the trails together,
Kia and me,
a black Lab with a faithful heart
and no need for explanations.
When the divorce came,
people chose sides,
doors closed,
a life broke apart.
She stayed.
When my son went off to university
and his room fell quiet,
she stayed.
When my daughter moved away to Cancun
and another piece of the family
disappeared over the horizon,
she stayed.
And when the weekends came
with too much silence in them,
we walked.
God, how we walked.
Thirty, forty miles
through the Nova Scotia bush,
over roots and rock,
through mud and rain,
beside lakes that held the sky.
Sometimes I talked.
Sometimes I didn't.
It didn't matter.
She knew all my secrets.
Every failure.
Every fear.
Every thing I had done.
Every thing done to me.
And she loved me anyway.
No judgment.
No advice.
No turning away.
Just that black head
against my right thigh
as if to say,
Come on.
We've been sitting long enough.
We need to walk.
The years took their toll.
Thirty miles became ten.
Ten became five.
Then three kilometres
was enough.
Her muzzle greyed.
Her steps shortened.
I slowed mine
to match hers.
Because that's what you do
when someone who has walked beside you
can no longer walk as fast.
Then came the day
she could no longer stand.
I held her.
My Kia.
My trail partner.
My keeper of secrets.
My friend who had stayed
when so much else had gone.
I held her
as she drifted away.
And I cried.
A giant of a man,
I cried like a baby.
Outside,
the Halifax sky turned black.
Rain poured down.
And I walked.
And cried.
Lightning ripped open the sky.
I walked.
And cried.
The trails flooded.
The streets flooded.
Water ran from my clothes
and tears ran down my face
until I couldn't tell
where the storm ended
and I began.
Still I walked.
Because Kia had taught me
what to do with pain.
You walk.
Darkness fell.
Cold, soaked and exhausted,
I finally struggled home
to a condo
that was no longer a home.
There was no black Lab
waiting at the door.
No nails clicking across the floor.
No head pressing
against my right thigh.
Only silence.
And I cried myself to sleep.
That was many years ago.
But grief doesn't own a calendar.
Even now,
when the darkness comes
and the road ahead feels too heavy,
sometimes I swear
I can feel her.
That familiar weight
against my right thigh.
That quiet voice
that never needed words:
Come on.
Get up.
We need to walk.
And for just a moment
she is beside me again—
young,
strong,
black as midnight,
waiting at the trailhead.
So I get up.
I walk.
And sometimes,
I still cry.

09/16/2026

MY BROTHER
When I was six,
my father left for Labrador,
following work north
into a country of rock,
cold, and ice.
And somehow,
my brother Terry,
still only a boy himself,
became the man of the family.
He taught me to bait a hook,
to feel the smallest tug
travel up the line,
and to wait;
because a hungry boy soon learns
that patience can become supper.
He built me my first real bow,
strong enough to take a partridge,
and taught me that the arrow
goes where the eye has already been.
He showed me how to sharpen an axe,
how to put an edge on a knife,
how to respect both,
because a good tool in careful hands
could keep a man alive.
But mostly,
Terry taught me the bush.
He taught me to love
the spruce and fir,
the smell of wet moss,
the crack of branches underfoot,
the silence of Newfoundland woods
after fresh snow.
He taught me how to make a shelter
when there was no shelter.
How to read the land.
How to block the wind.
How to keep dry.
How to make something
from almost nothing.
Years later,
alone on a hunting trip,
a blizzard swallowed the trail.
Snow erased my tracks.
Wind erased the horizon.
The cold came hunting for me.
And there,
with nobody beside me,
I heard my brother again.
Not as the grown man
he would become,
but as the twelve-year-old boy
who once stood beside his little brother
and showed him what to do.
So I did what Terry taught me.
I read the woods.
I found what I needed.
I made shelter.
I endured the night.
And I lived.
People sometimes ask
where a boy learns to become a man.
Sometimes it is from his father.
Sometimes it is from hardship.
And sometimes,
when a father has gone north
and a family still needs someone
to stand in the gap,
God sends a twelve-year-old boy
with an axe,
a fishing line,
a homemade bow,
and wisdom far beyond his years.
Because when my brother Terry was twelve,
he taught his six-year-old brother
a lesson I have carried
for a lifetime:
A man does the best he can
with what he has,
where he is,
no matter the circumstance.
And sometimes,
that is enough
to bring him home.

09/15/2026

THE RED LEAF
A red leaf fell this morning,
not hurried by the wind,
not torn from where it grew,
but simply letting go
because its time had come.
September knows these things.
The grass grows crisp beneath our feet.
The maples turn their mantle red and gold.
The sun leaves earlier now,
Evening stretches out its hand
and asks us to come inside.
Slow down.
There are books waiting
with old wisdom between their covers,
chairs pulled close together,
coffee growing cold
because the conversation matters more.
There are people we love
who do not need another hurried word
spoken while we are walking away.
Sit.
Listen.
Let silence have its turn.
Watch the evening settle
against the window.
Read something that feeds the soul.
Pray without watching the clock.
Ask someone how they are
and stay long enough
to hear the real answer.
Summer taught us to run,
long roads, long days,
work beneath an endless sky.
But September teaches another lesson:
Not every season is meant for striving.
Some seasons are given
for gathering close,
for remembering,
for mending,
for listening to God
in the quiet spaces
we were too busy to notice.
Tomorrow another leaf will fall.
Then another.
Until the tree stands empty
beneath a colder sky.
Perhaps that is why
the red leaf is so beautiful.
It does not fight the season.
It simply lets go
and falls into the hands of God.
— F. Colin Long

09/13/2026

September Morning Coffee
September comes softly, with cool air
and a warm cup held in my hands.
The city is waking below me.
Cars move.
Phones ring.
People will hurry toward
whatever they believe cannot wait.
But for a few quiet minutes,
I will pause.
I will sit beneath this wide blue sky
and watch summer loosen its grip.
I will breathe the morning God has given me
without demanding another one.
Coffee grows cold.
Years move quickly.
Seasons turn whether we are ready or not.
So this morning
I am grateful for the ordinary:
a balcony,
a September sky,
a cup of coffee,
and another sunrise I did not earn.
There is work ahead.
There are battles still to fight.
There are words still waiting to be written.
But not yet.
For now,
I will drink my coffee
and thank God
that I am here.

05/27/2026

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02/12/2026

02/01/2026

Moving in February???
1) Control Ice and Snow Before the Movers Arrive
Don’t wait until the truck pulls up.
Shovel and salt driveways, steps, and walkways early.
Clear a wide path, not just a narrow track.
Put down cardboard, old rugs, or plastic runners inside to protect floors and prevent slips.
A safe path keeps movers faster, protects your belongings, and prevents injury
2) Pack for Winter Survival, Not Just Moving
Keep a separate winter essentials bag with:
Boots, gloves, hats, extra socks
Phone chargers
Snacks and water
Medications
Pet supplies
Cleaning supplies and towels
Coffee maker or kettle (trust me on this)
Boxes sometimes get buried in a truck. You don’t want to hunt for winter gear at 10 PM.
3) Prepare the New Home Before Arrival
Make sure:
Heat and power are on at least a day early
Driveway and entrance are cleared
Lights work
Bathroom is usable(Remember the TP!!)
Beds or at least mattresses are accessible first
Winter days are short. A warm, lit home changes everything after a long move.
Bonus Nova Scotia reality: Always build weather flexibility into your plan. Storms happen. Have a backup date or cushion day if possible.

01/30/2026

The last Friday of January.
A threshold morning. A hint of light.
Halifax lies hushed beneath its winter quilt, the harbour stilled, the Bedford Basin breathing slow beneath a pale sky. Snow muffles the city’s pulse, but the sun,faithful as ever, rises anyway, spilling gold across frigid water and snow capped rooftops. In my hand hand, dark roast coffee, aromatic and velvety smooth warming the bones and the soul.
These are the mornings that whisper.
A reminder that even the longest nights yield to dawn. That endurance is rewarded with beauty. That patience always has a horizon.
Soon, the days will lengthen, and winter will loosen its grip. And when it does, Sandra nd I will walk the Halifax boardwalk salt air in our lungs, sunlight glinting off the harbour, laughter ringing off old stone and new glass. Not hurried. Not distracted. Just present. Two souls who have walked through fire and come out holding hands!
There is something profound about these small, faithful rhythms:
Coffee. Sunrise. Marriage. Motion. Memory. Hope.
This is abundance.
Walk it slowly. Drink it deeply. Thank God fiercely.
And let this day be exactly what it is:
A quiet promise wrapped in winter light.