It gushes!

It gushes! It spills over! It cascades down around me like laughter bubbling over. And now that I’ve discovered who I am, it will not stop—Ever!

I am a prosperous soul. All things belong to me for I belong to Christ. And as I watch heaven pouring out around me, whatever I can see is mine; for there is no lack in heaven. Not one tiny bit. And since heaven flows freely through a prosperous soul, then there is no lack for me.

The waters are wild . . . the abundance is rushing . . . and I? I cannot help but smile at such a joyful revelation: He has given me ALL things!

Artwork: Deep Woods Moonlight by Maxfield Parrish

It Looked Like a Strong House

I saw a house get washed away. It looked like a strong house. It looked like it should have stood through any storm--but no, it got washed away when the rains fell hard and the wind beat down.

I think it was not built right. I think that someone built it on the sand, someone not too wise, and sand is not a sturdy place to build. But perhaps they didn't know. Perhaps they thought that if they built the walls from stone then the foundation didn't matter . . . Until, of course, the rains came.

If only they had built that house upon a rock--it might still be standing.

Artwork: Homesick (c) Samy Charnine
http://www.charnine.com

That Little Flame

"What is that?"
"Where?"
"Right there. What is that little flame that she is setting down?"
"Oh--that is hope."
"Hope?"
"Yes, a persistent hope."
"And who is that, the one lying down behind it?"
"That is one in need of hope."
"And who sent this hope?"
"He did--the One who loves her more than any other."
"But is that little flame enough? She seems so . . . so downcast."
"Oh, yes, more than enough. You see that little flame will grow."
"It will?"
"Yes. First it will fill her heart, then it will light her eyes, then it will make her rise up off the ground and then she will shine."
"Shine?"
"Yes, like Him himself."
"That brightly? Really?"
"Oh, yes. He loves to make His children shining lights!"

Artwork: Dawn of Hope (c) Daniel Gerhartz
http://www.danielgerhartz.com

Inspired Imaginings

It is time to dream, kindle the fire in the heart, light up the imagination! God is quite creative . . . and so are we. He made us thus. He made us to be dreamers; thinkers who think larger than any box.

From out of a soul filled with grace and peace the dreaming comes, the inspired imaginings, the prophetic revelations. So rest and talk to Him; and think and sense and see what God sees. I guarantee it will be something bigger than you originally had planned. FAR bigger. FAR more. It will stretch you, this "more". It will challenge you. It may even make you a bit uneasy.

So rest and find that quiet place to think and pray and dream . . . for that “more” is very close.

Artwork: Fire Fancies by Arthur Hacker

Cloud of Hornets

Uh-oh . . . the hornets’ nest has been shook afresh and all those little hornets are quite angry. Peevishly so. Discomfited even, by a thing they cannot comprehend.

The gold dust bothers them. The gold dust brings offence. “The Devil! Witchcraft! Woe and Woe some more!” they cry as their religious sensibilities are brought to such discomfort—and they sting in their distress.

A storm is stirring up, a storm of angry hornets who do not understand that often God offends the mind to reach the heart. And this cloud of hornets now descends against the cloud of glory dust . . . and angels watch this strange event.

Photograph: swarming hornets, unknown

Burst of Golden Glory

It’s here . . . His glory, tangible and real, is here right now. It swirled up above our heads and exploded in a sparkling burst of golden dust, a burst of golden glory. And God laughs to see His children so excited by it, as a father does when giving gifts to all his little ones.

Some frown and shake their heads at the thought of gold dust swirling overhead. “What’s the reason for it?” they would ask. Just because, would be the rightful answer. Just because He’s God. Just because He’s good. Just because He likes to show His glory to us.

God does whatever pleases Him . . . just because He can.

Photograph: unknown

Show Me, Please

Oh, yes, show me! I long to see it all—all the hidden things that I do not know. Is it not exciting? I get giddy thinking about it. To think that you—the God who owns the universe—actually hears my call and actually wants to show me things. Not just any-thing but unsearchable things, things that man cannot possibly ever find out without you revealing them.

Yes! Show me, please . . . I’m waiting . . . right here . . . in your presence . . .

You will show me things that only angels see. You will show me things that make me marvel at your beauty. Yes, yes, that’s what I wish to see—show me, please.

Artwork: The Awakening by Thomas Cooper Gotch

Meant To Cut

It will cut, you know. It is meant to cut—even between joints and marrow—even dividing soul and spirit. It is that sharp. The word of God will judge the heart when we are too afraid to look too deep.

It is the other side of His word; the side that is not milk, not soft and sweet. It is quick and active and will inflict a holy pain upon the heart that needs a cleansing. But it is a good pain—a quick cutting away of foul things that want to cling.

And it pierces deep. Deep enough to find what’s hidden. Deep enough to reveal motives that no one else can see. It is alive . . . God’s breath is on this two-edged sword. Let it do its work; let it lay bare all before the eyes of Him. For you will be better for it.

Artwork: © Greg Call
http://www.shannonassociates.com/artists/index.cfm?artist_name=gregcall

Up Through the Leafless Trees

I think the winter ends . . . soon. The songbirds feel it. Through the last few flurries they are singing: Brave, bold little voices, rising up to worship Him who made them. Yes! Sing little ones and put us all to shame.

Even in the cold you warble strong and clear. And it rises up . . . up higher still . . . up goes that song of praise. Up through the leafless trees it rings warm and true against the frigid air. You know the love of Him who made you, Him who knows when even one of you falls helpless to the ground. And so you sing!

We shall join the song, for I think that winter disappears more quickly when that sound is heard . . . I’m certain that it does . . . worship drives away the cold.

Photograph: Bird © Bob Mullen
http://www.bobnaturephoto.com/main.php

It Feels Clean

Is it mine to wear? . . . Truly?

My rags are gone? The past is washed away? Sin is but a memory? Ahh, this is what it means to be clothed in white linen.

I like it. It feels clean. It feels wonderful. It feels new—NEW!! New-beginnings new. Yesterdays-are-gone new. Fresh-as-spring-rain new. And I did not have to buy it . . . or earn it . . . or beg for it. Shall I ever understand this love of His? I do not think so.

Artwork: St. Agnes in Prison by Frank Cadogan Cowper

Mirror of Self

I was angry. I was angry at another who would dare to hurt my heart, till I looked into the mirror of self. Guilty eyes glanced back at me, a knowing glance that said that I was not . . . so . . . innocent.

It was I who chose. It was I who set aside the right I knew for the wrong that I desired. It was I who opened up my heart and fell - though falling was the easy thing to do. And so my conscience, black-robed friend that feels like foe, held up that mirror and made me look upon - myself.

A creature just as sinful as the one who caused the hurt . . . that is what I saw. A hurting heart that needs a Savior's healing touch as much as he who dealt the blow . . . that is what I saw. A soul who needs the cleansing of forgiveness as much as he who does not know his need of this . . . and so I saw it all.

Bless him who caused the hurt, dear Father. Bless him and please forgive us both. Bless him with Your sweet love and wash him clean from every sin that he has ever done throughout his life . . . and so bless me the same.

Artwork: Death and Mirror © James Christensen
http://www.greenwichworkshop.com/christensen/

Until You See it Again

Here, I can help you. Let me help you, please. I can describe to you what it looks like to help you remember. Remembering is good. Remembering is necessary. You are only temporarily blind—it will not last. I know it won’t. These circumstances shall end and you shall regain your sight.

But for now I’m coming alongside, taking your hand and telling you what the promise looks like. It’s bright and lovely and full of color. You will not forget while I am here for I shall not let you. Such a promise for your life! Father God created it to fit only you and no one else. Can you see it in your mind? Can you see its vibrant color?

So, rest. He’s here with you and He brought ones like me to come alongside and keep you remembering . . . keep you hoping . . . keep you trusting in His promise until you see it again for yourself.

Artwork: The Blind Girl by Sir John Everett Millais

It Doesn't Fit our isms

“That little thing says it is one of us,” said the regal rooster, looking down his beak at the little thing.
“One of us?” said the fat hen in her high-pitched tremor. “CLUCK, cluck, no, no, no…I don’t think so.”
“It doesn’t look like one of us!” sniffed the Banty with her beak in the air.
“It doesn’t act like one of us!” clucked the fat hen, shaking her oh so lovely comb in disapproval. “No, indeed, it doesn’t think like us either. CLUCK, cluck, no, no, no.”
“What to do? What to do?” bemoaned the Banty, nervously twitching her feathers. “How can we let that silly thing in the hen house?”
“We can’t,” answered the rooster, lifting its royal brow, “it doesn’t fit our –isms. It’s rebellious.”
“It doesn’t fit my Catholic-ism,” said the fat hen.
“Ack! And certainly not my pentacostal-ism,” said the Banty.
“Or my conservative protestant-ism,” the rooster said with scorn.
“I don’t think it follows any –ism at all! Ack!” shrieked the Banty. “What to do? What to do?”
“It’s such a simple little thing,” laughed the fat hen. “It says it doesn’t need an –ism. Imagine that! How impertinent!”
And they clucked and gaggled and gossiped and groaned about the little thing that said it followed HIM but with a freedom that was impertinent (said the fat hen!), and with a joy that was silly (said the Banty!), and with a uniqueness that was rebellious (said the rooster!) . . . and He who made the little thing smiled at it and told it to follow Him as they pushed it out of the hen house.

Artwork: Birds of a Feather Flock Together © Scott Gustafson
http://www.scottgustafson.com/

A Lovely Rock

A rock is underneath my feet; a lovely rock, a jewel from the brow of God; a steady rock, a cornerstone that all is built upon. And storms have come. And winds have pounded this small house that I built upon it. And the walls have cracked. And the roof has leaned. And windows have been broken.

But the house still stands.

Yes, the house I built still stands on a foundation stronger than my own small self. Of course, a few repairs are needed, but a firm foundation is a solid place to build . . . I could not have chosen a better or more lovely rock upon which to build my life!

Artwork: House Upon a Rock, unknown

Forgotten Something?

All of us are healed! All of us are clean to the very marrow of our bones and healed are our souls from woundings deep and grievous. What joy— what clamor does this joy make!

But wait . . . have I forgotten something? In the shouting and the jubilee I nearly shamefully forgot. Oh, heart of mine, a heart so prone to wander and forget, what shall I do with you? I know what I shall do right now. I shall return, fall down at his lovely feet and cover them with tears of thankfulness. Let others have their grand parade, I must first run back to Jesus, dearest name above all names, and throw my arms around him . . . this time I shall not forget.

Artwork: Ten Lepers © James Christensen
http://www.greenwichworkshop.com/christensen/

Whisperings in the Ear

Run! . . . Run! . . . You will lose the battle if you do not run away. The enemy of your soul is very powerful, you know. He can wear you down if you listen to his words, his whispers, his taunting in your ear.

Satan is the father of all evil and his hordes from hell will do all they can to bring everything to ruin. Deceit, jealousy, trangression and betrayal - all begin with whisperings in the ear.

Run! Or you shall surely lose the battle! And then all shall certainly be lost.

Artwork: Ferdinand Lured by Ariel by sir John Everett Millais

Bursting at the Seams

Beyond this realm of earth and rock and sea that we call earth there is something that’s invisible— a realm where angels dwell, where light and sound and color fill the heavens. We get a glimpsing of it . . . just a bit . . . when skies above break open.

Do not fear the night - in darkest night His glory shines the best and brightest. Do not tremble when the darkness howls - the sound of glory shall be heard above it. All creation groans for His return and the sky is bursting! at the seams to show it.

Photograph: In the Shadows of the Stars © Greg Martin

http://www.artofgregmartin.com/

Out There

Get in the boat! Get in the boat, I say, and go! And if the sky threatens storm? If black clouds pile up like burnt marshmallows? If the wind blows the waters wild, then what? Get in the boat and go!

He who calms the storms and brings peace upon the waters is the one who called you to it. He is the one who keeps the boat afloat after all. Do not look back to that steady pier . . . you may lose heart. Do not look back and wish to tether there again . . . that’s not the right direction.

Look out across the waters wild - and row. Your future is out there.

Artwork: by Peter Bay Alexandersen

http://www.shannonassociates.com/artists/index.cfm?artist_name=peterbayalexandersen

The Wind it Brings!

Autumn’s blowing in—a right good job it’s doing, too. Let it blow away the cobwebs in the attic. Let it blow away the hindrances that bind. Let it blow till hearts are fresh and worn-out memories are gone.

I love the autumn and the wind it brings! And if any walk through autumn and still deny that God exists - then they are blind. For God Himself is on the wind and thunders in the storms that autumn brings.

So blow hard against me wind, even if you carry rain, even if you bring the gray . . . I think God loves the autumn, too.

Photograph: Wind in Arms, unknown

My Fingers Long to Play

I think one day I’ll sing again. Not now. Not yet—but one day when the winter ends completely. For winters always end and spring comes leaping after.

I’ll worship Him who is the most beloved of them all. For even now my fingers long to play the notes; but it is too cold yet. There is still a stiffness in my bones that keeps me from my playing. Healing comes with spring. Healing comes upon the melting snow. And then I’ll raise a song like none has ever heard and the afflicted shall rejoice to hear it!

Artwork: Girl With a Mandolin by Jules Joseph Lefebvre

Let the Toads Parade

No more kissing toads! I refuse to kiss another toad to find my prince. It’s not what God intended. A prince cannot be found that way—it is a myth, in case you didn’t know it. No toad has ever hid a prince behind its warty face.

But I have been told, you know, that this is not the case. I have been told by toads that they are really princes underneath. But no—a toad by any other name shall always be a toad, just as a snake shall always be a snake.

Father's very good and it was never His intention for his dear girls to have to kiss a line of toads to find their princes. He has a better way than this. Far better, I have heard. So I shall wait . . . and I shall let the toads parade on past.

Artwork: The Fairytale Prince © Magda Francot
http://www.magda-francot-art.com/

I Still Believe

I still believe in knights. I still believe that there are men out there with hearts of gold. Though you'd think that I would not. But my heart will not allow me to give up on this belief.

They still slay the dragons that they meet. They still treat their maid Marion as the treasure that she is. Their faithfulness runs deep and their heart, once given, is never taken back.

Players, rakes and gigolos are a dime a dozen—knights are rare. They must be sought amongst the weeds that grow prolific . . . but I still believe in knights.

Artwork: by Sir Frank Dicksee

A Light Within

If you journey out into the world the battles promise to be fierce. The world’s ways are not easy, are not pain free. It is dark out there and growing darker . . . but . . . you have a light. Do you not remember? There is a light within that is stronger than the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it. Fan the flame of your first love for Him.

“Away fear! Fie to grief! Anger you are banished! Death to enemies once too strong for me!”

There you have it. You have not forgotten after all—He is that light.

Artwork: © Greg Call
http://www.shannonassociates.com/artists/index.cfm?artist_name=gregcall

Pages of Them

“They are written down.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, pages of them. Books could be filled there are so many.”
“And truly they are remembered?”
“Of course! Every one of them.”
“I am surprised they are of importance.”
“Oh, of great importance. They are a treasure to Him.”
“Even the small ones?”
“Even the tiniest passing word.”
“Does it matter if they are only thought on, or must they be spoken aloud?”
“Whether thinking or speaking aloud, all the words and thoughts toward Him by those who love Him are equally remembered and written down.”
“That is a marvel.”
“Yes, isn’t it? I must agree . . . it is a marvel.”

Artwork: Homage to the White Rose © Maureen Thompson
http://www.maureenthompson.com/

In the Brilliance of the Flames

The desire is complete now, has conceived a dreaded sin, has given birth to full destruction. What seemed a little selfish act to him who acted, grew to be a war; for pain runs deep and retribution is a difficult thing to turn from.

The flames burned bright until finally there was nothing left but ash – and the wreckage of that which once promised to be sweet.

We rarely think ahead of our own actions to what will come of all of it. God sees the end from the beginning, but us? We see very little. Perhaps in the brilliance of the flames we will finally see more clearly.

Artwork: Chesmenskiy Battle 1848 by Ivan Aivazovsky

He Leads Me Out

He leads me out by a tangled path that twists and turns. He leads me step by step through stinking swamps and thorny limbs that tear my clothes and try to catch.

He leads me out! I’ve heard the sun is shining brightly outside this wood. I shall never enter here again once out. The snakes of this dank place crawl upon their bellies, fat and bulging with their base desires, and I was bitten by an evil one, a cunning one, whose poison I had nearly not survived, a kind of snake that I have never met before. But I shall no more face them . . . for He leads me out!

Artwork: © Daniel Gerhartz

http://www.danielgerhartz.com/

A Needed Golden Joy

Drink deep. Drink deep of what is called "forgiveness". Is it not sweet? Does it not rush into your soul and bring a needed golden joy? The room glows with it - and so shall your heart.

It took some time to find it, this pool of sweet elixir. But finally there you are and there you should remain until all within you feels clean . . . and glows . . . and bursts! with joy.

The pool flows from Holy Spirit. He who sins can never wash his heart clean from the memory of his doings . . . unless . . . unless he seeks this cleansing place himself.

But you, friend, have finally found it! . . . and it is good.

Artwork: Ashling © Donato Giancola

http://www.donatoart.com/

Strangers

Sometimes we need to be carried . . .

Sometimes we need those of greater strength to run to our aid, to lift us up, to bring us across the way . . .

I am so glad that they are there when that "sometimes" happens. And sometimes they are strangers filled with such a love that it pours out over us like a river overflowing. They lead us down a path that we could not have gone, alone.

I think Papa God brings such a ones to us when we most need it . . . He is a good Papa.

Artwork: Achilles and the Body of Patroclus © David Ligare

http://www.davidligare.com/

A Day For Building Castles

At times our castles in the sand are washed away. But sand abounds and there are many future castles waiting to be built. Many dreams are yet to be - one fool in your life cannot steal them away. What is one fool?!

Be a child again and build . . . dream . . . get your hands wet and muddy! Forget the fool who dug the hole that swallowed up your castle: the pit he dug he himself has fallen into (they always do).

Such a day it is for dreaming. Such a day for building castles. Is the sky not bluest-blue? Is the sun not shining brightly? Get thee out there then . . . and build!

Artwork: Castles in the Sand © Steve Hanks

http://www.stevehanksartwork.com/

These Stone Walls

Where do I go from here? Do I leave this sheltered place and try to find my way out there again? What lies beyond these walls of stone and cool water drippings?

Show me what to do . . . "revelation," is the whisper that comes out my mouth, "give me revelation!" Is there a future that's awaiting? Do I stay here or do I need to move? That uncertain road is not a road I wish to take again. The fog of future is not a fog I wish to stumble through. Until I get the revelation that I need, I shall stay here, looking out. And while here, make a bulwark of my faith till it's as strong as these stone walls. I'll not step one foot out until you lead me and I know it's you.

Photograph: Cave, unknown

Light Has Come

Look up, dear one, for your deliverance is at hand. The chains are breaking! The doors are opening! And that which held you, bound you to your sin, is falling off. The sun shines glorious outside these bars and you shall taste of it again. Let the light expose it all - every small corner of your heart. Let nothing remain hidden. That is where your freedom lies: in the light.

And now His light has come. Look up. Stare it straight in the eyes and do not waiver. It will be painful for a time - oh, yes it will - more painful than you, perhaps, have ever known. But that is how chains are broken. And then you shall rise a different creature with a light within where once was none . . . It's time to walk out of that prison.

Artwork: Freedom by Walter Crane

Not Mine to Fight

Dearest One, most high above, I pledge my heart afresh. I bend my knee before you. Take me, fault and failures all, and make me into something bright and gleaming for your sake.

I love you, God most high! I worship you alone and I shan't fear what man can do. Set me a table before my enemies and lead me out. Lead me to that higher ground. Let truth be on my lips though lies abound around me. All my battles I have not won and I've been broken - but here's a battle that's not mine to fight. So now I kneel in full surrender. Do what you will, only let truth prevail.

Artwork: The Vigil by John Pettie

One Voice Missed

"So, is it a heart-ectomy she needs?"

"No, no, her heart is the one thing that she does need."

"Then what can be done?"

"It's being done already."

"It is? I see nothing happening, nothing stirring. Does her heart still beat?"

"It does; but she does not know it."

"So what is it that you say is being done?"

"Something that the eye cannot see . . ."

"Himself! That is what you mean - It's Him that does the work!"

"Yes, He himself is working on her at this very moment."

"I cannot wait to see her rise; I've missed her song."

"So have we all. The cloud of witnesses has been waiting to hear that voice again."

"Is one voice missed so much?"

"Very much."

Artwork: The Anatomist by Gabriel Cornelius Von Max

Pieces of the Dreams

There's a tiny piece. I see it glistening in the sun. And there's another - just a tiny chip, a bit of color buried in the weeds. It's time to find them all, all the pieces of the dreams that I once held. And then to fit them back together, that's the task! That's the harder thing. To make them dreams again!

But I can do it . . . I think I can.

Yet first I must find all the pieces. It will take time; they flew in all directions when the shattering took place. There's another . . . and another . . . pretty little pieces. One day I shall find them all and I shall hold a dream again.

Artwork: La Primavera by Walter Crane

Songbird

I see you are not alone. Holy Spirit, that tender precious one, has come to rest with you, to sit beside you and to sing.

You were meant to be a songbird, dear one! But until you find your song again that faithful comforter shall sing. He shall sing into your heart the healing words you need to hear. He will not leave you - not even for a moment.

In sleep or tears or rest, he shall stay happily near and sing . . . for so he loves to warble over wounded hearts.

Artwork: Love's Messenger by Marie Spartali Stillman

Where Hope Awaits

I looked further out today. I stretched my gaze beyond the thrashing waves around me, out as far as I could see . . . I saw the calm. I saw the waters smooth as glass. I saw the rays of sun gleam down to make the seas shine silver.

So that is where I'll steer my course - out there beyond where hope awaits. But this time I'll not be at the helm. I tried to steer my life but I got lost and went off course. So now I give the helm to God.

He shall steer me to the hope that lies beyond.

Artwork: The Bow Image © Magda Francot

http://www.magda-francot-art.com/

A Battle in My Head

Shhh - it's time for hospital. It's time for rest. I look to find my healing in the only place I know to look: the cross. But how my head it hurts! From all the thinking, the confusion, and the anger that has wracked me good.

I lost myself in him whom I had trusted and now a battle rages in my head, a noisy clash of jealousy, love and pain that fight against each other. Betrayal is a cruel thing.

But, shhhh. Quiet now. Focus on the One who loves me dearly. I must remind myself of this and daily keep reminding: one day healing shall come . . . healing shall come . . . healing shall come . . .

Artwork: The Ecstatic Virgin Anna Katharina Emmerich by Gabriel Cornelius von Max

In the Wood

It is quiet. Too quiet. I hear my thoughts far too well. I cannot see a glimmer here. I've entered into the wood that none would choose to be, but where many find themselves. It is the place of heartache and longings unfulfilled.

"I am here. . ."

What was that? Are we not alone when we are in the wood? For in my shattered state it feels so and I find myself questioning the truths I once held strong. What dear truth it most certainly would be if He is near the brokenhearted . . . even in the wood.

Artwork: East of the Sun © Kay Nielson
http://nielsen.artpassions.net/

A Glimmer

"There! Did you see that?"

"What? See what?"

"Over there, there it is again. Did you not see it that time?"

"I think I did. What is it?"

"I am not certain . . . but I think . . . I think it is a glimmer."

"A glimmer? What's a glimmer?"

"A glimmer! You know . . . a tiny glimmer of hope."

"Hope?"

"Yes, yes, I'm certain of it now. I've seen that kind of glimmer before. Quick! There's one up there! See?"

"Ahh, yes, I saw it that time. So that's what hope looks like."

"Oh, yes, that's exactly what it looks like - if you've got eyes sharp enough to see it. Not many have, you know. Not many can see a glimmer."

"I can see why. They rather sneak up on you, don't they?"

"Yes, they do."

Artwork: Fireflies © Daan Michael Hoekstra

http://www.hoekstrastudio.com/

Round My Throat

He was not good. I wished that he could be - but he could not. My heart that once beat strong has lost its vibrant pulse, is barely breathing now that he is done.

He did not know how to love. I hoped that he would know - but he did not. My frame is broken now, is walking with a limp it did not have before.

The fickle heart of him proved my undoing. He has removed his hands from round my throat quite casually and now moves on. As if the life within another is not a precious thing to the One who made it. A second glance? Not him . . . his gaze is always on the next one he shall meet.

Artwork: Under an Unfortunate Constellation © Magda Francot

http://www.magda-francot-art.com/

The Way of His Seduction

Ahh, lovely ladies, I see another one has been added to your number. Another heart was captured by his words, and now you all shall mourn together. You didn't realize his words would not be honored and each believed with longing heart that when he looked at you with his blue eyes, his gaze was true.

But to him you're not a person, you're an object. You were the fulfillment of his momentary lust. All women he sees the same, as he scours the room to find the next one he can prey upon. "Which one shall it be tonight?" he whispers. "I could do her, sitting quietly in the corner, or her, dancing out upon the floor." He plots and plans the way of his seduction.

Sad, lovely ladies. He has added many to your number . . . and many more are yet to come.

Artwork: Captives by Evelyn de Morgan

Bent Beneath the Load

There is nothing you can bring to me I need - I am the uncreated One, remember? I have no needs. I have no need for your works or deeds or honors or accomplishments or your position. And I can see that you have little need of them also, as your back is quite bent beneath the load. How long will you last carrying such weight? Will you make it to the end of the road? It could be a long road, you know, this journey you call your life.

Why not lay it all down and come to me empty-handed? . . . That's a thought.

Artwork: Woodcutter's Daughter by Charles Pearce

Off With its Head!

It's a stinking giant! That's all it is - a loud, evil, intimidating giant that has had you groveling to its demands for far too long. Rally, dear one, rally yourself and face it. God will make your stones fly true and hit hard. Just ask Him.

Off with its head! Silence its bellowing voice forever! Are you not tired of its demands, this giant that pounds upon you whenever it wishes? It has stomped through your life for many years now. It shouts . . . and you bow. It commands . . . and you capitulate. It threatens . . . and you tremble.

Off with its head, I say! It is just a stinking giant.

Artwork: David by Caravaggio

Carry Me

Now's the time I need them, now when I am hurting. They will help me walk. They will help me press on another day, another week, another leg of the journey I am on. Faith and Love shall carry me - but not mine. No indeed, not mine! Faith and Love that come from Him shall carry me. I have very little of my own, and what I have cannot carry me a single foot.

He has sent these dear ones to my aid. Yet in my stumbling I do not feel worthy of it. Love, how patient you are, how un-accusing is your gaze upon me. And Faith. . . Faith, how persevering is your hand on me, how steady do you hold me up.

I don't know how people in the world get along without you two . . . I, for one, could not. Thank you, Papa God, for sending them my way. I need them dearly.

Artwork: Hinds Feet © Daniel Gerhartz

http://www.danielgerhartz.com/index.htm

Little Bird in Love

My heart sings loud like a little bird in love. It sings along with all creation, and my small voice, my one fragrant gift, rises up to heaven to His ears. It is a song for which He died to hear. I am not consequential in this grand world of men’s affairs, but it doesn’t matter. This tiny bird bears a great love in her breast which all the world could not contain.

Oh, such a love makes me dance! It makes me pluck the flowers and heap them at His feet! I may only hop about on two small feet in my own funny, awkward form of praise—but I shall whirl and hop about with all my heart!

. . . the little birds of the world are the ones who fill the heavens with song. So keep singing little birds.

Artwork: The Engagement © Cassandra Christensen Barney

http://www.greenwichworkshop.com/barney/

An Ocean of Tears

It’s one of those nights when I could cry and an ocean of tears would well around my feet. Stoic? . . . not I. Not usually at all. Alas, I am a creature of emotion—tender, passionate, and deeply loyal to those placed in my life. God made me thus, though I often wonder why.

Perhaps it is because if I were one of tougher metal, though I would weep less, I would most certainly laugh less, also. If I were one of more stoic nature I could not throw my arms around this life with such exuberance nor love with such abandonment nor bring others to God in prayer with such heartfelt pleas of mercy. Loving deeply pains us deeply.

Would I trade the tearful nights for the frigid clime of casual indifference? . . . I think not. Let me be sensitive and feel deeply, though it cost me much, then ever find my heart a tomb.

Artwork: Eye Cry the Ocean © 2008 Cutsietootsiepie
http://cutsietootsiepie.glogster.com/Eye-cry-the-ocean/

Pretties

It seems that scientists are no longer interested in truth. They have been swayed by something far more powerful. Temptation is the name that we shall call her. She offers wealth, millions in the form of grants. But better yet, she offers prestige—something the dear old scientists have craved ever so long. And Climategate was just the ticket. Who cares that global warming is a fabrication? “Who cares,” she whispers in their ears. “I have many more pretties in my pocket for your pretty little lies. Aren’t you a dear little scientist now?”

What is a scientist that lacks a moral undergirding? Nothing more than a weak intellect easily swayed by Temptation and the pretties that she offers. Poor foolish scientists . . . your emperor has no clothes!

Artwork: The Laboratory by John Collier

Setting Out the Light

There, I’ve lit it. And now I shall put it in the window. They'll see it. I know that they will see it! And they'll come. First one, then two: a straggler from out of the dark, a wounded one with child; then three, then four: souls tired of the night, weary of stumbling down the path without a light.

I'm ready for them! I have piles of comfort, various kindnesses, joy, hope, and, of course, an endless supply of love. I have all that He has given me, enough to tend a multitude that might come tramping through the dark.

Ohhh, this setting-out-the-light is my favorite thing to do!

Artwork: Lantern's Warmth © Daniel Gerhartz
http://www.danielgerhartz.com/

Masks, Veils, and Walls

There He is! . . . do you see Him? . . . He is beautiful. You asked me how I see Him so well for you wished to see Him also, and I told you to lift that silly veil. You thought to hide your flaws from Him, and how you thought such a thing I do not know. Nothing can be hid from Him. Not our thoughts or frailties or even dreams we hold onto secretly. With Him there is no such thing as “secretly”. Masks, veils, and walls can never hide you from Him but they will hide Him from you.

And now you've done it and you've not been disappointed. Did I not say that He was fairer than all the sons of men? Do you hear me? . . . Hello? . . . I knew that this would happen. It happens to everyone who sees Him clearly for the first time. I'll just leave you to gaze in wonder for awhile. I told you so.

Artwork: The Invocation by Lord Fredric Leighton

Killed by One Man

Two wrongs do not make a right. George Tiller should not have been murdered; but neither should 60,000 babies have been murdered by George Tiller. Some applauded him for the most peculiar things:

“We honor the compassionate care he provided to so many,” said Planned Parenthood. (He ripped the arms and legs off 7 month old unborn babies who could feel the tormenting pain. I wonder if they thought he was compassionate.)

“Tiller was a brave man,” said Daniel Maquire, professor at Marquette University. (How much courage does it take to kill a baby who is only 17” long and cannot fight back?)

“I consider him a hero,” said Joan Walsh, editor of Salon.com. (A hero is one who fights to protect the weak. Tiller fought to kill the weakest among us. How is that heroic?)

“He never wavered . . . he had incredible strength,” said Susie Gilligan of the Feminist Majority Foundation. (I agree. It takes incredible strength to kill one’s conscience and continue doing what goes against the laws of nature, the laws of love, and the laws of God.)

Why is it they care that one man was killed, yet care nothing for the 60,000 babies that were killed by one man?

Artwork: unborn baby, unknown