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God-lover, singer, poet, writer, single-mother, friend.

Thursday, December 03, 2009


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

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

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

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

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

Friday, August 14, 2009

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

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Tendency to Ice

It is not cold any longer. It was – but now it is not. Warmth has entered in and this heart now beats most fervently. Love grown cold is a miserable condition.

And it took a fire to remove this heart’s tendency to ice; it took a searing love, far stronger than the bare flame that sputtered, nearly dead, within. I’m so glad for a loving Father who made my heart sing warm notes that do not shatter thinly on the ground like icicles. Now I can sing over others' hearts and bring a thaw. I can't wait for the flood that will come from such a melting!

Artwork: Reflections and Hoarfrost © David Wall

Monday, July 13, 2009

A Tiny Wing-ed Faith

More than you can think or ask, more than your mind can possibly imagine. God can do far more than that, where is your faith?

Set it free! Ungrasp that little faith and let it take to wing. It longs to fly. You would be surprised at what even a tiny wing-ed faith could do if given half a chance. The more it flies the stronger it will get and the larger it will grow until its wings fill up the sky and pull heaven down into our midst. But it starts out very small, very tiny, hardly consequential some would think: a prayer here; a word there; a step into an unknown place.

Yes, "more than you can possibly imagine" is waiting for you . . . but first you must set free that little faith.

Artwork: The Storm © 2002 Terje Adler Mork

Sunday, July 05, 2009

A Book Like This

Oh, this is such a book, such a lovely book! Upon its opening, hope springs out like light bursting through a cloud. Joyful songs have been written with its words and the soul of man finds solace in its truth.

Yet, I do not worship this book; no, I worship Him alone who wrote it. But I’ve loved its pages, bent and soiled from its many readings. Its words are dear companions to me now. I sleep with them. I eat with them. I go about my day with them.

It is a book of living words breathed on by the Holy Spirit . . . have you ever read a book like this before?

Artwork: The Reader by Pierre Auguste Cot

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

No Longer Irish

So, Ireland, you’ve crumpled. You have lost your courage and Brussels stands to win against you. Money has yet once again trumped the character of nobility. The grand green land is no more, for the grand free people of Ireland have willingly enslaved themselves to a foreign power.

You are going to vote for the Lisbon Treaty and finally bury your Irish hearts in the grave dug by Brussels. Dear fair folk, what are you about to do? Your fishing waters, stolen. Your dignity, pushed under. Your lands sold away to the EU masses until your Ireland is no longer Irish.

Sad-a-day for Ireland . . . I think the angels weep.

Artwork: Le Retour by Alexandre Seon

Sunday, May 24, 2009

It Is Yours

It is yours. It is all yours, though you knew it always was. The world has no hold on it – though it has tried. Again and again I turn it back to you. Again and again you fill it to overflowing till I have something I may give to others.

My heart is yours and gladly so! And now you take this heart to deeper places. I will go. I willingly go where you wish to take me. Less of me and more of you is not an easy place to get to. But I will go . . . it is the place where life is found.

Artwork: Invocation by Arild Rosenkrantz

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Set Upon a Hill

Sometimes we stand alone. Sometimes it is necessary. A lone light in the dark, a lone voice in the wilderness; but a bright light and a clear voice nonetheless.

One against a thousand, we stand before that multitude of tribes and tongues who rage against Him – as they have always raged. But we are not a light hidden under a bushel or a voice that can be silenced. We are a light set upon a hill for all to see. We are a voice crying out across the wilderness, "Prepare the way; He is returning!"

Stand, dear ones, stand. Do not fear if none stand with you – you are a forerunner after all and must get used to standing all alone. Though not alone, for He stands with you.

Image: Snow Angel © James Christensen

Tuesday, May 05, 2009

Keep Me Watching

Father, keep me watching. Keep me wide-eyed and awake though darkness deepens in this world and others sleep. Time is passing far too quickly for slumber now. The end is coming with Christ’s return at hand, and still too many do not know, have not seen His depth of love or the power of His name.

Father, keep me watching. Keep that elixir of complacency far from my lips that I might remain alert and sober in these days. Someone must be a watchman on the walls; someone must cry the warning in the night. Let my voice join all the other watchers that you have.

Father, keep me watching!

Artwork: The Sleepers and the One Who Watcheth by Simeon Solomon

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Fear of Messes

It's messy . . . sometimes . . . but it's fun. The gifts of the Holy Spirit, especially the prophetic ones, require practice – like burgeoning young artists need. Sometimes there will be a mess. Who are the brave leaders who will allow a place for it, who will accept the messiness that comes in the learning process?

Those who are young in the gifts need encouragement to grow and not be afraid of mistakes. Holy Spirit whispers, “Go on . . . speak it out! . . . you can do it!” Is that my own thoughts? Is that Jesus? Can I be certain? So many questions. So much fear piled on their hearts from others who demand perfection.

The fear of man and the fear of messes is a plague to the church. Milk and messes all belong to babes . . . and it's okay.

Image: The Painter © 2008 Nancy Guzik

Sunday, April 05, 2009

Such a Thing as Chains

Some know not how to break the chains that hold them. They only wish they could. Freedom is a sweet thing, especially to those who are not free.

We were not created for such a thing as chains. We were created in the image of a perfect God – but then sin came in and from that moment on we were born with chains. We do the very things that we dislike, and cannot seem to stop.

God! God glorious! God mighty! We are tired of these chains and long to break them! Come into our hearts and shine Christ’s light ‘til all darkness is dispersed and our bonds are broke asunder.

Artwork: The Martyr of the Solway by John Millais

Wednesday, April 01, 2009

House of Cards

And now that the house of cards that you built so carefully has fallen . . . what now? It was such a pretty house. Almost perfect. All pieces in their place, or so it seemed. But a wind came and blew it down, a wind you weren’t expecting.

Poof! . . . It’s gone.

There is a different way to build, you know. There is a way to build a house to make it stand against the strongest wind, the fiercest storm. I know of a rock which you can build your house upon. Not a pretty, fragile house of cards, but a solid, safe, enduring kind of house; the kind of house that children grow healthy in; the kind of house that keeps you through to old age; the kind of house that others long to be in. If you ever wish to know, I’ll show you the rock.

Artwork: Alice and the Pack of Cards by Arthur Rackham

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Nor Fight Long Nights in Prayer

God gave me a dream one night . . .

A woman, very ill and crippled, was sitting in a wheelchair. A great compassion for her filled my heart. I saw her as a dear child. I approached her, took her face into my hands, and said, “Precious woman, you are healed.” Then I embraced her and she was instantly healed.

Here is what the dream meant. A time is coming when God will release healing through compassion in such a magnitude that we will not need to pray for hours over someone, nor fight long nights in prayer to send sickness fleeing. Jesus will heal through a love-soaked people and it will be simple: no long prayers, no systematic procession of words, no digging into their pasts to find out what happened. We shall weep and they shall be healed; we shall embrace them and they shall be healed; we shall touch them and they shall be healed. If faith can heal, and Jesus said love is greater than faith, then just think what love will do!

Artwork: The Crisis by Sir Frank Dicksee

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Ten Thousand Crowns

When we see Him, when we stand before His glorious self, our crowns will be the first to go. Whether given to us by men or by God himself, they will be cast down before Christ’s feet as we marvel at His splendor.

Yes, the battle’s won. Yes, we have received our crowns of righteousness and life and glory. We have heroes of the faith who battled hard to have them. But there He stands and we are suddenly undone. Suddenly the accolades mean nothing. Suddenly we lift the crowns from off our heads and one by one they are thrown like victory laurels at His burnished feet. “Glory! Glory to the Lamb!” the cries go up and ten thousand times ten thousand crowns are cast before Him.

And everything in heaven, on the earth and under it, shall bow their knee.

Artwork: King Arthur by Butler

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

I was Dark

I limped in half-hearted steps and found it hard to be upon my knees. When I did, I cried. That is all that came out of me. I cried until I was weary of my crying. A dark night of the soul was visiting. Discouragement had all but overshadowed the joys of following you. My heart was not in my prayers and rote words fell from my mouth like stale pieces of bread.

But then I heard a comforting thing. I heard it stirring in my heart, a quiet note at first, and I lifted up my head to better hear it. You were singing over me! A song of deliverance in the night! What kind of love would trouble itself to embrace a heart that had little love to give in return; a heart that had nothing within it but a faded glory, a shadow of what it once was? . . . I was dark (in my heart), but lovely (in your eyes). Song 1:5

Artwork: Lachrymae by Lord Fredric Leighton

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Teach Them they Can Hear

Let the children go. They can see into the wide unknown. They can speak the words that make the heavens move. So many churches keep their children from actually following Jesus. They hold them back when their pure hearts wish to soar and hear the things of God. Let them go forth! Teach them they can hear, probably far better than you yourself, and signs and wonders will follow them quite naturally. Holy Spirit will rest upon them and they will walk on water. No longer put your unbelief into their sweet hearts – it is an encumbrance that they are quite unused to bearing.

The wind is changing quickly and they are ready to step out. Go on . . . let them . . . there are angels who will guard their step. Tell them to obey whatever they are told and let them go.

Artwork: Almost an Angel © David Knowles

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

A Light Shall Come

The mountains above my valley are the seat of witchcraft for the entire west coast. There are many covens roosted here. Though the hills look lovely, the glens and shadowy places hide wicked goings-on. So up to the mountains I often climb to stand in the fields at the very top, and I shout as I look across the wide expanse of forest and the peaks to the sea beyond, “Jesus reigns over the Santa Cruz mountains!” I shout again until the darkness trembles at that glorious name. I shout once more, knowing that many hear my cry behind their shuttered windows.

God is here! God walks with me in these hills! His light shall penetrate the darkest hovel in these woods and there are witches who'll be saved. A light shall come into their gloom and lead them out; no more shall shadows hold them . . . and it all started with a shout.

Artwork: These Woods are Cursed © Linda Bergkvist

Friday, January 16, 2009

Whooshed Away

God’s wind is blowing and I am caught up like a leaf that’s whooshed away far over trees to who knows where. Can you not feel the joy of riding on such a thing? Riding upon God’s wind? There is no better way of being blown about than in the middle of heaven’s own whirling gale.

I am not afraid. In fact, laughter wants to tumble out of me at times as I realize I have absolutely nothing to hold onto. And there’s the fun of it! – head over heels I go, not knowing exactly why or exactly where I shall eventually end up. Religiousness was blown off me long ago; fear has tried to cling but keeps getting pulled away by this forceful flurry; all the dust of yesteryears has been cleanly shaken from my clothes and I am happily lighter for it.

The wind is blowing me away from home. Why? . . . I am not certain. Then where? . . . Only God knows. But I'm ready for a God adventure.

Artwork: Joy of a Fallen Leaf by Arthur Rackham