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

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

http://www.davidwallphoto.com/index.asp

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

http://terjeadlermork.com/

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

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

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

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

http://www.greenwichworkshop.com/christensen/

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

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

http://www.nancyguzik.com/

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

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

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

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

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

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

http://realart.homestead.com/

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
http://www.furiae.com/

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

Just an Ordinary Babe?

Was he just an ordinary babe who happened to change the history of the world? How is it that a tender little thing born in a scrubby manger two thousand years ago still stirs up so much angst today? Have you ever thought that perhaps he was more than just an ordinary babe?

God’s Holy Spirit hovered over him even then as he cooed and crawled and cried when his mother set him down. This little one was destined to rule the world, but not in the way that men thought. He brought no army with him but he cast down empires by the light that emanated from him.

What a merry Christmas it is this year to remember the child swaddled up in rags who changed the world. Truly, what a merry Christ-mas!

Artwork: Already He Knew God as His Father by Frederick Goodall

Once-orphaned One

I am an orphan no longer. I know my Father now. I know the One who made me and the reason for which I was made. There is so much more than this dusty world which we inhabit; there is so much more than eye can see and mind can fathom, but it is there.

I longed for one to hold me and now He does, so tightly that none can snatch me from his hand. I hungered for a bit of bread and was invited to a banquet with tables full of feast. I huddled in the cold till someone covered me with a love that warmed my being with an unearthly warmth. It is a love that none can comprehend excepting that once-orphaned one who finally found a home in Him.

I have a home! Those are words that all men wish to speak.

Artwork: Abandoned by Luigi Nono

Let Everybody Watch

Presidents will come and go but they cannot change the grand scheme of things that God has planned. For God is in control not men. Men may think they are but the angels laugh at such a thought! Tiny, temporal humans made from dust, like molecules before the sun, think that they direct events? What a silly thought.

No, all things are moving forward just as planned by Him whom I call lovely. Darkness shall increase, but the glory of the One who died and resurrected shall shine brighter than the sun – and we who are the molecules that stand before this sun? We can each choose to bow our knee to Him or not. So let the play continue on this stage we call "the world" and let everybody watch. God shall have the last applause.

Artwork: An Audience in Athens During Agamemnon by Aeschylus

Are We Animals or Are We Humans?

Do you remember Silo and Roy, the supposedly gay penguins in the zoo? Well, Silo has left Roy and is now mating with a female penguin named Scrappy. Didn’t Silo know that he was supposed to be gay and that a children’s book was written about him and Roy? Didn’t he know that he was a model for human behavior and that homosexuals were touting him as the perfect example of what’s natural and normal, what’s morally and ethically desirable for humans?

Infanticide is widespread in the animal kingdom. From bears to lions, there are many who kill their little ones. If we are to think as the gay community thinks, then we should believe that killing our toddlers is an ethical and quite natural thing to do – for the animals do it, do they not?

Animals don’t care for their elderly; in fact many of them kill the old and sickly of the group. Ahh, now that is where we find ourselves alike! Humans also euthanize their old and sickly. But is this phenomenon because animals have risen to our height or because we have lowered ourselves to that of animals and decided human life is not a sacred thing?

Are we animals, or are we humans with a soul, a conscience, and an intellect? Seeing how some look toward the animal kingdom for their moral values and their identity leaves one to wonder.

Photograph: King Penguins

Mercy On Our Babes

It is a good scene. It is right and sits well in the heart to see it. A man and woman make a family as it has always been – a man and woman become one flesh quite naturally within the sanctity of marriage. God is amazing in how He created family, how He created man and woman to love each other and beget their little ones!

California has the chance to vote for truth or to reject it. What will it be? Will Prop 8 be passed? When an innocent babe looks up will she gaze upon her mother and father or will she see two broken women or two broken men who, in their rebellion and in the darkness of their understanding, have exchanged the natural relation for an unnatural one? Do we want our little ones to be subjected to such strange, dark fruit as this? God have mercy on our babes who need the gentle touch of mother and the strong protection of father both.

God created marriage to be between a man and a woman and since the dawn of man it has been so – are men truly so wise that they know better than God? I think not.

Artwork: The Family by John Dickson Batten

Inalienable Right

Our Declaration of Independence states: “We have been endowed by our Creator with certain inalienable rights . . . the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” Yet some would disqualify that statement. Not only do they reject the idea of a “Creator”, they reject the belief of the “inalienable right to life”. Gladly they embrace liberty and the pursuit of happiness, but the right to life they vehemently oppose. They believe that if one human’s life puts a difficulty upon another human’s life then that person who supposedly brings the burden should not be allowed to live. So playing both judge and jury they condemn that human to death.

Every day thousands upon thousands are violently robbed of their inalienable right to life by those who believe that it is their right to do so. And strangely enough they who do it are called the “gentler sex”.

My dictionary defines it as murder when one person takes the inalienable right to life away from another. What does your dictionary say?

Photograph: pregnant tummy, unknown

She Waits Beside the Water

Dia is a dream now. In another place she dwells, fully alive yet gone from my sight, gone from her seven blonde, bright-eyed children. I picture her smiling in a garden somewhere. She is a ghostly girl in my memories, a slender vapor barely there and a quiet, bluish, hush shadows over all. Not sad. Not anymore. But a soft shade that makes my thoughts fall deep and quiet.

I miss my dearest friend and wish that heaven hadn’t called her home – and it has only been three years. But there she is, smiling in a garden. And I know her garden has a waterfall for she always wanted one. She waits beside the water for the ones she loves and she waits for but a moment for time has no place in heaven. Shall I ever find another kindred friend? Perhaps not; but one day I shall walk up to a waterfall and find her again.

Artwork: Girl with Calla Lily by Albert Braut

Drops of Purest Glory

Something is happening in the heavens. Something is happening in that realm that is invisible. The heavens are opening. I see the color of the sky even now begin to change. It is glory that I see, His glory, fierce and fiery spreading out across the skies. There is a rumbling and awakening of the deep things of God - and some can hear it. It calls unto the deep places in our souls.

Open heaven, God, and bring that glory down that will rip into our hardened hearts and awaken us to God. It is spreading across this nation even now, drops of it falling from the sky, drops of purest glory. Open heaven, God, and let it rain. We need the soaking.

. . . . it has begun.

Artwork: Storm Over Tenaya © 2000 Stephen Lyman

http://www.greenwichworkshop.com/studio/studio_artist.asp?artistid=39

Wars

We live in a strange time, a dark and hurried time when wars and rumors of wars cross this earth. In many places the sound of battle wakens little ones and fills the night time skies. Men have never done it well: this thing called “peace”. Our nature does not allow for such a thing. Without a greater power in our souls to slay the pride within, peace is quite impossible and the earth shall never know it.

Yet the darkest war of all is yet to come. God loves this nation and will intervene to help. George Washington was visited by an angel who showed him a vision of the things to come. Here is a link to George Washington's prophecy. It was published in the military's newpaper. It describes the prophecy as he described it to his comrade at the time.

http://www.civil-liberties.com/pages/prophesy.html

Artwork: The Lightning by Alexandre Antigna

The God of Calvinists

The God of Calvinists is very angry. But I suppose I would be too if I despised the race of men as much as he (according to Calvinists that is). The God of Calvinists would sooner strike a sinner with a lightning bolt than show him love (especially if the unlucky chap was created just for hell). The God of Calvinists did not gift men with a free-will. We are puppets in a puppet master’s hand and if we dare to speak that “f” word (then heretics we most certainly will be). The God of Calvinists does not listen to the heart-felt prayers for loved ones that we offer up with tears. If he created them for doom then all the prayers in all the world will do no good (tsk-tsk. And you foolishly believed that he'd be moved by love. Whatever were you thinking?).

I thank God that I am not a Calvinist!

Artwork: The Wizard © 1985 Virgil Elliott

http://www.virgilelliott.com/

Mozambique is Hearing It

God has taught your hands to war, dear Georgian Banov. God has surely taught your fingers how to fight. Only your weapon is not a sword but something more destructive to that insidious enemy of man - worship, Georgian, worship with all your heart! When prophetic song breaks forth, it brings healing in our midst.

The devil and his hordes of hell cannot stand before the worship of our Christ. Laugh loud and play for all you’re worth! That great cloud of witnesses is watching and the angels are joining in your song. You have the sound of glory on your strings. And Mozambique is hearing it. And the Gypsies in Romania are hearing it. And all heaven is hearing it. Play on, dear son, play on!

Photograph: Georgian Banov in Mozambique with Heidi and Rolland Baker © 2008 Iris Ministries

http://www.irismin.org/

Not So Very Strong

I am not so very strong. You who knows me best of all knows well this truth. Lord, I fall upon my knees. I fall upon them hard and confess that I am weary. Not one more step shall I attempt to take until I see you here before me. The battle can wait another day (for always there are battles) – right here is where I’ll wait until I see that lovely face and in seeing it I’m strengthened.

The armor of God I will duly wear . . . but the presence of God I dearly need.

Artwork: Joan of Arc by John Everett Millais

Where are the Shepherds?

There they are, the whole motley group of them. Some bleeding, some sickly, some tangled in the briar, some just about to fall from off the cliff! Who would have thought way back when that they’d end up such a ragamuffin group as this?

Where are the shepherds? That’s what I would like to know. Where are the ones responsible to feed and shelter them? They don’t mind making money from the ragged things: their meat and wool bring a tidy sum. But where are they when the wounded need patient bandaging or the stragglers need someone to brooke the wind and cold to bring them home?

I know One who will do the job, who loves the sheep, every muddy, thorn-filled one of them; I know One who would leave all behind to find just one lost lamb. Bad shepherds always get fired, you know . . . it just might be time for a new round of hiring.

Artwork: Our English Coasts by William Holman Hunt

No Human Comforter

The night was dark when He wept tears of blood. Angels saw Him there. Heaven looked upon Him and trembled at the sight - dearest One, who had no human comforter.

Buddha never gave his life to save another nor did the Dalai Lama or Muhammad. Allah and the Hindu gods never showed such love toward those counted as their enemies. But Jesus did. Jesus knelt that night and freely gave His life that the world of men might be reconciled to God.

Are there many ways to heaven? Just look at each of them and tell me – which one gave his life to save a broken world? Which one bled and hung and wept for you? Which one resurrected from the dead that we might know eternal life? It is an easy answer.

Artwork: Christ at Gethsemane by Carl Heinrich

A Stronger, Truer Folk

Stand tall and true you Irish folk. God gave you the gift of song, the gift of strength through trials hard that would have broken any other. Stand true you noble Irish and do not allow the EU to force you to comply to their tyrannical constitution. Cast out the elite of Brussels from your midst and do not allow your leadership to bend. Speak up for all the people and never sign the Lisbon Treaty.

Dear Ireland, for so you are to many round the world who are watching the current struggle. In these end of days a people shall come forth from you who have the sound of glory in their song, the sound of heaven that shall break the back of darkness and cause hell to flee before you. You have been made for such a time as this. The centuries of pain have been your crucible. You are a stronger, truer folk because of it and God will have your ear. The thin places of Ireland are God’s own visitation . . . yes, God will have your ear not the European Union. Be faithful to the God of your once youth!

Celtic King © 2008 Dean Morrissey

http://www.greenwichworkshop.com/studio/studio_artist.asp?artistid=222

It Must Be Killed!

Do not attempt to tame the beast. Many have tried and lost their souls because of it. Its thirst is deep and its hunger quite insatiable, so do not sidle up to it and think that you can tempt it to obey you. Feeding it will only make it larger.

You think the strength of youth will save you from its teeth and it will not rend you into pieces, as it has so many other youth? You are wrong and your mistake will cost you dearly. Run it through, I say, run it through before it is too late! It must be killed! This is not a time for pity, not a time for kindnesses and gentleness.

Call the creature what it is – sin! A black and deadly thing that is buried in your soul at birth, the very nature of your own dead self that must be crucified. And Christ alone can do it. Kill the thing ere it swallows up your very self . . . and all that’s left . . . is a dragon.

Artwork: Jason Charming the Dragon by Salvatore Rosa

Prisoner of Hope

“Prisoner of hope,” I hear the words whispered through the grated window, “prisoner of hope, remain in your fortress chained to hope until that thing hoped for finds its right season and comes forth.”

I am such a prisoner of hope. The things long dreamed for I cannot make happen, yet to stop hoping is beyond my power also. Hope blossoms in my arms while feet are chained and movement left or right is quite impossible. Though hope deferred has sometimes struck my heart with a grievous sickness, I find myself holding on to tender hope with a stubbornness that defies all logic. Why does this hope not die, I wonder. But, no . . . it will not. And I have not the power to break the chains that hold me to it.

Shall I remain in this fortress? Of course I shall. Where else would I go but where hope keeps me?

Artwork: Hope by Edward Burne-Jones

Wild on the Branch

That is the one I want. That is the bloom I need to have: tender, wild on the branch, pure and scented sweet. I shall reach across this fence which men have built to keep me out, for none shall keep me from my heart’s desire, the bloom whose fragrance reaches up to God. Even the sun bows to its loveliness and the snow’s sharp frost can wither not its beauty. Under deepest night it glows brighter than the noonday’s light, and some call it fair Morning Star.

That is the one that I must have, the one that I have journeyed far and long to find. Can a fence now keep me out? While the flower blooms outside the boundaries of this field then that is where my heart is ever drawn and where my eyes shall ever glance – outside where the flower lies. I shall drink its scent till lungs are filled and its fragrance covers me . . . oh, such a bloom is worth all of life! . . . such a bloom is Christ.

Artwork: Spring by John William Waterhouse

Toy Swords

Foolish Christians. You who fight against the things of God have taken on a bigger battle than you know. With toy swords you thrash and rant against His holy wind. Will your umbrella keep off the beating rain when it becomes a flood? For I have noticed you do not want God’s rain to touch you.

Fight against it as you may, the fire that began at Toronto shall yet spread (to your dismay), holy laughter shall continue to be gifted by our joyful God (to your dislike), and Father shall continue to use strange earthen vessels in whom to show His glory.

But beware, if you do not learn to swim in the river soon you may yet drown and be swept away in the rising tide for the rain is falling harder.

Artwork: Battle of the Storm by John Armstrong

A Book

It’s done. It is in my hand and where it goes from here is now in His. A book - I wrote a book and now sit back and look at what I've done with mild surprise.

You see, it is good to not give up. I could have. Even did a time or two, fell asleep a bit along the way, but listened to the stern rebuke given me by one looking at me in the mirror. “Wake up, you foolish thing! Do not let your life drift by or keep your talents buried in the ground where they do little good!”

You have it, too. Not just me. You have the gift that can create – for in God’s image you were made, even if you do not believe in Him. You can invent and dream . . . so go ahead. There is something out there waiting for you to finish. Mine was a book.

Artwork: Books © 2008 Catherine Brown

Healing on the Froth

It’s happening again - another birth pang, another wave of glory. “Revival,” it is whispered. Blind eyes are being opened, deaf ears newly hearken, and great wonders are being told.

Break forth the waters in the wilderness! The wasteland shall rejoice and the crocus blossom greatly where once a desert was . . . while barren shall become the lives of those who speak against it. A revival fount may yet flow across our land and like the sea that overcomes its banks its flood shall wash o'er all the nations of this end time earth. And angels call, “Break forth!” as they stir the waters to rise and swirl with healing on the froth.

Artwork: Storm Spirits by Evelyn De Morgan

So The Cup is Offered

And so the cup is offered. Oprah offers it so kindly to friend and foe alike. “Come one and all to drink! I have found the truth,” she smiles. Does it taste sweet? Of course. Poisons always taste sweet that those who drink would think they swallow fair things.

But you shall not find yourself awakened as A New Earth by Eckart Tolle will claim. No, no - awakened it cannot be called. It is the drink of sleep, of death and shady things that shall creep over your mind . . . for what fills this cup is nightshade to your souls.

My fairest Christ is not in this cup. The lamb of God cannot be found in Oprah’s new discovered book. If she truly knew Him, loved Him, she could not help but raise His name above every other name. Me thinks she is a child lost. Ever on, the dear woman searches for the truth, but not in Him where truth alone is found. For sake of life, for sake of truth. . . please do not drink of such a cup.

Artwork: Circe Offering the Cup to Bulysses by John William Waterhouse

An Endless Stretch

Where leads this road? I know not. But I walk on it, and this road seems an endless stretch of wandering.

I am nervous today. My mind broods, restless, anxious as the wind. I do not particularly like this path. I would rather have an ending point clearly on a map, for as it is I could be walking interminably. But this? This gives no end in sight and He is silent to my plight. “Where leadeth thou?” I have heard that cry before; those of stronger fortitude than I have cried the same.

I wish to curl up beside the bottom of a tree and lean against its strength to shield myself from wind and wanderings . . . but I shall not. I shall brooke the wind and press ever on to who knows where and who knows what awaits. And though I feel alone on this long path, I must remember I am not.

Artwork: Who Has Seen the Wind

Jewels In the Stream

God gave me a dream the other night . . .

Men were working in a quarry, digging through sand. From out of the quarry there flowed a stream. As they dug, a sapphire now and then would fall into the stream amidst the loosened dirt and float by me. Yet the men had no interest in the gems and kept to their sweaty labor in the sand.

An angel came up beside me. I asked him if I may have the jewel and he smiled and replied, “You may have whatever you see.” So by the stream I quietly sat, waiting. I plucked up the blue jewels in the stream as they floated by and the longer I sat their numbers increased and the larger some of them became. I scooped them up and smiled at how easy it was.

When I awoke God told me what the dream meant . . . Blue is the color of the prophetic. As we sit quietly in God’s presence He will give us revelation and it will be as easy as scooping up what we see. The longer we spend in His presence the more understanding we will receive. And what the angel said also held the meaning that whatever we can see in our spirit in faith is ours - If you see it, you can have it.

The men were those in the church who labor hard for things that are not worth very much, for the most precious things are the truths and mysteries that God wishes to give to us we sit in His presence, things we cannot labor for.

Artwork: River Girl © 2008 Miles Williams Mathis

http://www.mileswmathis.com

Away Gloom!

Shhh! Quiet in the room please. Do you not know that God is here? God demands quiet you know, or didn’t you? He cannot bear His children to be a noisy bunch; it disturbs Him terribly.

If they laugh too loud, too hard, or far too long, He simply will not allow such brevity in His presence. Oh, no, not God the terrible, God the mighty and God the one who views humanity as little worms.

But what God is this that some swear to bow their knee to? I do not recognize my sweet Father in such a one. My papa in the heavens invites me to dance and twirl with sweet abandon in His presence. Like sunshine, like spring rain, He cheers my heart with joy that does good like a medicine. And the room is made brighter in His company.

Away gloom! Away grim, somber faces! How say you know my God when fear is what you know and joy is far removed? I would say differently.

Artwork: After Evening Prayers by Xavier Mellery

Beware of the Wolves

Beware of the wolves. Wolves scatter sheep. Breeding fear and suspicion, they bring division, and are cunningly good at twisting things.

Beware of the wolves. Wolves hunt in packs. You’ll see them, four, five, and six together. They feel stronger in numbers and will unitedly pounce against one lone sheep.

Beware of the wolves. Wolves love to howl, mocking howls aimed at those who hold a different opinion. They do not know that love does not mock.

Beware of the wolves. Wolves kill the innocent. In their self-righteous jaws, chests puffed up with knowledge, they’ll quickly devour innocent faith.

Beware of the wolves . . . in the Christian forums.

Artwork: Bustin Through © 2008 Greg Beecham

http://www.gbeecham.com/

And Angels Watch

I heard the sound. I heard a piece of it, a glimmer of its notes. “The sound of glory,” angels whisper, “the sound of glory soon to be released on earth.”

We were meant for supernatural things for in His image we were formed. Can you not feel it? “Oh, blinded humans,” say the angels looking on who wait and watch that they may join in the song. “There's more! There’s so much more than this tired world of which you are a part. Who shall hear the song of Him whose name is beloved in the heavens above all? Who now hears that sound of glory and has the courage to sing it out?”

The end of days is here and with it comes a brighter glory than the world has ever seen. And angels watch . . . to join as one voice with those who hear the sound.

Artwork: Cloister or the World (detail) by Arthur Hacker

Sweet Inebriation

Such sweet inebriation cannot be found through wine. The hand of joy has touched my heart and makes me laugh. Sweet laughter, kin to your sorrowful brother grief, why are some afraid of you?

Tears are good they would say stoically, but laughter? “Oh no, not us! We would never be found laughing in such a way!” And they sternly rebuke those who’ve drank the cup of joy divine.

Let me be drunk on such love for then I’m closest to His own dear heart. To be drunk in the Spirit is a moment of sublime interaction between my spirit and His. Inebriate me more, dear Spirit, till love is overflowing me and dryness gone . . . and like a child I’ll laugh this Holy laughter for He laughs with me!

Artwork: Jesus Laughing © 2001 Ralph Kozak

http://www.jesuslaughing.com/

I Saw The Shadows

Oh, what fragrant scents rise up from this green earth, this earth so ready to explode with life! But I almost did not notice. I saw the shadows that the mountains make and nearly lost the view of that which lies beyond – the sweeter things that wait.

What hill is this that threatens to be a mountain in my way? Not even a mountain can stand against the One who guides me upon a path that I have never walked before. God turns the shadows into light and even tramples down the hills to make the way both smooth and wide.

It is a lovely day, a right day, a hobbit-in-the-garden day! . . . And to think I almost missed it.

Photograph: Vineyard © 2008 David Wall
http://www.davidwallphoto.com/index.asp

Wild One

Freedom - I hear the cry unspoken from your lips. I see the yearning for it in your eyes.

Wild one, do you not know how very much He loves the heart in you, that brave, fearless heart in you that makes you different from the rest? Does not that heart sometimes burst with cries for something more? Have you not searched this wide world for that something that you cannot name, yet search for still?

If only all had such a heart as you! Trampled down yet fighting still, not easily bending to any will of man. It is ones like you that He has called throughout the ages to make them into something new, something brighter, truer, than man has ever seen.

But it's a hopeless search if it's in the world you look, for there you shall not find what you most need – only in the heart of Him who is wilder than youself can it be found. HE started a revolution . . . I warrant you cannot say the same . . . are you brave enough to look into His fearful loving gaze?

Photograph: Punk Girl

http://artificial-light.net/2007/10/18/punk-girl/

For Those Who Call You Stranger

You gave up your life just to be with us.

Love would give up its life for a friend; but you gave up your life for those who call you stranger, those who call you enemy, those who ignore you and call you nothing at all. What extraordinary love! Faithful is such love though abused by those of little faith. And when it alteration finds, it is a love that never alters.

Wake up! you souls of the walking dead. Wake up to love that died to give you life! Look upon him who so longs to be with you that he dared to walk the path of death. A raging, bloody battle he fought against the prince of darkness, against evil incarnate, our freedom to secure.

He fought the battle . . . and he won. Love was the victor so we could wear a crown. Extraordinary, isn’t it?

Artwork: Compassion by William Bouguereau

Your Ship Will Come!

The sun returns . . . and I am waiting. The seasons change . . . and I am waiting. I’ve not yet left this place but know that I soon will. I sense the time approach, yet my time and His time are slightly on a different line. Patience is difficult when other boats are casting off. I wish to not drink slowly from this cup called patience, but would rather drink the cup of haste and dash out into the world that waits.

England, are you still there?! Yes, England still awaits. Ireland, have you yet changed?! No, Ireland is keeping green for me. Oh, soul, hold on, though you tremble with the joy and trepidation of what may be. Your ship will come! The fog of future still stubbornly hides the steps ahead . . . and I must wait.

Artwork: Destiny (detail) by John William Waterhouse