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

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

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/

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/

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

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