Cloud of Hornets

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

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

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

Photograph: swarming hornets, unknown

Burst of Golden Glory

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

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

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

Photograph: gold dust glory cloud

Show Me, Please

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

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

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

Artwork: The Awakening by Thomas Cooper Gotch

Meant To Cut

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

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

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

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

Up Through the Leafless Trees

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

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

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

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

It Feels Clean

Is it mine to wear? . . . Truly?

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

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

Artwork: St. Agnes in Prison by Frank Cadogan Cowper

Until You See it Again

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

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

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

Artwork: The Blind Girl by Sir John Everett Millais

Forgotten Something?

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

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

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

Bursting at the Seams

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

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

Photograph: In the Shadows of the Stars © Greg Martin

http://www.artofgregmartin.com/

Out There

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

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

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

Artwork: by Peter Bay Alexandersen

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

The Wind it Brings!

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

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

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

Photograph: Wind in Arms, unknown

My Fingers Long to Play

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

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

Artwork: Girl With a Mandolin by Jules Joseph Lefebvre

Let the Toads Parade

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

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

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

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

I Still Believe

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

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

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

Artwork: by Sir Frank Dicksee

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