Love Came Down

Love came down. Not in the way many believed it should look like. But love came down in the midst of men and took the sins that all of us are guilty of, upon Himself.

Love was bruised. And it was love that spread His arms in quiet submission and took the nails. And then love did something that no one else could ever do—He rose up from the grave and conquered death forever.

Such love is very powerful. Such love is worth giving up all for. Islam, Buddhism, Ba-haiism, Hinduism . . . none of these could ever offer such love as this. I, for one, am a soul that has been undone by it.

Artwork: Allegory of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ © Patrick Devonas
http://www.patrickdevonas.com/

I Heard it Laugh

I thought it was a sheep. I did. I thought it was a gentle, loving sheep . . . until I heard it laugh. And then I knew—it was a wolf.

Only wolves can laugh like that: A derisive, shallow, gloating kind of sound. It stood tall over the broken creature that was curled up beneath it and it laughed.

The laugh is what gave it away, for a sheep could never laugh over a wounded one. A sheep has too loving of a heart. The sound grieved my heart for I knew from what pit the laugh had come. And I knew what influence the wolf was under.

And when the wolf laughed, I heard the darkest sound. I heard the sound of all hell laughing with it.

Artwork: Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing by artist unknown

Not Angels

We are the object of your affection. Not angels. Not animals. Not all the stars. Not even earth with all its varied beauty. But we are whom you’ve chosen to lavish love upon.

You, the infinite God of the universe have set your infinite love and desire on one thing . . . mankind. Outside of yourself, you have chosen humanity as the greatest source of your pleasure.

And further still, you gave your own son to make a way for us to have relationship. You wanted us that much! . . . my Glorious One, I am left speechless.

Artwork: Triumph of Light by Matsch

Bright With Life

“Look at all of them!”
“They shine very lovely, don’t you think?”
“They’re amazing. I never knew that words of life were so . . . so bright with life.”
“Quick, look now!”
“Ahhh, she’s speaking forth a new one. And what exactly is it?”
“It’s a declaration of What is Not as if it Were.”
“And can they really change so much? They are so—simple after all.”
“Very much, in fact.”
“Then why do they not all do it?”
“For they’ve not all learned. Some don’t believe that such a little act can be important.”
“Well, I think this one shall never stop.”
“Yes, once they learn they get quite excited at the results.”
“You know, if they all did it, those life-lit words might just fill the earth.”
“That is the intended result. He means for them to fill the earth . . . and transform everything.”

Artwork: Little Girl Sitting in Field with Fireflies © Mike Elliott

Just Walk

So you made it out the door. That’s a start—But what next? Will you stand there forever, staring out across that flat plain because you are hesitant to take a step out into a wide place? No, that isn’t you. I know you and I know that is not who you are made to be.

You are not timid. You have His power dwelling in you. You have ALL of heaven backing you up. You have an army of angels walking with you. You told me those very same things once.

So now, take a deep breath. One. Two. Three. . . . and just walk. Everything happens after that first step.

Artwork: © Glenn Harrington

http://www.glennharrington.com/biography.html

Your Father's Rage

Dear angry one,

I see your father’s shadow standing there behind you, a figment of the past that haunts. I see what he has given you each time the anger rises up and twists your face into a mask that’s dark. It is inherited, you see.

When just a child you received the brunt of all your father’s rage. Not right. Not love. Not anything remotely like our heavenly Father’s heart. And you are bound to it yet still; for every time a wound is touched the anger burns within your eyes and comes screaming out in words that shock.

But there is hope. Jesus, fierce lion-lamb, can set you free from the prison that your father placed you in . . . Forgiveness is the key He uses.

Artwork: © Robert Hunt

http://www.roberthuntstudio.com/roberthuntstudio.com.html

Pulling Heaven Down

I feel it . . . I feel it in the air . . . Whoo-hoo!

It’s a wonderful thing when heaven touches earth. It’s exciting to see the change—to even feel it. Holy Spirit blows it in . . . from where? I do not know. From wherever God keeps the winds all stored up, I suppose. Heaven is invading earth through those He calls His children—the adopted ones—the ones who call upon His name and love Him dearly.

I’m pulling it down. Right here. Right where I stand. I’m pulling heaven down! . . . And tranformation, healing, love, and life and all that is in heaven is being pulled down with it.

Artwork: Undine in the Wind by Arthur Rackham

Little Lambs Behind You

Little lamb, do you not know what influence you have had? You think—“I have no influence on any. I have led a quiet life.”—but you do not realize the ones that you have touched. Those seeds that you have planted in hearts along the way have been slowly growing. And little have you known it.

But look! Here they come. One here; one there; they each remember, you know. They remember words you’ve spoken and quiet deeds you’ve done, and through the years the seeds have grown and they’re now thirsty for the water that brings life. And you have led them to it.

Here come more little lambs behind you!

Artwork: The Oasis © Robert Ryan
http://www.oisingallery.com/ArtistsPaintings.asp?ArtistID=730&view=all

Before His Glorious Self

And there my hero stands—brave, true, and strong. He stands against the evil one, against all that evil brings with a grace and power that destroys darkness. Yes! That’s the one I bow to. That’s the one I shout about.

JESUS!!! . . . I shout out that name and feel the reverberations through the air. What goodness. What awesome power. What beauty in His spirit. No one can stand against Him. Evil is cast down before His Glorious self.

He is my hero! I shall worship Him with my dying breath.

Artwork: Denying Satan by Carl Heinrich Bloch

It Gushes

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

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

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

Artwork: Deep Woods Moonlight by Maxfield Parrish

It Looked Like a Strong House

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

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

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

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

Inspired Imaginings

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

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

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

Artwork: Fire Fancies by Arthur Hacker

Cloud of Hornets

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

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

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

Photograph: swarming hornets, unknown

Burst of Golden Glory

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

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

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

Photograph: 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/