Hear the crash of thunder
And hope rises
From the deepest place
Hope rises
The God who can explode the sky
With a word
Chasing jagged light with potent rumble
That God can collapse soul walls
Whispered command
Shatters cold, hard defenses
Murmured mercy
Invites freedom
Hear the shout of thunder
And hope rises
From the deepest place within
Hope rises
Above all
In all
Within reach
Turned toward us
Hope rises
With the violence of His thunder
Hope rises
With the sweetness of His whisper
He is near
Hope is coming
He is able
Hope is rising
Thursday, December 21
Wednesday, December 20
Kids and Cars
Yesterday, two sixteen year-old young men crashed the vehicle they were driving into a pole only a few blocks from our home. The driver was taken to a nearby hospital in bad shape while his passenger was airlifted to another hospital in critical condition.
This morning's news brought further details regarding the accident: a group of teenagers (over a dozen of them) has been stealing Honda Civics in Calgary. They drive the cars, hard, and sometimes crash them, which caused city police to pursue the case aggressively in hopes of catching the culprits before someone was injured. Yesterday's accident dashed that hope.
The fact that boys are stealing cars, driving wildly, and crashing into things isn't surprising. Who wouldn't want a consequence-free crash-up derby? What catches my attention in this story is that the group of kids is so large.
A television documentary on marketing recently showed that the same thing that attracts people to certain products and brands (and causes them to remain devoted to those products and name brands) motivates individuals to join cults. The conclusion of researchers was that people will find a group to belong to, one way or another.
A void, claimed the researchers, that was traditionally filled by the church and social clubs is now being filled by cults (which include cult-like following of sports -- like WWF -- and movie stars, etc.) and product loyalty. Marketers are deliberate in unearthing the "code" that underlies our purchasing choices, and they are specifically shaping messages that will speak to us at the deepest level of our emotional and relational need.
It is fascinating to think that our nature is so hard-wired to pursue community; it is challenging to consider that the Christian church could provide the one thing that people are so intent on acquiring ~ so intent, in fact, that they'll purchase a certain make/model of vehicle, and then travel across the United States to socialize with other owners of the same car.
I find myself questioning my responsibility in this interesting cultural dilemma. What is my responsibility, as a God-lover, to those twelve young car thieves ~~ a group of young people who found their own place to belong? What is the role of the church? In the face of multi-billion dollar add campaigns, what product do we have to offer that is not already being offered on every billboard and shoe sole in the nation? And why is the community that they promise (and why is law breaking and danger) so much more appealing than the offer of Life, healing, eternal hope?
We, as Believers in Christ, are to be known by our love. Our love for each other. Our love for our Lord. If anyone is supposed to have this belonging/community thing down, it's us! If we love, will we become competitive in the market for community in this culture? If we set aside the programming and pasty-face Jesus and catch phrases and self-promotion, will we be more able to connect with men and women who are actively seeking connection? I don't know.
I do know that I'm not doing my part. But I want to do my part. I want to do my part in building/promoting a community where people are challenged, thrilled, healed, motivated, rescued. That is the role of the church in this.
My hope, my prayer, for the young men who were injured yesterday is that more than their bodies will heal; I pray that their thinking will shift and that they will start looking for answers bigger than themselves, bigger than their group, higher than the thrill of the chase. And I pray that we as Christians will be willing and prepared to offer community to just such men. May I be willing and ready to offer them a place to belong.
This morning's news brought further details regarding the accident: a group of teenagers (over a dozen of them) has been stealing Honda Civics in Calgary. They drive the cars, hard, and sometimes crash them, which caused city police to pursue the case aggressively in hopes of catching the culprits before someone was injured. Yesterday's accident dashed that hope.
The fact that boys are stealing cars, driving wildly, and crashing into things isn't surprising. Who wouldn't want a consequence-free crash-up derby? What catches my attention in this story is that the group of kids is so large.
A television documentary on marketing recently showed that the same thing that attracts people to certain products and brands (and causes them to remain devoted to those products and name brands) motivates individuals to join cults. The conclusion of researchers was that people will find a group to belong to, one way or another.
A void, claimed the researchers, that was traditionally filled by the church and social clubs is now being filled by cults (which include cult-like following of sports -- like WWF -- and movie stars, etc.) and product loyalty. Marketers are deliberate in unearthing the "code" that underlies our purchasing choices, and they are specifically shaping messages that will speak to us at the deepest level of our emotional and relational need.
It is fascinating to think that our nature is so hard-wired to pursue community; it is challenging to consider that the Christian church could provide the one thing that people are so intent on acquiring ~ so intent, in fact, that they'll purchase a certain make/model of vehicle, and then travel across the United States to socialize with other owners of the same car.
I find myself questioning my responsibility in this interesting cultural dilemma. What is my responsibility, as a God-lover, to those twelve young car thieves ~~ a group of young people who found their own place to belong? What is the role of the church? In the face of multi-billion dollar add campaigns, what product do we have to offer that is not already being offered on every billboard and shoe sole in the nation? And why is the community that they promise (and why is law breaking and danger) so much more appealing than the offer of Life, healing, eternal hope?
We, as Believers in Christ, are to be known by our love. Our love for each other. Our love for our Lord. If anyone is supposed to have this belonging/community thing down, it's us! If we love, will we become competitive in the market for community in this culture? If we set aside the programming and pasty-face Jesus and catch phrases and self-promotion, will we be more able to connect with men and women who are actively seeking connection? I don't know.
I do know that I'm not doing my part. But I want to do my part. I want to do my part in building/promoting a community where people are challenged, thrilled, healed, motivated, rescued. That is the role of the church in this.
My hope, my prayer, for the young men who were injured yesterday is that more than their bodies will heal; I pray that their thinking will shift and that they will start looking for answers bigger than themselves, bigger than their group, higher than the thrill of the chase. And I pray that we as Christians will be willing and prepared to offer community to just such men. May I be willing and ready to offer them a place to belong.
Tuesday, December 19
God walked down the stairs of heaven with a Baby in His arms.
~ Paul Scherer
It has been many, many Scrooge-like years since I subscribed to the idea that "Jesus is the reason for the season." He is not. He never asked to be. The God of the world is not particularly interested in a birthday party and, I think, He may occassionally blush with embarassment at the excess and pomp that His church spends on attempting to turn a glaringly commercial event into an acknowledgement of His great gift to the world.
He is, on the other hand, interested in reconciling with His created ones. He is interested in connecting with individuals who, caught up in the stresses and busyness of the remaining eleven months of the year, cannot see or hear Him. And so all of that pomp and excess (One worship leader that I talked to this weekend was recently given a budget of $15, 000.00 to put a church program together!) is not without purpose, without value.
As a friend and I worked this issue over in the early stages of this Christmas season, I was reminded of the kindness of a God who willingly meets with people who reach out to Him ~~ whenever they reach out to Him. For some, this is the only season in which they can connect emotionally with the Maker. He is a distant and silent God to so many. To so many. Through the familiarity and tenderness of this time, they can feel God. Some are privy to the everyday speaking and correcting and whispering of God, but some people never sense Him. And through all of the tradition of this time, they have a feeling that they can attribute to Him being near.
That softening, that outward reaching toward a loving Savior, shows itself in generosity toward each other and care for those less fortunate ~~ the reinacting of the central nature of the God who is Love, even by those who do not claim to know Him well.
So, while the Ebeneezer in me cannot accept that this season was set by God or for God, I gratefully celebrate that God is with us and that He quickly reaches toward those who, in this small window of time, are reaching toward Him.
Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love. ~ Hamilton Mabie
Sunday, December 10
The Gate
Find a description here
Of a way known by many as too narrow, too close
Of a way, some say, best left unexplored
For it is too demanding
And freeing
And wild
See there, the hedgerow broken
Interrupted by that hanging door
The Gate
Unobserved by many
Tried by some
Entered by few
That Gate
Rough-hewn and weathered
Swings wide to the gentlest touch
Speaks welcome and sorrow
Discovery and loss
This Seeker
Passed through there
To find a world beyond
Made small by description
A world demanding
And freeing
Untamed
This Broken One
Pushing past that rough and wooded arch
Found light beyond
A different path beyond
Beyond that Humble Gate
Waits Ever After Life
A demand for change
And offer of freedom
An invitation to wildness
A Gate of quiet Promise
A Way to fiery devotion
A welcoming Wholeness and Holiness
Enter now
Through that worn door
Find your soul
Find a new and living Freedom
Find the One
Who, for just such a hope
Fashioned Lost
And Found
Alike
This Seeker
Passed through there
To find a world beyond
Made small by description
A world demanding
And freeing
And wild
Shoe Shopping
The evening air was warm and rich with the scents of fresh-cut grass and evening meals, blossoms and earth.
Making my way down a residential street, I rounded the corner on one of our lilac-bordered main roads. A drama across the street caught my attention. A mother and her child were out for their evening stroll, the little boy trailing far behind his mom. The setting sun bathed their relaxed, coffee-brown faces in its end-of-the-day warmth, and they chattered to each other amiably as they made their way along the sidewalk.
At first glance, it was just a lovely evening picture. And then I looked at the child's feet and learned the reason for his slow progress: he was wearing a pair of men's shoes. Shoes that were many times too large for him. Big, black, cumbersome tennis shoes on tiny, little boy feet!
He clumped happily along, following his mother's urgings to, "Keep moving!", all the while working hard to keep his feet in those gigantic leather sneakers. He was a determined little guy and he continued along for a full city block before his mom changed direction and started leading them back the way they'd come.
As they moved their way back along the street, parallel to a long, weather worn fence bordering several back yards, a dog in one of the yards spotted them and began barking furiously. In its' attempts to protect territory, the dog lunged at the fence, growling and making an enormous racket.
The child froze mid-step, a man sized tennis shoe dangling from his wee foot, and screamed in fear. The shoes that had, to that point, made him feel grownup and man-like, had become like cement blocks on his little legs. They had him trapped and unable to run from the thing that was frightening him, to the the safety of his mother.
Mom, of course, scooting back to rescue her boy, scooped him -- shoes and all -- into her arms and carried him beyond the offending yard to quiet safety.
The image of the two of them brings different thoughts to mind (thoughts of a fun mum who allows her son the freedom to go for a hike in big shoes!), and it also poses some questions: whose shoes are we wearing? Are they shoes made for us, with a fit just right? Or are we stumbling along in shoes that are too big for us to fill (while we attempt/pretend to be someone we're not)? Maybe our shoes are too small, causing painful blisters and pinched toes (while, again, we attempt to hide what we really are).
Like that energetic and very patient mum, God will allow us to march about in all sorts of roles; He'll let us pursue ministries and programs and service of all sizes and shapes. But I wonder if His expectation, His hope, is that we'll just wear shoes that actually fit. That we'll take on the things He's designed us to take on.
God doesn't expect us to be anything other than what we are and what we are becoming: imperfect lovers of God becoming like Him. In time. That beautiful nut-brown boy did not become a man by putting on a man's shoes. In fact, when crisis came, the charade was quickly ended and rescue was necessary.
We do not become something grand or significant or worthwhile by adopting roles that we are not created to fill. And we do not honor God when we take on things too small, for fear of the larger calling.
So, it's time to go shoe shopping! We can strap on something that fits just right. It may take a bit of trial and error to find the perfect match, and time again to break the pair in, but the end result will be worth the effort: a niche in which to serve God and others with lightness and ease; a readiness to respond to His direction without being weighed-down or held back. Let the hunt begin!
Making my way down a residential street, I rounded the corner on one of our lilac-bordered main roads. A drama across the street caught my attention. A mother and her child were out for their evening stroll, the little boy trailing far behind his mom. The setting sun bathed their relaxed, coffee-brown faces in its end-of-the-day warmth, and they chattered to each other amiably as they made their way along the sidewalk.
At first glance, it was just a lovely evening picture. And then I looked at the child's feet and learned the reason for his slow progress: he was wearing a pair of men's shoes. Shoes that were many times too large for him. Big, black, cumbersome tennis shoes on tiny, little boy feet!
He clumped happily along, following his mother's urgings to, "Keep moving!", all the while working hard to keep his feet in those gigantic leather sneakers. He was a determined little guy and he continued along for a full city block before his mom changed direction and started leading them back the way they'd come.
As they moved their way back along the street, parallel to a long, weather worn fence bordering several back yards, a dog in one of the yards spotted them and began barking furiously. In its' attempts to protect territory, the dog lunged at the fence, growling and making an enormous racket.
The child froze mid-step, a man sized tennis shoe dangling from his wee foot, and screamed in fear. The shoes that had, to that point, made him feel grownup and man-like, had become like cement blocks on his little legs. They had him trapped and unable to run from the thing that was frightening him, to the the safety of his mother.
Mom, of course, scooting back to rescue her boy, scooped him -- shoes and all -- into her arms and carried him beyond the offending yard to quiet safety.
The image of the two of them brings different thoughts to mind (thoughts of a fun mum who allows her son the freedom to go for a hike in big shoes!), and it also poses some questions: whose shoes are we wearing? Are they shoes made for us, with a fit just right? Or are we stumbling along in shoes that are too big for us to fill (while we attempt/pretend to be someone we're not)? Maybe our shoes are too small, causing painful blisters and pinched toes (while, again, we attempt to hide what we really are).
Like that energetic and very patient mum, God will allow us to march about in all sorts of roles; He'll let us pursue ministries and programs and service of all sizes and shapes. But I wonder if His expectation, His hope, is that we'll just wear shoes that actually fit. That we'll take on the things He's designed us to take on.
God doesn't expect us to be anything other than what we are and what we are becoming: imperfect lovers of God becoming like Him. In time. That beautiful nut-brown boy did not become a man by putting on a man's shoes. In fact, when crisis came, the charade was quickly ended and rescue was necessary.
We do not become something grand or significant or worthwhile by adopting roles that we are not created to fill. And we do not honor God when we take on things too small, for fear of the larger calling.
So, it's time to go shoe shopping! We can strap on something that fits just right. It may take a bit of trial and error to find the perfect match, and time again to break the pair in, but the end result will be worth the effort: a niche in which to serve God and others with lightness and ease; a readiness to respond to His direction without being weighed-down or held back. Let the hunt begin!
Friday, December 1
I'm wondering at the patience of God.
I recently stumbled across the definition of the word "propitiation" (to dispense with the wrath of another person) and was startled to learn (how did I not know this?) that Christ's death on the cross, a necessary sacrifice for the forgiveness of sins, was to appease the wrath of God (1 Jn. 4:10: ...and this is love: not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His son as propitiation for our sins).
I'm chewing on this idea as I wonder at God's patience. And I wonder at His anger. And I wonder about the anger in my own life.
My sons receive the brunt ~~ the whole, really ~~ of my frustration. As the morning wears on here, I can list three instances of sharp tone and impatience in my response to my kids. Complaints provoke me. Dawdling ensures sharp reprimand. Squabbling sends me over the edge.
And I think about the patience of God.
The New Testament refers to Jesus as, among other things, an intercessor. Christ is going before the Father on our behalf requesting...what? Mercy? "Okay, Dad? I know they're driving you mad, but remember that I payed for their lives with my own. Stay your anger a while longer..."
I complain to the Lord a lot. Daily, probably. I dawdle in obeying even the most simple of commands. And I am quick to retain offense (I'm not great at squabbling...but I do a smashing job of holding a grudge!).
If the small slights of my children send me reeling (At one point this morning, I dropped my face into my hands and moaned, "No, no, no, no" ~~ my plaintive response to their insistence on getting the Christmas calendar's of their own choosing. Gifts, for goodness' sake! I was giving them "Happy December 1st!" gifts and they launched into a verbal tussle about who would get which chocolate-filled treasure!)...If the small slights of my children have me caving, I wonder how God manages to keep His cool?
Does He drop His head in His hands? Does He raise His voice? Does He threaten to remove priveleges and dock allowance? And how much, exactly, are we being spared by the presence of Jesus at His right hand, a constant reminder that our mess has already been atoned for?
I don't know. But as I consider these things, day to day, I'm growing in the fear of the Lord. Our God is not one to be trifled with. Infinitely tender and full of mercy, He is also wrathful and violently opposed to sin. I teach my sons that His hatred of sin comes from His desire to protect His children. God's anger is paternal.
Which makes it both fearsome and comforting at once.
I want to learn His way in this. How does the God of Heaven and Earth manage anger? And when He admonishes us not sin in our own anger, what does He mean by that? And who on earth is going to be the go-between betwixt us and the people at whom our anger is directed?
Many questions. Few answers. And a boat load of hope that if God has asked it of us and of Himself, then there is a Way. A way to live the patience of God.
I recently stumbled across the definition of the word "propitiation" (to dispense with the wrath of another person) and was startled to learn (how did I not know this?) that Christ's death on the cross, a necessary sacrifice for the forgiveness of sins, was to appease the wrath of God (1 Jn. 4:10: ...and this is love: not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His son as propitiation for our sins).
I'm chewing on this idea as I wonder at God's patience. And I wonder at His anger. And I wonder about the anger in my own life.
My sons receive the brunt ~~ the whole, really ~~ of my frustration. As the morning wears on here, I can list three instances of sharp tone and impatience in my response to my kids. Complaints provoke me. Dawdling ensures sharp reprimand. Squabbling sends me over the edge.
And I think about the patience of God.
The New Testament refers to Jesus as, among other things, an intercessor. Christ is going before the Father on our behalf requesting...what? Mercy? "Okay, Dad? I know they're driving you mad, but remember that I payed for their lives with my own. Stay your anger a while longer..."
I complain to the Lord a lot. Daily, probably. I dawdle in obeying even the most simple of commands. And I am quick to retain offense (I'm not great at squabbling...but I do a smashing job of holding a grudge!).
If the small slights of my children send me reeling (At one point this morning, I dropped my face into my hands and moaned, "No, no, no, no" ~~ my plaintive response to their insistence on getting the Christmas calendar's of their own choosing. Gifts, for goodness' sake! I was giving them "Happy December 1st!" gifts and they launched into a verbal tussle about who would get which chocolate-filled treasure!)...If the small slights of my children have me caving, I wonder how God manages to keep His cool?
Does He drop His head in His hands? Does He raise His voice? Does He threaten to remove priveleges and dock allowance? And how much, exactly, are we being spared by the presence of Jesus at His right hand, a constant reminder that our mess has already been atoned for?
I don't know. But as I consider these things, day to day, I'm growing in the fear of the Lord. Our God is not one to be trifled with. Infinitely tender and full of mercy, He is also wrathful and violently opposed to sin. I teach my sons that His hatred of sin comes from His desire to protect His children. God's anger is paternal.
Which makes it both fearsome and comforting at once.
I want to learn His way in this. How does the God of Heaven and Earth manage anger? And when He admonishes us not sin in our own anger, what does He mean by that? And who on earth is going to be the go-between betwixt us and the people at whom our anger is directed?
Many questions. Few answers. And a boat load of hope that if God has asked it of us and of Himself, then there is a Way. A way to live the patience of God.
Wednesday, November 29
Bunnies? Really?
Rabbits: Cute. Furry. Lop-eared. Veggie eating. Stub-tailed. And resiliant.
Temperatures in our part of the world have dropped to forty degrees below zero. Creatures and people alike have been hiding away behind closed doors, struggling to stay warm beneath layers of quilts with steaming mugs of hot something in hand.
Today the weather broke. That is to say, today temperatures shot up to minus fifteen degrees. Balmy and walk-worthy weather, for sure. I donned my walking things and struck out into the fields ("struck" being a rather aggressive way of saying "slogged," "pushed," "pressed"), snow sitting mid-calf and untouched by anything save the winds of the past few days.
The slog was formidable and a half-hour's hike had me deep breathing and chilled as I marched my way across territory that no human had graced for several days. Because people could not have withstood the freezing winds and biting blasts of ice and snow.
Temperatures in our part of the world have dropped to forty degrees below zero. Creatures and people alike have been hiding away behind closed doors, struggling to stay warm beneath layers of quilts with steaming mugs of hot something in hand.
Today the weather broke. That is to say, today temperatures shot up to minus fifteen degrees. Balmy and walk-worthy weather, for sure. I donned my walking things and struck out into the fields ("struck" being a rather aggressive way of saying "slogged," "pushed," "pressed"), snow sitting mid-calf and untouched by anything save the winds of the past few days.
The slog was formidable and a half-hour's hike had me deep breathing and chilled as I marched my way across territory that no human had graced for several days. Because people could not have withstood the freezing winds and biting blasts of ice and snow.
But the rabbits did. Everywhere I went I saw tracks of one critter kind: bunnies. We know the little guys to be fast ~~ our dogs give them chase daily. And are daily outsmarted by the speedy balls of fur. But I did not know that they were so hearty. Their tracks ran the distance of many city blocks and shot off in all directions. Evidence of a thriving population was everywhere in that windblasted field.
I trudged home, exhausted after plowing snow for only a few minutes, thinking about how unlike those cotton-tails I am ~~ how much I should aspire to mimic them.
Sometimes the chill that blasts through my mind and emotions is daunting, unrelenting. When that happens, I want to retreat to warm safety and shield myself from the offending cause of the deep freeze. Since that's usually not an option, I might adopt a more rabbit-like approach and just keep moving from one place to the next ~~ it will keep me as warm, if not warmer, than sitting huddled out of sight ever could.
Monday, November 27
Shadow
It is easy to be thankful
When the family is near and safe
When all are warm and fed
When temperatures outside whip
to a frigid -30 degrees
While inside it's all fuzzy socks
and bulky sweaters
With a hot apple crisp on the way
My gratitude has a shadow
A question follows, always, on its' heel
What can I do to give, to help, to serve
The ones who have not been given so much?
I am searching for the light that dispels that shadow
Forever
Thursday, November 23
Go
With a flick of a switch, the morning's news assaults my cluttered kitchen, my twenty year old boom box still adequately pumping out it's woeful tales. Car bombs. A murder just a few blocks from here. A young man, just a teenager, killed suddenly in a car accident. The countries of the world in disarray.
The quiet place deep within reminds me that these stories are not the whole story. There is good to be found. Redemption . Reconciliation. Restoration.
Last night I had a dream:
The world around me was vague, hazy, full of faceless people doing unidentifiable things. I was wandering amongst them feeling hopelessly detached. Lost. A song reverberated as I wandered, "Just love them like Jesus. Carry them to Him. His yoke is easy. His burden is light. You don't need all the answers to all of life's questions. Just love them like Jesus and stay by their side." (Casting Crowns) The me in the dream began weeping uncontrollably, changing the words into a query, "How can I love them like Jesus? How can I carry them to Him?"
And from that deep and quiet place came the beginnings of an answer, "Just go to where they are."
As the top news slices through the morning air, a reminder comes that we have a part to play in bringing the Story of Hope to a floundering planet. We need to go to where the hurting are.
A recently read study professed that as the world "shrinks" and we blunder our way through the information age, our feeling of powerlessness is growing. We see a great deal of violence, hear of trauma's from places next door and around the world. Our nature is to respond, to help. But the needs are too great, the problems too vast, and we as humans are not coping well with our inability to fix the brokenness.
But the quiet place reminds us that the loss and destruction are not the whole story. There is good to be found. Redemption. Reconciliation. Restoration.
And that good, that healing, will be visited here through you and I. The Creator of All, the Savior, the Spirit of God is active. Moving. Working. Healing. He requires our hands, our voices, our emotions to present His story to the world.
Out from under the comfort of our addictions and methods of coping. Alongside our rituals of worship. Hand in hand in hand in hand with our fellow God-lovers. Servants of the majestic One. We can go to the place of suffering and offer redemption and restoration. We must offer Christ.
The quiet place deep within reminds me that these stories are not the whole story. There is good to be found. Redemption . Reconciliation. Restoration.
Last night I had a dream:
The world around me was vague, hazy, full of faceless people doing unidentifiable things. I was wandering amongst them feeling hopelessly detached. Lost. A song reverberated as I wandered, "Just love them like Jesus. Carry them to Him. His yoke is easy. His burden is light. You don't need all the answers to all of life's questions. Just love them like Jesus and stay by their side." (Casting Crowns) The me in the dream began weeping uncontrollably, changing the words into a query, "How can I love them like Jesus? How can I carry them to Him?"
And from that deep and quiet place came the beginnings of an answer, "Just go to where they are."
As the top news slices through the morning air, a reminder comes that we have a part to play in bringing the Story of Hope to a floundering planet. We need to go to where the hurting are.
A recently read study professed that as the world "shrinks" and we blunder our way through the information age, our feeling of powerlessness is growing. We see a great deal of violence, hear of trauma's from places next door and around the world. Our nature is to respond, to help. But the needs are too great, the problems too vast, and we as humans are not coping well with our inability to fix the brokenness.
But the quiet place reminds us that the loss and destruction are not the whole story. There is good to be found. Redemption. Reconciliation. Restoration.
And that good, that healing, will be visited here through you and I. The Creator of All, the Savior, the Spirit of God is active. Moving. Working. Healing. He requires our hands, our voices, our emotions to present His story to the world.
Out from under the comfort of our addictions and methods of coping. Alongside our rituals of worship. Hand in hand in hand in hand with our fellow God-lovers. Servants of the majestic One. We can go to the place of suffering and offer redemption and restoration. We must offer Christ.
Tuesday, November 21
Her True Colors
Smoke-blue and dusty Green whisper her subservience. Her dreams have faded long since. She eases from one day into the next
into the next
into the next.
Unflinching Gold makes her reassuring presence known. She is certain of this: Her God is true and He is good. Come all that life can wield against a woman’s heart, Gold tells that she knows I Am.
A scatter of garish Pinks and lusty Reds foretell a trap. She moves with careful intent. She will lure. She will trap. She will own.
The Grey of steel and stone encase a heart found too close to this one. She is trapped by bars and gates long unopened. She would have you incarcerated too.
White light. Brilliant in its purity, the shimmer of her joy pulls you to her. To know her is to know Him.
Orange promises excitement, and her humor does not disappoint. But masked there, too, a faded yellow, waiting for gentle exposure to the light of the Son.
She is not who she thinks she is. Trying a garment of crimson or blue, one of peach or ash gray, none ring true. She settles for a canvas sack to hide her True Purple.
Earth and moss, cool streams and dew. She brings comfort, rest to any that sit with her. Her color is that of nature. Her nature is rich in color.
Her touch is Silver satin on weary hands. Gentleness adorns her in Blues and Ivory. Lavender mercy cloaks her shoulders. She changes her world with His character.
She
You
I
We show ourselves unwittingly
expressions, language, thought
Leaving an impression
a mark
Delighting
Shaming
Harming
Healing
A streaming color ribbon
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