Love will grow over barriers and around obstacles still blooming and still fragrant. Love is having the strength to stay. Love is a wild and furious risk, a pouring out of all that one can from that cup and drink it. Love is rich and poor. Love is sickness and health. Love is a verb, an action word. Nothing about love is passive. Love cannot be manipulated. Love. Risks. Everything. The Holy God is Love’s name…ponder this, ponder Him on this busy Tuesday of your life. Love changes everything!
Today God orchestrated some happenings that I needed. It was an affirming whisper from him…
Such an intimate and sweet “I love you” from my Lord. I say intimate because He and I are the only ones who know. I say sweet because I am his daughter and he understands me.
So I end this day with a Hallelujah.
Sleep well my friends.
The little seabird with twigs for legs hurries up and back about three feet. Waves rolls seaward and the Sandpipers skirmishes lighting fast to peck a little minnow and hurries back …the water never once touches her. It is comical, this dance of the Piper. Her spindle like legs never seems to tire…
This is the beauty that fills my mind. ” everything that is created was created by Jesus. By him all things made above the earth, below the earth, on land, and in the sea. Everything visible and invisible were made by him for his pleasure. Jesus hold all things together and in him all things live and move and have their being.
Even the Sandpipers Dance is for Him.
The knockout punch…
I have eaten nothing in three days.
The pain in my chest is a slow agony.
I have no memory of warmth with others of my kind.
Although fading, my longing drives my soul forward.
A primal memory of Joy beats like a captured bird in my brain.
Yet somehow I know Him and see the full Glory of God.
So she called the name of the Lord who spoke to her, “You are a God of seeing,” for she said, “Truly here I have seen him who looks after me. Genesis 16:13
Camellias are blooming stout and ruffled in oh so many rosy shades of pinks!
Azalea bushes lay a thick carpet for Gulf summer heat and rain.
The golden-green sea oats weave and spin the island’s core in an endless ballet.
All the while, the Faithful Morning Glories, pink and yellow, vine along the sand like a hodgepodge of holiday lights.
The salt sits thick upon my skin and hair.
I am baptized in a wave and the horizon melts into carnival colors of pulled taffy in my Watercolor Garden.
It is an iridescent dragon fly purple and blue
It so cleverly hovers over the pond of your brow
It is an agile flyer and can be high or low, come and go
It has life expectancy of a week or so…
This is how I see traces of sorrow
A vivid an electric color, impossible to miss
An aviator like no other, comes from anywhere
This trace may be brief, a week or so…
or maybe no one knows…
atmosphere of ice and refuse.
this pressures me to think of us.
we said we were “all in.”
we talk about the black or white of Life
the Sunsets on Mars are Blue.
When hardship comes your way, will you tell yourself it’s a tool of God’s grace and a sign of his love, or will you give in to doubting his goodness? Paul Tripp
When the road seems shorter than before.
Wherever you turn there is no open door.
Your life is in convulsions like vomit on the floor.
All the paperwork of your life is yellowed and rotted.
Is the God’s grace of love or is it cruel?
Who do you worship and let rule you?
Will you head for the hills of Babylon?
Look for ways to numb your sorrow?
Will you turn to the One who made you?
Will you cry out and hang on to your pew?
Will you doubt God’s goodness in the dross?
Will you walk away or toward the cross?
High desert winter.
White-out blizzard coming soon.
Laura Nyro on my stereo.
She warns me of the heartache coming on.
Wood burning stove keeps me warm.
Laura’s voice does the rest.
We got the blues and got it bad.
Wrapped in my Navaho blanket
Still shivering to my soul.
Sitting on the Henry Bridge watching the river run.
A little boy is skipping river rocks beneath the glitter of the Sun.
Autumn breezes gold and ruby red decorate the beaver’s dam.
A little girl hold her baby doll making sweet life plans.
We belong to the day free to be living in a symphony.
Walking of of the night no more darkness to see.
We belong to the day.
No sorrow left to see.
We belong to the day.
Jill Autrey Dorman 