The Perfect Walk

My last evening on the family farm I took a very long walk. It was such a perfect Spring evening with the air lightly scented of fresh grass and new life. I startled several deer, and they ran away from me so close that I could have grabbed hold and ridden them. Chipmunks played on the edge of my path. Rabbits scurried in front of me, even running down the road begging me to play. Beautiful songbirds flitted over my head.
Walking back through the field, I passed through floating air pockets. As I descended into the hollow near the pond, the air suddenly cooled and chilled me, then entering the rise on the hill, the air was warmed and pleasant. The cows bellowed to one another, more deer ran away, and the dog jogged at my side.
I returned to the back porch and had a seat in the rocker. Using the binoculars I watched for deer and birds. I rested and relaxed knowing this was the end of my time alone. One thing would make it perfect, I thought, lightning bugs. But it has been a cold spring here and lightning bugs have not yet shown their lights.
Thanking God for such a wonderful week, I began contemplating what I had learned: Watch my motives, Stay peaceful by finding time to be alone. I should write about this walk, I thought. I started to get up and head into the computer, but something held me back. I told myself that the walk was meant for me to share with God. Not everything that happens has to be something to write about. Enjoy what is given and embrace the blessing.
Suddenly, I spotted a small light in the distance. Then, blinking over the tall, grassy hayfield, other feeble lights blinked on and off. They didn't last long, but my walk was made completely perfect.
Thank you God for the Light.

The Chainsaws Have Ended. . . Briefly

My retreat seems to have been a success. I wanted to look for publishers, magazines, and write, but mostly I wanted to listen to God. I was able to accomplish all of these!
I sent my book off to five new publishers, submitted two manuscripts to two magazines and ruled out about twenty other magazines, and spent one entire day writing on Communion. So what did God have to say to me while I listened?
Well, He took His good old time saying anything, that's for sure. It seems those chainsaws were buzzing pretty loudly, and all I could hear was the roar of all of the things I needed to do. As the days passed, though, they became quieter, and I began to decompress, becoming quieter myself.
Sunday I spent the morning in worship alone with my God. It was a perfect day to be outside, so I sat in the sun, listened to Christain music, read my Bible, and waited. I was not disappointed. I felt the distinct impression that God wants me to watch my motives carefully. I believe He intends to bless my writing, but my mission must be His and not my own.
That is a hard line to walk since I have to contact agencies and represent myself as well as Jesus. It will take practice, but I think I can accomplish it if I continue to embrace the second thing He told me.
Pace and Place = Peace
Whatever does that mean, you ask. Well, here is what I am getting out of it. It took me so long to decompress because I am always so busy. Yet, I don't see any way to not be as busy as I am and still accomplish what needs to be done. So God sent me to the book of Mark.
I have always recognized the urgency of Mark's gospel. Jesus is on the go constantly. He leads, heals, teaches, preaches, guides, and chides. But what I noticed this time was the number of times that in the midst of all of his activity- and all of it surely good activity!- he suddenly disappears. He goes alone to a garden at dark or early in the morning, scoots off in a boat to a secluded place, climbs a hill to seek solitude, and sometimes he seems to withdraw into his own thoughts while in the midst of a crowd.
Jesus has a hectic PACE, but he always finds a PLACE to be alone, and then he is at PEACE to continue his work. So that is my goal now: to ignore the pace of my hectic life and find places where I can be alone and recharge. Then I can use my peace to serve the Lord in whatever way He motivates.
It has been a great retreat!

Using Your Feet

I use my feet every day. I stand, walk, jump, tiptoe, and climb. I walk the dog daily for about an hour. I use my feet walking in stores, driving the car, standing to wash dishes, and getting the mail from the box. From the moment I rise in the morning, to the moment I lie down at night, I use my feet.
With all of that use I imagined my feet were in pretty good shape. They were toned, flexible, and ready to go at a moment's notice. Then I spent a week traversing the hills of WV.
Walking steep inclines evidently uses different muscles in the feet. Suddenly my fit feet were sorely out of shape. Even my toes hurt!
It isn't the ache of overused feet; it is the pain of unused muscles suddenly being put to work, like your back muscles after the first yard work of Spring.
We had a student in TX who told us he didn't need to read the Bible because he already read it once. He knew what was in there. Besides, he went to church and sometimes Sunday school or devotionals, and there was plenty of Bible offered in those settings. He felt like his Bible knowledge was pretty well under control.
I can only imagine what happened when he suddenly found himself in different terrain. When the environment suddenly changed from happy and homey to dangerous and deathly did he know what encouragement the Bible offered? When terror struck and prayers were offered did he know which Psalms would calm his soul?
I was very able to acclimate to the mountains because I use my feet daily in the coastal plains, but if I didn't use them so often I never would have been able to enjoy the scenery, fresh air, and lofty heights offered to me this week.
Make sure you don't forget to walk through God's Word every day so that you can enjoy, or live through, whatever comes your way.

Thirtieth Day Parade

Thirtieth Day Parade. That's what I knew Memorial Day as when I was a kid. There was a time when Memorial Day was always held on May 30th. It wasn't rearranged in the calendar just so we could have a three day weekend. At home it is still called the Thirtieth Day Parade.
For several weeks before Memorial Day, we practiced marching at school. Yes, it was a public school not a military school. Every classroom would line up by grade. Kindergarteners in the front, then first grade, second, all the way up to the big sixth graders. In straight lines five wide, we practiced marching on the playground. After a few days of that we moved our march to the road in front of the school. We learned that the kids on the outside of a curve had to walk faster than the kids on the inside of the curve. We practiced cradling a flag in our left arm and flowers in our right. This was important, patriotic, and respectful.
The morning of the Thirtieth Day Parade white and pink peonies and purple irises would be cut from the yard and placed in a wet paper towel then wrapped in aluminum foil. Dressed in all white, girls in dresses and sunbonnets boys in slacks and dress shoes, school children from all over the county would meet in town clutching variations of freshly picked flowers and small American flags.
Bands and floats would lead the way through the streets of Grafton. Everyone and their mother was lined up on the sidewalks to watch. Then came the school children. We were told not to look at anyone, but keep our eyes straight ahead. This was important, solemn, reverent.
We were marching to the National Cemetery in the middle of town. Here lay the first casualty of the Civil War. Here gathered the Veterans of WW1 and WW2. Walled in by ancient, thick stones, the bright white headstones lined perfectly with each other no matter which way you looked. And it was here that hundreds of school children would quietly end their march, gingerly walk through the rows of graves, and silently select a headstone to adorn with flowers and flag. This was important, dutiful, appreciative.
Leaving the cemetery, we would be ushered a couple of blocks over to the local Garden Fresh grocery store. The owner would reward us with a treat, some years frozen fudge bars and other years Nutty Buddies. Once or twice we even had ice cream cups with little wooden "spoons". Then parents would gather their youngsters up and try to see the end of the parade, more bands, floats, even clowns and Shriners in crazy, little toy cars. This was important, rewarding, valuable.
The lesson learned by this yearly community tradition was that life is serious business and deserves serious respect, but doing your duty also brings privileges and rewards. Memorial Day was not a day off of school, time for a picnic, sales at the stores, although it was all of those, too. Memorial Day was important, consecrated, and valuable.

Chainsaws Continued

My retreat began in earnest yesterday as my first full day of retreat dawned with cold, blowing mist. I didn't pack for winter weather, so I decided this was perfect for staying in and contemplating the view from the picture windows. Then the phone rang.
Son #1 is looking for a job and the updates, though exceedingly encouraging, were interrupting my solitude. Trucks drove by to the new coal mine excavation over the hill. Company showed up to visit. Others called to see if I had food, was comfortable, warm and dry.
And the blaring of chainsaws buzzing around me was still unable to deter me from my goal: Listen to God.
Jesus needed times of quiet, too. He escaped in the darkness to pray in a garden. He hiked up a hillside to listen to his father. He put out in a boat to enjoy some solitude. But every time he tried to be alone, there was also a willingness to grab hold of the chainsaw that rang out next to him.
So I answered the phone, talked to the company, and was still able to pray, to listen, to think.
Today has been quieter, the weather a bit improved, and my goal still the same: Listen to God. Honestly, I'm not sure if the chainsaws make it harder to listen or if they might be part of the music God wants me to dance to. All the same I'm willing to go at a few trees if need be.

Home Is Where Your Heart Grew Up

My friend, Denise, grew up in the desert of Arizona. The red cliffs, sandy hills, and sparseness sing to her soul. She posts pictures of her home and expounds on the beauty of the area. I see sand and dirt. Sometimes I see a spark of something, but mostly it looks awful to me. I did not grow up in the desert.

 I left Eastern Carolina yesterday morning. It was pouring rain, and great puddles were amassing in the flat streets. I like where we live. I do see beauty in the spring azaleas and daffodils. I think our piece of property is calming and satisfying.

 But as I drove north through North Carolina and then into Virginia, calm satisfaction was not what I longed for. I wanted greatness, lushness, and largeness. Passing over the James River the terrain began to change. Once I turned onto Route 17 heading west toward the hills, my riding companion perked up. "We're getting closer to WV," he said. Yes, I thought, my heart beginning to water like a mouthful of warm, homemade bread.

 Houses hanging on hillsides, rhododendrons with large pink blooms, mists rising from hidden valleys as if dwarves were blowing rings of smoke from under the mountains. My friend probably looks at these things as pretty, but she wouldn't want to live here. I, on the other hand, took a walk as soon as I arrived. I had to assure myself that all was still well at home.

The sun was sinking on one side of the hill, and the full moon shone brightly on the other side. It was as if the world was telling me that light would fill me no matter what. I look forward to this week of refreshment, of light, of calm beauty and peace. My heart has come back home, and my soul has begun to sing.

Chainsaw Retreat

A few weeks ago, maybe it was only a couple weeks ago, our church took a retreat for a weekend. The day before it was to begin, Preacherman got a call that a chainsaw party had also been planned at the same camp the same weekend. The theme of our retreat? Sabbath Rest.
The thought of chainsaws blaring in the background as congregants prayed and reflected on higher things just seemed ludicrous. How in the world would anyone really enjoy the peace of a restful retreat?
I was unable to attend the retreat, but I heard it turned out better than expected. The chainsaws weren't too loud, they were scheduled around our church schedule, and it started raining and ended the chainsaw party early.
School pretty much ended for me two weeks ago. Co-op classes with its nearly thirty writing students was over. My last private student ended the next week. Rest was surely in sight. My chainsaws were leaving the party.
Then. . . The in-laws came for a visit (NOT complaining here, L&C!). Prom decorations and plans had to be attended to. A cleaning day at the church we used for co-op was scheduled. Our church needed some all-day maintenance. Other commitments, other events, other noise.
It seems no matter how I try, I can't get away from the chainsaws of life. So Thursday I am leaving for a retreat where chainsaws are, hopefully, outlawed. My parents have graciously offered me a quiet room in the hills of West Virginia.
I plan to write. I hope to find magazines and publishers. I expect to rest. But most of all I will meet God and be renewed. I always am when I sit in the quiet country and listen to the silence.

The Pottery Shop

The plain, weather-aged sign above the arbor read, “Pottery Shop”. Tucked back on a dirt road, surrounded by wildflowers and overgrown bougainvillea, the shop was easily passed by.

            I was suffering from exhaustion, mental and physical, and my aunts outside Atlanta suggested a respite with them. It was about a ninety minute drive to their country home. Rolling down the windows, I let the wind roar in my ears and blow the dust from my mind. Yes, I need rest. This will be a great weekend, I thought as I rolled my neck from side to side.

            Spotting a road advertisement a few miles back, I decided to check out the pottery shop. A nice present for Aunt Marie and Aunt Nell to show my appreciation: that was just the way to begin my decompression.

            Slamming the car door, I turned down the pathway to the wood framed shop. I wasn’t sure what I might find; what kind of potter would be found out in the middle of nowhere in a ramshackle hut? A bell tinkled as I pushed open the door, and a cheery middle-aged woman greeted me. Her Southern smile was as genuine as her drawl, “Welcome, Honey. Can I help you?”

            “Just looking,” I replied and wandered down an aisle of blue and purple glazed vases. Large, elegant, fluted pots were filled with display flowers. Small pots were overflowing the shelves. Like shells on the beach, each pot I picked up was more beautiful than the one before. Practical earthenware plates and bowls were decorated with orange blossoms; just right for Aunt Marie, I decided.

            Aunt Nell, always stylish in her flowing silks and scarves, would want the fluted vase with dark blue grooves. They created a cascading design that landed in a cool, refreshing pool of blue. Carefully picking up the ceramic, I turned toward the check-out counter.

            “Find everything?” the cashier asked.

            “Yes. I must admit I am surprised to find such fine craftmanship out here in the boonies.”

            “Mr. John has customers all over the globe. Some of his work has even been in the Metropolitan,” she gushed. “He’s working in his studio now. Would you like to meet him?”

            “Oh, I wouldn’t want to disturb him,” I stammered.

            “Nonsense,” she drawled, “Mr. John loves customers to watch him at work. Come on back.” And with that she walked over to the back door and beckoned me into a courtyard garden.

            The air here was steamy, and the high-pitched whir of a kiln motor reminded me of cicadas on a sticky, hot Georgia night. Suddenly I heard an onerous thud, as if someone had been flung against a barroom wall. The cheery cashier opened the door to a small studio and told me to go on in.

            Unsure if I should enter quietly or announce myself, I muffled a cough and waited on the potter to notice me. “Come,” Mr. John said, and I hesitantly walked over to the wheel where the older gentleman was working.

            The fresh dampness of earth and its underground mysteries livened my senses, and I breathed deeply of refreshment and peace. The clay had just been thrown on the wheel and the potter was centering it. Concentrating deeply, Mr. John seemed unaware, or unconcerned, of my presence. His hands firmly slid around the moist lump of clay, forcing the gob to cling to the wheel in just the right way.

            Slowly the sides of the clay grew as the potter placed his thumb into the lifeless clay and began to throw it. A vase appeared before me as the artisan shaped the clay into a vessel of beauty. I stood watching, lost between reality and an ethereal veil of timelessness. Wetting the clay with a discolored sponge, the twisting wheel turning beneath his arms, Mr. John wiped sweat from his upper lip with the shoulder of his shirt.

            “Amazing,” I murmured as he grabbed a wooden tool and began slicing grooves into the vase. It was the same design as the vase I chose for Aunt Nell.

            “This one will be shades of red instead of the blue you chose,” Mr. John surprised me. “I saw your purchase as I was heading to the studio,” he explained.

            Slowing the wheel until it stopped, Mr. John pulled a long wire from under his bench and cut the clay free. Gingerly placing the new vase on a fabric covered shelf, Mr. John invited me to look around.

            The studio was filled with ceramics in different stages of preparation. He showed me some leather-hard pieces that he would work on in a bit. They were serving dishes that needed feet and pedestals attached. Several shelves near the popping kiln held freshly bisque-fired cups and plates waiting to be glazed.

            In a back corner of the room was an old trash can with a few discarded pieces of clay. “These pieces couldn’t form right for me, so I put them here to dry and recycle later,” the potter explained. “Most days I throw pottery all day without a hitch, but sometimes the clay won’t relax for me. It fights against me and refuses to center. I have to recycle that clay and try again later.”

            Mr. John accompanied me back into the small, wooden shop. I was surprised at how much time had gone by and started to excuse myself to hurry along to Aunt Marie and Aunt Nell. A young man, perhaps twenty-five with shoulder-length brown hair pulled into a low ponytail, was walking through the back of the store near the door to the courtyard. He looked like the young, artsy, college kids I often see in the Atlanta shops.

            Mr. John gave him a curt nod and then told me he hoped I enjoyed my tour of the studio. “I love sharing my work with an appreciative audience,” he said. Then he hurried back to the studio to continue working.

            I paid for my ceramics and then thought I would like to have them signed for my aunts. I asked the cashier if that would be possible. “Sure, Sweetie! Just head on out back and Mr. John would be glad to scribble on them. Hurry though or he’ll be in the middle of throwing another pot.”

            Walking back into the studio I inhaled again of the sweet, earthy aroma. I noticed the young man was also in the studio, back near the shelf of leather-hard pots. Mr. John had already flung a new lump of clay onto the wheel, and I went over to ask if I could get his signature on my ceramics when he finished.

            “Yes, just wait,” he grunted as the force of centering a new pot took all of his energy and concentration.

            I walked around the studio again admiring the earthenware in its many stages and styles. Then I noticed the bisque was strewn on the countertop, chipped and cracked. The young man had walked down this way, surely he wouldn’t have ruined Mr. John’s work?! Then I saw the leather-hard pieces also were defaced and marred, and the new grooved vessel that I had just watched Mr. John complete, was smashed into the fabric covered shelf.

            I turned to see the young man standing next to Mr. John. He seemed as intent as Mr. John, watching the wheel turn the clay as it began to center on the wheel. Reaching slowly forward, the denigrator held out his finger and poked it into the forming clay. The clay lump flew from the wheel and crashed into poor Mr. John’s apron, knocking the wind from the old gentleman.

            “What are you doing?” I screamed at the jerk. Running to Mr. John, I helped him up from the stool by the wheel.

            “Get out of my studio,” Mr. John stated, barely controlling his anger.

            The young man sauntered out of the room. “What was that all about?” I gasped.

            “My competition. These young guys come in from the big city to destroy my work. They want to make mass produced goods, but they can’t compete with the beauty of my unique pieces. So they come out here every few days and destroy the pieces before they can be fired and finished.”

            “Why don’t you do something about it?” I asked.

            “I do,” he answered. “I keep making more one-of-a-kind pieces.”

            “How does that help?” I questioned.

            “I hope that someday they will see the perfection of my unique creations and come to learn from me, instead of trying to destroy me. Until then, they’ll keep making pieces that people re-gift or put in yard sales.”

            I helped Mr. John clear the ruined pieces and place them in the recycle can to dry and be remade later into new, pliable clay. Then I walked out to my car, well-past the time I had told my aunts I would arrive.

            Sitting at a late dinner with the two women, I recounted my afternoon’s events. Aunt Nell was infuriated and threatened to call the police, but Aunt Marie, the practical one, said Mr. John was right. The young men couldn’t appreciate the beauty of the artist’s work; their only concern was the reason to destroy it.

            “Perhaps, someday, potters who destroy the new vessels will recognize the cracks in their own abilities, and they will come to Mr. John to learn how to create beauty instead of destroying it,” Aunt Marie sighed.

            I slowly shook my head. Perhaps exhaustion was behind my negative thoughts, perhaps some rest would make me see it Marie’s way, but I didn’t think it would ever happen.

            The weekend flew past too quickly, and Sunday evening I loaded my luggage into the car for the drive back to Atlanta. Slowing on the road near the “Pottery Shop” sign, I heard the faint sound of cicadas on a hot, Georgia night. Mr. John was still hard at work.

------------------
This is my response to Dr. Grosnell and all others who try to destroy God's handiwork. May they all return to the Master to learn the true art of creation.

 

Chester and Joe: A Parable

 Chester and Joe, brothers in a different time and place, were dependent on each other since the death of their father. Chester, the older brother, took it upon himself to look for a home for the brothers, make a way for them in the world, and keep them safe. Joe, a bit reckless, usually followed Chester's lead, but sometimes he ignored Chester's chidings.

A few years after their father's death, Chester decided it would be better for them to move on and find new land for their animals and crops. They travelled until they reached the end of civilization. There, at the end of the worn pathway, Chester and Joe decided to stop. Here was the perfect place to plant their crops and build their homes.

Chester offered Joe first pick of the land. Looking around, Joe noticed some of the land held water and was unsuited to growing the best crops. He noticed the woods in the distance and felt the sun burning on his back.

"I'll take the land over by the forest," said Joe. "You can have the fields in the open." Chester tried to persuade Joe that the wood held danger, but Joe wouldn't listen.

 So Joe planted his field of wheat and made a road between the wheat and the woods.



His wheat grew tall and straight. The wind blew across the kernel tops promising a bountiful harvest.





Joe was happy with his work and decided to spend the day fishing in the nearby pond.

Joe rested his pole against a stump and pushed his wide-brimmed hat over his eyes. Soon he was snoozing in the lazy evening light. Joe didn't notice the bear lumbering out of the wood toward the pond.

Chester had warned Joe that the wood held danger. He encouraged Joe to stay in the open where he could see what was on the horizon, but Joe had felt confident and assured Chester there was nothing to worry about.

The bear, seeing Joe fishing in his pond, began to charge. The snapping of branches and stomping of grasses woke Joe just as the bear entered the clearing by the pond. The bear was upon Joe before he could scream for Chester. The razor claws tore into Joe's flesh exposing muscle and bone. Once incited the bear would not stop. Joe was lost forever.

Chester mourned his brother, but remembered his own warning, "Stay in the open where you can see the horizon." Chester's wheat grew tall and straight, and the soil that held water was drained and fertilized until it too was fruitful. Chester knew hard work is worth the effort, and watchfulness is always warranted.









 ^" Stay alert! Watch out for your great enemy, the devil. He prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour." 1 Peter 5:8 NLT

Temptation

These are my sweet goats, Mary, Faye, and Madison. They are about six years old, definitely mature goats in the world of goats.
 They haven't had any babies for quite a while because I got rid of the fence jumping billy. But back when they were having kids I was very frustrated. The frustration came from the inability to keep the kids in the fence. These are Nigerian Dwarf goats, so the babies are a little bigger than a puppy.
Not only are they the size of a puppy, they also come in numbers of puppies. One mother can produce 3-5 kids at a time. I used to have four nannies; yes that translates to a sudden increase of twelve or more kids in a week during kidding season. It was insane!
After a few weeks, the kids are able to run the entire field and look for trouble. They always found it in the form of my grapevine.

 I have tried to raise grapes for at least as long as I have had the goats, basically without success because the kids would eat all of the new leaves and grapes. I tried barbed wire around the fence, penning in the kids, and covering the grapes with netting. It was all in vain; somehow they would eat those grapes every year.
So once I got rid of the billy- which is another story in itself- I thought my problem was solved. But temptation is not a respecter of age, and the big goats want those grapes just as badly as the little ones did.
I know it shouldn't be a problem, since the grown goats are unable to slip through the fence to get to the desire of their heart, but sometimes I feel sorry for them, stuck in one fence and field for life. So often in the spring, I will let them out of the field to roam the yard and surrounding area. I did it again this spring, just as the grapevine was leafing out.
The leaves are so small and I don't think there are any fruits on just yet, it should be fine, I thought. Surely the goats will head for the new clover instead of the tiny little buds on the branches. You know the answer to that already, don't you?
That's right, they headed straight to the grapevine, looking over their shoulders to see if I would notice. Honestly! They know they are NOT allowed to eat the grapevine. Even goats have a sense of right and wrong.

 And just like humans, goats give in to temptation. So I shooed them back into the fold and locked the gate. They weren't happy about the gate, but I wasn't happy with them out of the gate. Someone has to be in charge when they go astray, and I am that one. Who is in charge of you when you stray?

After You Count Your Chickens, Release Them

In the cold before Spring, small, black balls of fluff were deposited into my care. The weather turned raw and bitter, and I kept the heat lamp burning, often checking through the night to be sure it was still lit. I fed the chicks daily, watered them even more often, and soothingly talked to them. They grew strong, and soon it was time to release them into the world of grown-up chickens.


The other chickens pecked the young ones. They made the little chicks wait their turn to eat and drink. They drove the youngsters away from the best roosting spots. The old ladies were mean and spiteful, but they never seriously hurt the chicks. The babies just needed to learn the rules of the game.
 

 

It is painful to watch, but at some time all chicks must be released into the world of the grown-ups. The heat lamp is off at our house.

Sabbath Rest

Fwoof, fwoof, fwoof. Nose to the ground, blowing air through his lips to raise the scent to his nose, Captain, a fourteen month old beagle, is all about finding the cat or rabbit daring to cross his territory. He knows his job, track the rascally varmint, and he does it with all of his might.

Smell the trail, track the cat, that’s his job, and he is going to do it come Hell or high water. In fact, he does it so intently that he often misses the actual cat or rabbit. He has often passed right by the cat, sitting quietly in a clump of high grass, because his nose is to the ground.

Once, Captain tracked the scent of the cat right up to the tail end of the sleeping beast. Startled by actually finding what he was looking for, Captain stopped, looked at the cat for a few seconds and then glanced at me. It was as if he was asking, “Now what?”

Some of us get so caught up in our work that we also don’t know what to do once we actually reach the goal.

ü  Get to work, finish the proposal
ü  Pick up treats for kid’s class
ü  Mow yard
ü  Stop at cleaners
ü  Take dinner to sick

We focus so hard on getting all of the items checked off the to-do list that we forget the purpose of the list in the first place.

“I will praise you, O Lord, with all my heart.

I will tell of all your wonders.
I will be glad and rejoice in you;
I will sing praise to your name, O Most High.”
Psalm 9:1-2

Our work is to do what the Father gives us to do, and do it for His glory. But God never burdens us with a load too heavy or a task too difficult. His yoke is easy, and His burden is light, remember?

What? You’re worn out? You don’t feel like the burden is light? You feel like you’re walking uphill under a ninety pound knapsack full of pointy, pokey bricks?

Then, like Captain, you have probably forgotten why you are doing this job, living this life. It is time for you to rest and renew your purpose.

I know, I know. You don’t have time to rest, to stop working, to lift your nose from the path. I know. You’re better than God. You don’t need a Sabbath.

And you know foolish talk when you hear it. So stop and listen to what you are really saying, and rest. Then you will know what to do when you come upon the cat.

“I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone O Lord, make me dwell in safety.” Psalm 4:8

Providing for the Future

Beulah lived a life. She raised children, put up with a Tom Cat husband, and fed her family. She taught those children the difference between right and wrong, to love others, and to look for the best in people.
Ora, Beulah's daughter, took her mother's teachings to heart and worked hard. She married for life, raised two daughters, cared for the poor, and looked for the best in people.
Ora's daughter, Connie, lived a life as well. She loved the man she married, raised two boys into good men, taught children in the home and schools their letters and numbers and the difference between right and wrong, and she looked for the best in people.
Connie's son, raised by these outstanding women, married me. He treats me like a queen and his children like princes destined to take over the Kingdom.
130 years ago Beulah's mother had no idea what would happen in the future, but she provided what was needed to make it prosper. May I have eyes to see so far into the distance as well.