The Power of Obedience

11/26/23

Walls cast shadows.

Light gets through

the cracks of the day:

 

Moments of obedience.

Moments of faith.

Moments that define us.

Moments of grace.

 

The power of obedience

is the paradox of eternity

packed tightly into grape clusters

that burst into time and space.

 

Not your Precious Moments figurines

but sleep-deprived warriors

with holsters for concealer and coffee.

Quick on the draw to conceal lines on their face

and savor the passing whiff of a fresh pot percolate.

 

Single moms

in carpool lanes

schlepping kids

to practices, appointments,

rehearsals and games

in minivans well spent

that all smell the same—

sour milk stained into the fabric of motherhood.

 

Or perhaps your pasture is greener,

maybe it’s filled with rocks,

perhaps you’re low on the totem pole

hiding money in socks

or maybe you’re just misunderstood.

 

It makes no difference,

we’re all called to bend a knee

in order to stand,

carving out time,

craving real intimacy.

 

Time waits for no one

yet we seize the day.

 

An hour,

five minutes,

whatever we can spare

proves we’re soldiers

in God’s army,

an infantry

interlocking fingers of faith

when we pray.

 

Every day is a battle,

a pinprick or gushing wound

from the crossfire of bullets,

 

an infirmary of minutes,

bandages on the hour,

 

calluses on disciplined minds,

mending papercuts on hearts

that turn the page of time.

11/5/24

Kernels of gold sowed in sweat. Embodied husks designed to protect. Multicolored grain, a heavenly harvest. The plague in the Garden— one locust started— the Reaper ransoms to forget.   A rotted ear only hears the screams of its own dissection, an eternity of introspection. Rows of corn restless with guilt. The cup of wrath…

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10/18/24

Christmas for Ginny has always been the most important day of the year. It’s a magical day when anything is possible, like the unprecedented miracle of God taking on human form; it’s when a supernatural star led the Magi to the infant God-man, lying helplessly in a symbolic feeding trough; and it’s when men met God face-to-Face in a humble manger to worship him and feed from him. Ginny loves Christmas for both its majestic beauty and historical truth. She understands, however, that this sacred day has been tainted with folklore and commercialism, but experience and wisdom enable her to see these gilded traditions as a way to bridge the gap between the sacred and the profane. For Ginny, a gift for someone special on Christmas is a reminder of the greatest Gift ever given. So naturally Ginny wants to give Brad something special for Christmas. But she, too, finds herself without two pennies to rub together. Then, suddenly, an idea flashes across her mind that makes her eyes water, feeling the internal warmth that comes with giving wholeheartedly.

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10/17/24

Ten years ago, my parents, Robert and Sheila, were killed in a car accident on Christmas Day. A head on collision with a drunk driver took them away from me. It turned out that both front airbags were defective. They were coming back from looking at Christmas lights. My seven-year-old daughter was in the back seat. She was not wearing her seatbelt. She was thrown from the wreckage. She died instantly.

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