Saturday, August 12, 2017





"Please Help Me - My weakness is lack of faith in God. I agree this is my weakness. I need help finding the love in such darkness. I feel like my mind and soul have been shrouded in a dark dense fog. I’m trying hard to find the love of God but I've experienced such darkness in my life, it has been very difficult. Why is this so hard for me? What should I do differently? Is there any hope for me? When will the darkness end?" --- 
This is a prayer request from the jail, please join me in praying for them.

Thursday, August 10, 2017



The following is by Robert Louis Stevenson, and it is a random thought about the pursuits of life illustrated by an old fable. I love Stevenson's writings, they never fail to interest me.

 "There is one fable that touches very near the quick of life: the fable of the monk who passed into the woods, heard a bird break into song, hearkened for a trill or two, and found himself on his return a stranger at his convent gates; for he had been absent fifty years, and of all his comrades there survived but one to recognize him. It is not only in the woods that this enchanter carols, though perhaps he is native there. He sings in the most doleful places. The miser hears him and chuckles, and the days are moments. With no more apparatus than an ill-smelling lantern I have evoked him on the naked links. All life that is not merely mechanical is spun out of two strands: seeking for that bird and hearing him. And it is just this that makes life so hard to value, and the delight of each so incommunicable. And just a knowledge of this, and a remembrance of those fortunate hours in which the bird has sung to us, that fills us with such wonder when we turn the pages of the realist. There, to be sure, we find a picture of life in so far as it consists of mud and of old iron, cheap desires and cheap fears, that which we are ashamed to remember and that which we are careless whether we forget; but of the note of that time-devouring nightingale we hear no news."



Tuesday, August 08, 2017


In a story by Robert Louis Stevenson he relates sitting on a pile of rocks resting after a rigorous walk, when a beggar woman approached him and they began a warm conversation. Then came along a young Englishman who was an evangelist. Here he tells what happened next.


  "I had been noticing the approach of a tall man, with a high white hat and darkish clothes. He came up the hill at a rapid pace, and joined our little group with a sort of half-salutation. Turning at once to the woman, he asked her in a business-like way whether she had anything to do, whether she were a Catholic or a Protestant, whether she could read, and so forth; and then, after a few kind words and some sweeties to the child, he dispatched the mother with some tracts about Biddy and the Priest, and the Orangeman’s Bible. I was a little amused at his abrupt manner, for he was still a young man, and had somewhat the air of a navy officer; but he tackled me with great solemnity. I could make fun of what he said, for I do not think it was very wise; but the subject does not appear to me just now in a jesting light, so I shall only say that he related to me his own conversion, which had been effected (as is very often the case) through the agency of a gig accident, and that, after having examined me and diagnosed my case, he selected some suitable tracts from his repertory, gave them to me, and, bidding me God-speed, went on his way."

  This struck me as the way much evangelism is done today, with little thought for the welfare of people, but with a steadfast determination to "share the gospel."  

Monday, July 31, 2017


Discontent


"A MAIDEN dwelt in fabled Thrace
So light of form, so fair of face,
So like the spirit of the dew,
The sunbeams would not let her pass,
Nor yield her shadow to the grass:
They kissed her, clasped her, shone her through:

And all wild things for her were tame;
The eagle to her beck'ning came,
The stag forgot that he was fleet,
The cruel little pebbles rolled
Their flinty edges in the mould,
And turned their smoothness to her feet.

Whene'er she slept, the birds were hushed;
And When she woke, the lilies blushed;
The roses paled, for very joy.
'Twas whispered that a star each night
Forsook its heaven, and took delight
To be her jewel or her toy.

Whene'er she wept -- Oh! could she weep?
Could any shade of sorrow creep
O'er one so born to pleasure's throne?
Ah! me, she drowned the brook with tears,
Her sighs come floating down the years,
She taught the wind its minor tone.

Away from marvels, worship, state,
Her yearning gaze burned, desolate,
To where, beyond a chasm's breach,
Upon a pathless crag, there waved
A far-off blossom that she craved, --
The one sole flower - quite out of reach.

Since just that prize she could not gain,
Here whole bright world was bright in vain,
And might in vain her love beseech.
With royal bloom on every side,
She broke her heart, and pined and died; ---
For oh! that one flower out of reach.
F.F. Clark



Thursday, July 20, 2017


I never tire of posts like this, reminders that "it is better to give than receive."

Monday, July 17, 2017


Where is our God? You say, He is everywhere: then show me anywhere that you have met him. You declare him everlasting: then tell me any moment that he has been with you. You believe him ready to succor them that are tempted, and to lift those that are bowed down: then in what passionate hour did you subside into his calm grace? In what sorrow lose yourself in his “more exceeding" joy These are the testing questions by which we may learn whether we have raised our altar to an “unknown God" and pay the worship of the blind; or whether we commune with him “in whom we live, and move, and have our being. James Martineau.
  
"If Christ never deemed himself nearer to Heaven than when in the presence of the childlike heart, then the resources of a devout life cannot be remote and of difficult access, but so nigh unto us, that, if we miss them, it is from their close presence rather than their distance. James Martineau. 

Thursday, July 06, 2017



"Men never grow up to manhood as an acorn grows up into an oak-tree, Men come to it by re-births in every faculty, again, and again, and again." H.W. Beecher.

I like that, we don't grow a little each day, but rather, we have re-births, spiritual awakenings, new revelations on old truths and new break-throughs we never imagined.