STAR KING

For the creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God.    Romans 8:19-21 NIV

Can you imagine a perfect creation’s pain when it was broken by man’s sin? Can you imagine how this unceasing pain has plagued creation through the grinding centuries?

Close your eyes. 

Now…

See sudden light shatter the darkness

        When angels sang to shepherds.

Hear all creation cry, “Hosanna!”

        To its Hope, its Redeemer.

See them dance, Abraham’s holy stars,

        Dancing bright in the night sky.

They whirl to the music of angels,

        Glad light in broken darkness.

The greatest star stoops to the manger;

        Soft glow caresses the Babe.

Mute voice of all, the Star-King whispers,

        “Wondrous Child, my Creator…”

Then, hurled by inexpressible joy

        Into the highest heaven,

He shouts, “Tremble, thou Earth,

        At the Presence of the God of Jacob!”

And wise men draw near. 

Avi, thank You for the message of the stars.* Thank You for putting eternity in our hearts, for giving us a hunger for what we do not know. Thank You for giving us the small measure of wisdom we needed to seek You. Give us more hunger, more wisdom, that we might draw even nearer to You. We need You—and those of us who know You love You.

In Your Holy Name, Amen.

*Romans 1:20

HOUND OF HEAVEN

He answered and said, “I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked, so I hid.” Genesis 3:10 NIV

I was taken to Sunday School and taught that God is love. I believed that—but I didn’t believe God or anyone else could love me because I couldn’t live up to legalistic standards. Love had to be earned, and the rules for getting it were always changing.

God chased me through the years, through all the brief pleasures and interests I tried to find purpose and relationship in. (Mainly crafts, pets, books.) Still trying to live up to legalism, I even tried church once when I first went away to school. Very bad experience, long story.

The last valley was my first marriage at 40. Six years of control freak temper tantrums came close to convincing me I really must be worthless. At the end of that time I wasn’t a pile of broken pieces; I was a pile of dust.

Two things got through to me.

One: my ex would watch the beginning of Jimmy Swaggert’s TV program, then turn it off when the preaching came on. I liked the music, but what really pulled at me was what I saw in John Starnes’ face as he sang. Whatever it was, I wanted it.

Two: If something mattered enough for me to talk back to my ex, he’d choose one small detail and hammer at it for days: “Why did you use that word and not this one?” One day I got so frustrated I just threw up my hands and said, “Oh, God!” He snapped back, “You’d better call on somebody you know a little better.”

That cold shock was the end of it. God had me up a dead end alley with nowhere else to run from Him—and I was still scared of Him. But when I screwed up my courage to turn and face what I knew was coming from this angry God, His arms were wide open, His tender hunger for me unmistakable. What was left of me just finished crumbling. I didn’t yet know Wayne Watson’s song, Rose-Colored Glasses, but I felt one line of it all the way through me: “I am my God’s desire.” *

There were no words between us, no “sinner’s prayer”, but He could hear the words of my heart. I was dead, rotten all the way through, and I wanted to live. I wanted love, the real two-way kind.

Now I know I’ve already been through the worst I’ll ever have to go through—because I’ll never again have to go through anything alone.

Saint Patrick said, “Belong to God and become a wonder to yourself.” That’s true. I’m real now; I’m what I was supposed to be all along. And that pile if dust I was? He put His Light in there, and the pile started glowing warm and bright, coming together in a clean new vessel. It’s still inside this old jar of clay, but it’s there. And one day after all the days are gone, everyone will get to see it. And for now, other people get to warm up at His fire in me.   

Avi, again I have no words but the words of my grateful heart. Hear me, and know how much I love You. In Your Holy Name, Amen.

·         https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pEQ5jxLV14g

UNSEEN

Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. John 12:24 NASB

Preacher preached on faith. After the sermon he passed out mustard seeds, potting soil, tiny clay pots, pens to write good stuff on the little pots.

We named our babies Faith and Hope. Faith like a mustard seed. Hope in the One who gives life to all, new life abundant to those who believe Him, believe in Him, and accept Him. After a week or two, we transplanted Faith and Hope into bigger pots. As I wrote on their new pots, I got to thinking about what God might write on them, what He might write on me. Our faith is life, life in the One who created us, grieved for us, sought us, bought us at an unfathomable price.

And our hope is in death! Because from death to self comes true life in Him. And we get to live this new life instead of the old broken one we traded in. Who can understand that mystery?

When I took Faith and Hope to church—they begged to go, y’all—I found only one whose plant was still alive, but stunted in its original tiny pot.

As those tiny mustard seeds need to grow, so does our faith. As the tiny plants have needs to be met before they can grow—fertility, good soil, water, sun, just enough wind to strengthen them, protection from too much of anything—so it is with our faith.

But not to fear. The Master Gardener knows just what each plant needs. He prepares the soil just so, plowing deep to show us our need and awaken our hunger. He offers the good seed, plants it just so. He never plants the seed too deep to find its way to the Light. He never leaves His plants too long in tiny pots to cramp their roots. He never sits His plants in dark corners (even if it sometimes feels like it) where they wither for lack of sun. He never leaves our baby faith unprotected in storm winds too strong, flood waters too deep.

Then He talks to the tiny plants, encourages them, touches them tenderly.

And yeah, He even names them.    

Thank You for choosing me to receive Your seed of hope, Avi. Thank You for tending it just so. Most of all, thank You for preparing my soil. I treasure all the lessons of the past that showed my desperate need for You. Remind me over and over of my own responsibility: To suck it up. To suck it all up, as much as I can hold of You.

In Your Holy Name, Amen

PRAYER WAGON

Who then is the one who condemns? No one. Jesus Christ who died—more than that, who was raised to life—is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us. Romans 8:34 NIV

I woke in the middle of the night wondering about the people from years ago—15, 20, 25 +++ years—who have long since fallen off the back of my prayer wagon.

The gospel singer who woke in me a hunger for what I saw in his face as he sang. The vicious ex-husband who pushed me to the end of myself and into Jesus’ arms.

The speeding Walter Mitty (Google that, young’uns) off duty fireman responsible for the fender bender I got the ticket for; praying that the shame I saw in his face as he lied in court would work him all the way to Jesus. The judge in that traffic court who pounded his gavel and said about my defense, “I don’t want to hear it. Guilty!”

The guy who followed me into a parking lot to confront me. His impotent road rage—angels, y’all—as he turned and pounded his fist into his own truck.

Long time members of our local congregation retired and moved away. The “all faiths minister” who refused to hear of the Way, the Truth, the Life.

I didn’t dump them. New riders boarding in the front crowded them back and back until they just fell off. Didn’t miss them right away. Got my eyes front watching for hitchhikers, weary pilgrims on the road ahead.

Prayer warrior? Me? Sometimes I feel like it isn’t a warhorse pulling my wagon, but Balaam’s donkey.

But I have access to my God’s ear and His heart. Gotta use it, even when I’m weary and overwhelmed.

Once in a while I remember to circle around and pick those folks up again—but my wagon’s tiny and they just keep getting crowded out.

Sometimes I even fall off my own wagon.

But Jesus has the granddaddy of all prayer wagons, room for me and all the yous out there who ever were or will be. I’ll never be crowded off His wagon, never fall off unnoticed. Nobody will. One day I won’t be here to drive this rickety wagon anymore, but He’ll still be driving in style. Best ride ever. Get your thumbs out there, y’all!

Avi, thank You for my prayer wagon, splinter seat, wobbly wheels and all. Thank You for the privilege of driving it for You. Help me to be faithful.

In Your Holy Name, Amen

FLIGHT RISK

Listen! I will tell you a mystery. We will not all sleep but we will all be changed. In a flash, in a twinkling of an eye at the last trumpet, the trumpet will sound and the dead will be raised imperishable and we will be changed.                                                                      I Corinthians 15:51,52

Don’t count on me. I might—make that I’m gonna—skip out on you. You can count on me doing my best as long as I’m here—but don’t count on me being here.

I’m a certified, dyed-in-the-wool flight risk.

What would happen if I stood before a judge and said that? I don’t have money for the bond he’d jack up on me, if he gave me any bond at all.

But my whole penalty is paid, my whole sentence already served. I’ve got a ticket to ride, debt-free and clear, bought and paid for and given to me.

This world is not my home. When my Father comes to get me, there’s nothing stopping him (not even that earthly judge’s jail cell) from taking this born-again flight risk outta here, all the way to the Home He’s building for me.

Ain’t workin’ no notice, either! Don’t count on me. I’m outta here.

But you know who you can count on? The One who’s coming to take me to my real Home, the God of all Creation.

What will it be like to fly with You, Avi? And without a plane!

When I went for a glider ride, the pilot put me in the front seat, nothing between me and the open sky but the glider’s nose and the tail of the tow plane at the other end of a heavy yellow rope. (No fear; I knew You wouldn’t drop me.) Then the pilot told me to pull the yellow handle and we were free, soaring through the clouds, looking down as we left this world behind, looking up and wondering how far it was to Home.

Time too short. I wanted to stay up there, going higher and higher.

But that little flight memory can’t compare to the reality when You come for us and we taste true freedom, flying with You into Eternity, Home at last. 

Even so, come, Lord Jesus.

In Your Holy Name, Amen.

SECRET WEAPON

He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.  Psalm 91:4 NIV

I might look at you and wonder how you can carry such a load. I might look at you and wonder how you can get away with so little. You might look at me and wonder about me. How can I ‘complain’ when my visible load seems so small to you?

The truth is that God customizes each of our loads. Heavy not to crush but to build our strength. Heavy enough that we cannot carry it alone. Heavy enough to encourage us to turn to Him. I cannot judge your load. I cannot judge your strengths or your weaknesses. You cannot know mine.

God gave me an intuitive awareness of the inner needs of others. He gave me a spiritual gift: to touch people with His mercy. He gave me people, purpose, pets. These things rub against each other like tectonic plates. When the pressure is too great, the earth shifts and  throws me to my face flat on the gritty emotional ground, my load grinding into my spirit.

Last Tuesday my load shifted beyond balance. I spent the day trying to decide whether to give up my dogs. True, Jesus entrusted them to me. True, every dog I’ve ever had has been a much-needed emotional support animal, whether vindicated by a certificate or not. True, I owe dogs big time, long story. True, they’re sensate creatures with strong attachments who would grieve deeply.

Without the dogs, no more friction from the canine tectonic plate. I could give more to people, enjoy visitors without fearing for the dogs' sense of peace and safety. Without the dogs, we wouldn’t be tied down, could travel.  

But to betray them would be to betray the God who entrusted them to me. (Proverbs 12:10) I can’t throw them back into the rescue system. Frightened and confused, they wouldn’t show well enough to find new homes, and older dogs rarely do as well with re-homing.  I can’t put them down without living with a tremendous sense of guilt and regret added to my load—and the load would be even more off kilter without their love and with the added weight of resentment at being forced to this choice. 

But as much as they matter to God, people made in His image matter more—and I cannot balance them.

Without my ESA’s, could I write? No more weight on the pet corner, the purpose corner crashing down on the people corner, shattered. Two legs gone of the three. How long can I teeter on one? Without them, would I have anything left for people? People are very draining to us strong introverts, more so without opportunity to refill with uninterrupted solitude—and with ESA’s.

Avi, help!

Late that night, I walked down with my girls to secure the gate. Looked up. A wide contrail, one edge blown into streaks by the upper winds. Centered in the sharper edge, a waxing gibbous moon. Feathers! The moon had wings! Wings like my Father’s wings, spread wide to shelter me.

Satan doesn’t give up easy. One really bad day, a moment of comfort, then another heavy day—but God doesn’t give up, either. I woke this morning with songs in my head and a realization: the problem is my new pocket tape recorder! When that old devil tries to sit heavy on my soul, I pull out my pocket music and he has to scat. 

But the new one has no music on it yet!  

David had to encourage himself with his psalms, reminders of God’s faithfulness—and so do I. Without this secret weapon there’s a chink in my armor, a crack in my helmet. I don’t doubt that Jesus has and will save me—in the long run.  But I also have no doubt  He’ll let me feel as if my burden will crush me—in the short run.

I cannot walk on water if I take my eyes from Him. Music focuses my gaze, pulls it from the stormy waters. He Touched Me—and I am healed, whole. A Mighty Fortress—a strong, safe place to shelter in, to fight from. Near to the Heart of God—where I belong as I’ve never belonged in this world, where I will stay. 

Avi, how do I find words to thank You? I have none. Help me to live a life of thankfulness. In Your Holy Name, Amen.  

WHO AM I?

So in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ.              Galatians 3:26,27 NIV

Ads for checking out genealogical sites. Ads for checking out who you are and where you came from. Yeah, my mind is so weird that I’m pretty sure there must have been some really interesting people back there somewhere in my ancestry.

I know a little. My folks are from England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. At least that’s what I’ve been told; I wasn’t there yet. My Irish grandmother’s greatest source of pride was that she was born on Saint Patrick’s Day. Don’t know what I’d find way back to be proud of—or ashamed of. Was Florence Nightingale my great, great, great, great grandma? Was Abraham Lincoln my great, great, great, great granddaddy? Or maybe John Wilkes Booth or Benedict Arnold? I don’t look like the pictures of any of them.

Doesn’t matter. I don’t take other folks failures—or successes— personally, no matter who they are. I’m responsible for my own reputation, and nobody else’s.  

But I’m curious, and I’d like to check it out someday. Maybe. I hear there’s a downside to those sites. Privacy, discrimination from insurance companies if there’s a history of health problems, the chance of a devastating blow to your self-esteem, etc.

I’m way more interested in my spiritual ancestry. Who told the ones who told me? Who told those people, and who those, and who those? Does my lineage trace back through one of the great revivals? One of Billy Graham’s crusades? The 1904 revival in Wales? The First Great Awakening with Jonathan Edwards in 1727? One of Paul’s missionary journeys? Pentecost in AD 30?

Were my spiritual ancestors giants of the faith, or simple, saintly prayer warriors? Were their births easy or difficult? What were their struggles? What were their successes?

One day I’ll find out and get to thank them.

Avi, thank You for all those souls who were faithful to share Your truth with those who followed them. No matter the path, my lineage traces straight back to You. Now, that’s something to be proud of!

In Your Holy Name, Amen

PASSION

But be sure to fear the LORD and serve Him faithfully with all your heart; consider what great things He has done for you. I Samuel 12:24 NIV

Squirrels run wild in our yard, which doesn’t suit our terrier mixes. Or maybe it does. All three burn with passion to take them on—and when a squirrel hits the ground on the other side of a fence, major frustration.   

I know that feeling. When I’m hot on the trail, trying to capture a thought or insight or scene with pen and ink, but folks and circumstances interrupt and those words escape to hide and taunt me, I am lost. That frustration can burn holes in a soul, like in the Langston Hughes poem, A Raisin in the Sun.* 

  

What’s a passionate soul to do?

Wait on Jesus, because some of those interruptions are my work for that day. Sometimes the small things are that day’s large things, because those interruptions are part of my spiritual gift. I touch people, sometimes with my hands or a hug, sometimes just listening, sometimes with the words I write.

But still I count down the days of my life, wondering if I’ll ever get to publish my series, or even finish one book.

That’s His call.

All I have to do is stay close to Him and let Him choose each day’s assignment. Eventually He’ll make a way back to my God-given passion, will help me to finish what He’s given me to write. But whether He lets me publish in my lifetime or not, He will not waste these stories. Maybe He’ll use them after I’m gone. Maybe they’ll be left behind to shine His light for folks who’re still here after we’re raptured.

Little is much when God is in it.  

Avi, thank You. Thank You for the talent and stories You’ve given me, the desire to write them well. Thank You for the compassion You placed in me, for the awareness to see who needs You in me each day. Help me to be faithful. Help me to be patient. Most of all, thank You for doing the work through me, for I cannot.

In Your Holy Name, Amen.

                     

EULOGY

For am I now seeking the approval of human beings, or of God? Or am I trying to please people? If I were still trying to please people, I would not be a servant of Christ.            Galatians 1:10 NIV

Saturday was a rare day for me. I don’t usually spend time comparing myself with others.

Crowded funeral. Eulogy for a modest 91-year-old saint, a longtime member of our congregation. Example after example of his Christ-like spirit and love for others, his hospitality, his generosity with time, energy and resources. Reflections on how he’s enjoying Heaven now in the company of friends and family gone on, conjecture about his rewards. 

I sat there listening, wondering what the preacher might one day have to say about me. My gift isn’t so visible. My labors aren’t so obvious and outward, especially to casual observers.   

But you never know who’s watching, or how hard they’re looking, or what they’re seeing, or what light they’re shining on you. Each person, no matter how open or insightful or intuitive, interprets what he/she is seeing in the light of his/her own ideas and life experience. Not something to fret about, unless you notice they’re missing out on something great by not really seeing what’s there.

What do I want folks to remember about me? Like Nehemiah, I’m a little more concerned about what my God remembers me for: “Remember me, O my God, for good.” Nehemiah 13:31

No matter how small my task seems to me or to other people, little is much when God is in it.

And Heaven, my rewards? Yeah, I want my new body and my new house and my white horse and a good job and lots of rewards—but no worries. He’ll be fair.

So the preacher can say whatever he wants. I hope by then our new preacher knows me well enough to get it right. But it’s OK if he doesn’t. Jesus, my very great reward, knows me all the way through.

Avi, like Abram, I cling to Your comfort and Your promise: “Do not be afraid, Abram. I am your shield, your very great reward.” You are enough, Avi, both now and forevermore. In Your Holy Name, Amen.    

Bottom of Form

GOOD DIRT

As (the farmer) was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants. Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown. Whoever has ears, let them hear.”           Matthew 13:4-9 NIV

We haven’t gotten many blueberries for the past couple of years. Besides birds stealing the fruit, too much rain caused the berries to split as they were ripening.

I was excited when my Jelly Bean blueberries came. Small enough to plant in one of my raised beds with a wire frame to keep the birds from stealing the fruit, with a plastic cover to keep out too much water when it rains too much. But that bed is the spot, no other, and the soil test was way off from what they need. Lots of work, but the soil is amended and the blueberries are in the ground, waiting for spring.

A question in Sunday School: Why does faith seem to come so much easier for some people than for others?

Some possible answers: Maybe it’s because the Master Gardener plowed their ground a little deeper. Maybe He moved most of the rocks out, worked that soil, fertilizing, composting, building it up to make it ready to accept and nourish the seed. Maybe He watered it just enough, gave it just the right balance of sun and shade, chose the right season for planting, chose the right mulch.

Soil preparation is important. And after all that preparation, even good soil needs tending. Weeds can grow there just as easily as good plants can. 

  

Soul preparation can be even more important. 

Some soul weeds, especially young ones, need only a gentle tug to dislodge them. But some—pride, selfishness, antipathy, indifference, greed, prosperity—send down deep roots so strong only the Master Gardener’s plow can remove every piece of living root and keep them from growing again.

What am I, Avi? Am I an orchard? Am I a tiny herb plot? Am I a broad, sun-kissed grain field, or shaded for more tender plants?

How am I to know? And what does it matter, anyway? I’m just the right size, just the right texture and pH, with just the right amount of sunlight and water for what You, the Master Gardener, have chosen to grow in me.

Grow my faith in You even deeper, Avi. Let Your word in me choke out the weeds. Take Your hoe to those that won’t choke and, for those still too large, bring on Your plow.

In Your Holy Name, Amen.

MOONSHINE

In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven. Matthew 5:16 NIV

I sat outside one summer night because it was reported that Mars would be visible just below the moon and a little to the right. I held one hand just so, then both hands, to block the moonlight from both eyes and let me see the sky field. But there was spotty cloud cover, and they didn’t say how far below or how far to the right. I never saw Mars, so I sat there watching the moon.

My thinker turned on. Thinking about being a moon for Jesus.

The moon has no light of its own—but in the bright light of a full moon, you can see well enough to walk without stumbling. You can see to walk across the yard and not step in dog poopy, if the grass is short enough. You can even see to read, if you stand with your back to the moon and the print is large enough and close enough to your face, and if there’s enough contrast.

The moon has no light of its own. Nor have we, citizens of this broken world. Just as the moon reflects the light of our sun into Earth’s night, so we, children of the Living God, are to reflect the Light of the Son into Earth’s spiritual night, lighting it with His glory, His majesty, His love.

But sometimes I don’t feel like light. Sometimes I feel dark. When I get so tired I let my emotions overwhelm me, it’s time to step back for some one-on-one time with the Son. Maybe even a nap in His arms, working on my tan.

Thank You for bringing me in from the darkness to Your Living Light, Avi. Wipe away any specks of dirt You find that sully Your reputation. Smooth the rough craters in me that cast shadows and distort Your image. Let people see Your true Light in me.

In Your holy Name, Amen.

COOKIE  WARNING

If you do warn (him) you will have saved yourself. Since you did not warn him… I will hold you accountable for his blood. Ezekiel 3:19,20 NIV

I’m a reasonably good cook with most things I take the trouble to cook. Can’t get fancy with it. But hey, cookies are simple and easy, and I do pretty well.  

Now there’s a law somewhere far away, as far as my posts can go, that says I have to warn people if I’m serving up cookies on my blog site. I don’t know how to get the cookies from the oven to the Internet, and the ingredients are too expensive for me to send cookies to everyone, anyway.    

Old ladies shouldn’t have to learn all this computer stuff. There are far more important things to spend what’s left of my time and brainpower on.

I should resent having to warn people about my cooking—I really don’t think it deserves a warning—but I’m not that sensitive about it. Taste for yourself, pick and choose and eat what you want, don’t eat what you don’t want. Just assume you’re invited to the cookie party and, if you don’t like mine, cook your own.

But the notice said that, while Blogger did me the courtesy of taking care of this, in the end I’m responsible for being sure the warning is there. So, here it is: There might be some of my own delicious cookies on my site; they have a way of disappearing, like socks in the dryer, never to be seen again. There might be someone else’s cookies there, dark, burned ones. How am I to know? I can’t see them or smell them or taste them, but they might be there, wrapped in foil to keep them safe or to hide them from the diet police. And, Heaven forbid, someone might be allergic to the peanut butter ones or someone might not be able to handle the sugar.

If anyone can’t eat peanut butter or sugar, this is a warning: STAY AWAY! Because if my cookies got in there, I don’t know how to get them out. Maybe some kind readers can eat them all in time to save the rest of us.

To me, there are other things more important to be warned about, like missing the Wedding Supper of the Lamb. You don’t want to miss that! You can eat all you want of anything you want from that table, every kind of cookie there is, stuff we can’t even imagine, no allergies, no dieting. And the company is out of this world. You have a standing invitation from Jesus, the God who made you, paid your spiritual debts, stamped your ticket to your own personal abundant life of real peace with God both here and forever.

All you have to do is RSVP your acceptance directly to Him.

OK, now I’ve warned you of my cookies and of the danger of missing out on abundant life in Jesus here, missing out on Heaven forever. Now I’m innocent of your blood.

Avi, I did what I could here. Now, will you fill in the blanks for each and every one who reads this? Show them who You really are, and how much You love them, how much You want them. In Your Holy Name, Amen.

MOUNTAIN CLIMBING SONG

Those who trust in the LORD are like Mount Zion, which cannot be shaken but endures forever. As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the LORD surrounds his people both now and forevermore. PSALM 125:1,2 NIV

It’s all still up in the air. Three weeks into the government shutdown, people needing their money to live on, pawns in this political battle. Thousands of hopefuls making the deadly trek to our southern border, ready to break our immigration laws—those laws Congress hasn’t already hamstrung. Many dangerous types infiltrating their number with an eye to harming us, many of our citizens robbed, raped, tortured, killed.

Will our President use his emergency powers to build this wall of purpose and compassion?

Me, sometimes I think Congress—the stonewalling for personal ambition part—is a national emergency.

God doesn’t have to use His emergency powers to protect us. He has none, needs none. He has all power. What He says He can do. What He says He will do. What He says He wants to do. (Not like Congress.)

No one can say to Him, “What do You think You’re doing?!” No one, no politicians, no liberal judges, can say, ‘No’, to Him and make it stick.  

The US border wall may or may not happen—but what is that to us, the children of our God? Whatever the world may plan or attempt, He surrounds us with His love, His power, His protection. And, He doesn’t have to summon up emergency powers to do it.

Pray for His wisdom, His purpose, His plan. Thank Him for the wall He is around us.

Hit the link to hear the verses above sung. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vfPC7JpBx_w

Avi, what a privilege You are to us. I have no words. In Your Holy Name, Amen.