Thus spake John Chrysostom:

                                                                                                                              

"The potency of prayer hath subdued the strength of fire;

 it hath bridled the rage of lions, hushed anarchy to rest, 

extinguished wars, appeased the elements, expelled demons, burst the chains of death, 

expanded the gates of heaven, assuaged diseases, repelled frauds, 

rescued cities from destruction, stayed the sun in its course, 

and arrested the progress of the thunderbolt. 

Prayer is an all-efficient panoply, 

a treasure undiminished, 

a mine which is never exhausted, 

a sky unobscured by clouds, 

a heaven unruffled by the storm. 

It is the root, the fountain, the mother of a thousand blessings."

[far beyond the stars]

Peace
Henry Vaughan

My soul, there is a country

Far beyond the stars,

Where stands a winged sentry

All skilful in the wars:

There, above noise and danger, 

Sweet peace sits crown'd with smiles,

And One born in a manger 

Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious Friend,

And (O my soul, awake!)

Did in pure love descend 

To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither, 

There grows the flower of Peace,

The rose that cannot wither, 

Thy fortress, and thy ease.

Leave then thy foolish ranges; 

For none can thee secure
But One who never changes,
                                    Thy God, thy life, thy cure.                               

(photo by jcs: sunset over the Nicoya Peninsula)                                                               

                                                                                                      

visit to Antietam

Cornflowers fringe the edge of the North Woods (no trees remain, just golden wheat).

Hooker's men died here, trying to breach the rebel's northern flank.

Maryland soil stained with Pennsylvania blood (trees splintered, leaves wet).

South Mountain shrouded in haze, hailstorm of shells, bullets.

Sweet September day, when brother fought brother.

All beauties of field and forest swallowed by the crimson question:

is the cause worthy?

"My heart was saying, 'Lord take away this longing, or give me that for which I long.' 

The Lord was answering, 'I must teach you to long for something better.'" -E. Elliot

[prayers made out of grass]

Mindful
Mary Oliver

 Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant -
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light
of the world,
the ocean's shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

I follow Christ (Romans 7:24)

I save a judas-kiss for Sunday,
knowing even as I kneel before Him
that I have my price.
My mind wanders, turning aside to paths
strewn with skulls, nakedness, depravity.

A cold chill sets in. To ward it off,

I wrap myself in grave-cloths, instead

of sheltering in His arms. 

Hungry, I eat sand. Thirsty, I swallow brackish slime. 

Still wiping the mire from my face, I encounter another saint.

Thick smile, a nod, and then I praise Him with my dirty lips...

another layer of whitewash. It does not take long

for it to harden into a shell, shutting out the light, 

trapping in the filth. 

Oh wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?

CRACK! A terrible wrenching sound - the Word!

Searing purity, acid eating through the stale veneer...

the grave-cloths instantly disintegrate. My core

exposed. I grovel, vomit, and begin to sob. 

I see His hands, His feet, His side. The thorns.

The nakedness. My shame His covering, 

my foul words in His ears, my deeds stamped

upon His perfect life. 

Unthinkable - He calls my name! 

If I touch Him, I will only further humiliate Him.

He calls again. 

It is agony. 

Repent and believe!

He prays for me. 

I weep. 

What manner of Love is this? 

I weep. 

What kind of God would send His Son?

I weep. 

This God. Him. Jesus.

I repent. He picks me out of my vomit,

embraces me, bathes me, heals me,

and sets my feet, my mind, my soul

upon the Rock. 

Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!

-by j. cate smith

 

[nature loves secrets & so do I]

a turquoise moment dropped into my lap

mixed with peacock blue & sunset over water -

Oh Lord Creator!

how blessed I am to be your daughter!

take a moment and remember:

         the ocean is not that far away...

the deer ate all of them,
except this one.

the Word

the word is the Word,

the Word is a sword,

the Sword is the perfect,

just Law of the Lord.

It struck God’s own heart -

In mercy He smote

His Heart from its home,

the Word from His throat.

God became man.

Man became sin,

and Sin became death,

and Death became victory

at God's final breath.

Angels aghast saw Glory in pain.

the Word spat from God's mouth,

the Trinity slain.

Demons rejoiced -

Hope was in vain.

but Hope is the Light,

and the Light is the Word

and the Word is the Savior

who rescued the world.

Payment was paid, 

bloodguilt atoned - 

Triumphant the Rock

Who is the capstone.

- j. cate smith

Be. Patient.

WWAGGD?

mini pig

photo from: http://scienceblogs.com/zooillogix/2008/03/miniature_pigs_pets_of_the_fut.php

"Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in it?" 


The best letter-of-complaint-EVER!

very cool: Shabby Blogs

Dear world:

Too much of my life is too serious to take blogging seriously.

Seriously.

Love,
me

saturday: good things

patience, young padawan

work in progress

brain-ups

the bluebird of happiness lives in our pond. true story.

the work in progress progresses