I am prone to think that I know exactly what I am doing.
Until some foul foible hits home.
Just like a good game, the ocular insight of an outside look must be considered well.
Oil and Dew
Thoughts & Musings
I am prone to think that I know exactly what I am doing.
Until some foul foible hits home.
Just like a good game, the ocular insight of an outside look must be considered well.
The landscape of human existence demonstrates a dark backdrop. In Psalm 90, Moses sighs about the universal groan we deeply share about life in this broken world. In the same breath, he admonishes us to be wise by cultivating the jewel of discernment.
I know of one sojourner who knows this irony with riveted conviction. As such, she is currently being enabled by her Redeemer to pull others out of their holes by throwing a rope while tying one end at the foot of the Cross. She then jumps down to join the weary traveler towards scaling the heights.
Thank you my daughter for using your brokenness to show me the gems amidst my mud enabling me to make the climb.
All this present darkness lose their weight when confronted with Christ's resplendent light in our souls. There is no malignant sorrow poised to stand against pure joy infused upon the faithful follower of God. We sail through each storm with glad passage.
Oh to be a child of the Redeemer King ... alas! Bliss beyond compare!
Our heads are too big to fit proper goals.
There is only one way out of ego.
Release the air and resize accordingly.
The treasure of days gone by is gleaned from the vantage point of a pause.
God has been lavishing us with unrecognized gifts.
It is both necessary and astounding to rediscover the veracity of amazing grace.
Handcrafted by God.
This is how He shapes my being.
I was a monster but now a prince.
The beauty of Christ has overpowered the beast in me.
New Day.
At the garden of Gethsemane, our Redeemer wept furiously against our propensity to ignore his plea for reconciliation.
We have become ministers of forgiveness.
His shed blood both on his knees while praying and on his body while hanging breaks every psychological rig we stomp against His mercies.
Grace is an ocean, we can never drown on it for we were taught to swim by resting 365 days and 24 hours recycling until He comes.
Maranatha.
I am most cradled by joy when I take seriously the wonder of marriage. The enduring tenderness and unbridled intimacy speaks of the succulence of God's mercy towards my prodigal soul.
The great exchange from confusion to clarity begins from self to Christ.
It is impossible to comprehend human existence apart from its Maker.
The invitation to set our course on His watch is now.
The movement from childhood to maturity requires more than a glance towards the unchartered future.
We are called to enter in with vigorous faith in submission to God who pulls us into His mercies.
It is only through the painful walk of wonder do we find true escape from our wandering.
The astounding gravitas of Christ's gift of freedom grants me a most comical yet serious recognition of sin's undeniable prickliness. It is with deep joy that I am now enabled to run away from its insidious thorns.
To live life without Christ is to feign existence.
I know how it feels to not live.
I was cradled by self-imposed paralysis ...
until I went into the sanctuary of God.
The claim of Christmas is beyond ambiguity.
Fallen humanity is without hope other than Christ.
Today establishes the veracity of this historical lumen.
The rogue in our delusional hearts flee
from the intentional pursuit
of the Messiah's love.
His earthly life was bracketed by a cave and a cross.
His eternal existence causes all such parenthesis to advance His glorious will.
I am safe forever.
The story of Christmas follows a dissonant thread.
Untimely edict from Augustus Caesar forcing Mary and Joseph to travel 90 miles to Bethlehem on her final trimester.
No available room for child delivery for the One who created every space in our universe.
Born in an animal feeding trough, pungent hay included.
Yet, the divine script followed careful fiat.
The prophet Micah declared the little town of Bethlehem as the preordained birthplace.
The life of the Redeemer will reflect the unavailability of heart response.
The angels gave the shepherds a unique sign to locate the new-born Messiah: in a manger.
Dissonance is not the final word.
Resonance inks our redemption.
Spiritual graffiti feeds our preoccupation.
An unexamined existence marks much waste.
Go to the fount and secure your hold.
Sola Scriptura.
My grandfather bought me my first wingtips.
My father unclipped me to soar.
My daughters fly from this divine largesse.
Our identity finds its true origin in Christ alone.
People, places, and events crowd out this reality.
The blur only dissipates when grace and mercy is taken in full measure.
Grandmother and Granddaughter.
Precious grace in between.
Roots, trunk, and fruits.
© 2016 Oil and Dew Ltd