Her Hands Are a Piece of Home
Her hands, small with wrinkles that crawl up her arms and into her smile, have so many stories to tell.
Her hands, small with wrinkles that crawl up her arms and into her smile, have so many stories to tell.
My perfectionist/analytical mind is my worst critic. My thoughts can be so critical that the barriers they create seem as insurmountable as a brick wall. It caps off creativity, confidence, and keeps me from seeing the other side.
She lifts her hands Extended, palms open-Completely letting go
All is within your power,
and yet, this cup remains;
and so, I beg you
Take this cup from me.
This article is for the writers, the teachers, the preachers, the songwriters who are using their words to help people love and understand God’s Word and to encourage and equip them in their pursuit of Him.
With his last breath, as spirit separated from broken body, he whooshed through a darkened vortex of time engulfed by eternity
To my mother, he said, “You have been entrusted with much, and have proved yourself faithful. Your children will rise up and call you ‘Blessed.’”
Come Holy Spirit as we seek, ask and knock for your presence.
Asking in faith, believing in Your promise, we come with expectation.
Find out if healing is possible as you journey with a girl who faces the dark past of her childhood trauma while trying to embrace her future!
As guardian angels, we work with our assignments. If they ask or seek our help through prayer, we assist however we can to safeguard them.
Six months later, the first draft of my manuscript was finished, so I thought that all that was left was to edit it and get it published right?
Wrong.
And I recall the vessel that so comports to darkness — gives it occasion to breathe and occupy.
“The darkness that wins is the one we invited in!”
Overwhelming thoughts bring my mind to surrender
To the garden of my soul, I return, to find my Maker waiting for me.
“In my heart I feel that joy and tender move I know so well…
moving moods and welling those rooms of my heart…”
Within my frame, I see the mongrels frenzy as they play the horde bearing down on the land about me.
I hear of those, forgotten behind bars. They were somebody’s baby.
Did their mother caress them, did she hold them tight? They were somebody’s baby.
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted,” John softly spoke the words that both men had offered to others in times of brokenness.
Those sifted will now be shifted into greater realms of glory…bringing their story of glory and grace to a dry and thirsty land
Father God, the Creator of all that exists, provides a way.
With many roads proclaimed, the Father’s way is missed
Two boats… left there.
Jesus of Nazareth was not remotely predictable, and that perhaps intrigued me more than anything. While many others dismissed him or dreamed of silencing him, I dreamed of conversing with him.
Without thought, I withstood my work and approached her. She paid me less concern than the animal that had pulled her and the caravan about.