I always try to “get” something new from the Gospel genealogies. All those begettings.
Today I focused on the begetting of the word itself—“get, obtain by effort” feels like solid ground.
Jesus had no biological children but he has begotten us.
What do you and I beget? Who do we beget?
God treasures us and he treasures our time. We have the choice to beget things that last like grace and love, or people we are not biologically related to when we show them they are loved and valuable.
Proverbs 22:13 NIV
[13] The sluggard says, “There’s a lion outside! I’ll be killed in the public square!”
I am not Solomon’s biggest fan, which means I don’t quote him that much, but this verse seems worth the gander.
I am still on the hunt for context clues, but for now, wha?!?
Seems like a real good story in here somewhere.
Here’s what AI says—
https://www.google.com/search?q=proverbs+22%3A13+commentary&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8&hl=en-us&client=safari
His Cross (mine by rights)
The photo-relief of a door
Hammered into
The heart of God
He makes the way
By being the
Way
Matthew 7:14 KJV
[14] Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.
Matthew 11:16 KJV
[16] But whereunto shall I liken this generation? It is like unto children sitting in the markets, and calling unto their fellows,
Matthew 11:2-3 KJV
[2] Now when John had heard in the prison the works of Christ, he sent two of his disciples, [3] And said unto him, Art thou he that should come, or do we look for another?
I was talking to friends about AI scrubbing the internet for content and I figured I would test what it could do.
What emerged took one word-grief, one click, medium, and two defaults
The poem was generated in less than 3 seconds
Spooky.
Grief is a heavy coat,
That you can’t take off.
It clings to you all day,
And whispers in your sleep.
It’s a hollow in your chest,
Where laughter used to live.
A silent, empty space,
That echoes with a name.
The world keeps spinning on,
But you are standing still.
Watching colours fade to grey,
On a distant, lonely hill.
But sometimes, through the clouds,
A single ray will shine.
A memory, a gentle breeze,
A reminder of the love that’s thine.
And slowly, bit by bit,
The coat begins to fray.
The colours start to bloom again,
A little brighter every day.
Twice, maybe three times, I have brought them inside, folded as they were, in sheets off the line
Catching them involves prayer and patience then you scoop them inside the soft of your palms
Hold them, safe and warm until they are
Back in the sunlight
This is the moment of Grace
When they should and can run free
But instead of this they turn and sit on my shoulder
As though they have found a true friend
I joke about the manure shoveled on the ark, was there a schedule? Did Noah share the load?
And less so about the cubit span
Measure the world in arm’s length units
Measure the horizontal aperture for light
One cubit for air, one cubit for sun and moon and stars
Naked for the first time
As the clothing of the sky
Rains down upon us
Haunted survivors
Carrying Light 