Psalm 22:10 KJV
[10] I was cast upon thee from the womb: thou art my God from my mother’s belly.

I was once in a college class called Metaphysics. The professor posited that logic demanded that a world of creatures demanded the existence of one Undifferentiated Absolute and that once you accepted the logical necessity of the Absolute, then it was up to you to decide what to do with the existence of this Eternal Creator.

The God of the Bible is unequivocal—verse after verse refers to babies in utero as people, eternal humans.

If you don’t believe that it is “turtles all the way down,” you owe it to yourself to consider what God says about all of us—no one too old or too young, too small or too big, to be beyond the reach of his love.

Before we were conceived, he loved us, and that love endures forever.

She signs the word “drown,”

The sign is a person falling down beneath the surface. It haunts me. It haunted me before the Titan lost contact with its guide ship. It haunts me when I think about times when I have had trouble breathing or when I spend just a few seconds holding my breath in the green-blue river.

We are living beings who need oxygen. Jesus is my oxygen. He went to the depths to save me from drowning.

He went to the depths for all of us.

He is our Rescuer—the air in our lungs.

It is near the ending of an old argument—when bombs have dropped, do more solve the problem? Is there such a thing as holy fire? And can a man who thinks he is a god ever truly raise the white flag and

Surrender without conditions.

Isaiah 49:1-2 NIV
[1] Listen to me, you islands; hear this, you distant nations: Before I was born the Lord called me; from my mother’s womb he has spoken my name. [2] He made my mouth like a sharpened sword, in the shadow of his hand he hid me; he made me into a polished arrow and concealed me in his quiver.

They pepper me with questions on the way to the office. When it is just the three of us we can lean into our survivors’ solidarity—

How do birds fly? What are shooting stars?

I want to say you are shooting stars, bright bits of light in night sky, not stars, but bits of iron and silicate broken from the mother rock

Contrails in the inky sky

I wanted to share this because it seems to bd pretty thorough—

https://davidjeremiah.blog/what-is-the-rapture/

The words spill out about a horror movie you showed them and I say excuse me girls I need to make a brief phone call

And walk to the phone booth at the end of the world—

Just a couple of Dixie cups and grubby yarn but a good enough connection for me to

Shout

I am so angry at you! How could you have picked monsters instead of little girls? How could you have let them see all those scary movies? The too-real monster men? The empty ache for an awake mama?

I am so pissed at you

No wonder they have been angry too