I wanted to share this because it seems to bd pretty thorough—
Rapture Information
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What emperors wear
In my mind I have a picture of my maternal grandmother, mother of 11 children, flawed but beautiful
She looked like a grandmother—skin settling in, soft. Her hair went gray early but her face was always delicate and lovely
I am a grandmother now, and many of the adjectives apply to me—soft, round, wrinkled.
Fat to be blunt.
I am fine with all of this. I made a deal with myself years ago that I would see my aging process as an experiment in entropy—eventually gravity will have its due with us all.
I went on a deep dive this morning looking at a host of cosmetic procedures—surgeries, lasers, radio waves, deep tissue this or that—all promising to make a body toned, sculpted, and smooth.
I don’t really believe most of them work, but even if I did, I don’t believe they are for me.
I am supposed to “know God and glorify Him forever.”
https://www.apuritansmind.com/westminster-standards/shorter-catechism/
The phone booth at the end of the world
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
January Kites
Few leaves stay behind strung to winter branches
Those that remain anchored by the unseen
Yet they still speak
Wind-whirl
Sun-soaked
Small brown ghosts
Worship
The Billionaire’s Deer
Over the weekend one of our neighbors spotted a wounded buck on the banks of the Lake Dunlap portion of the Guadalupe.
He had wounds on his back leg and he was not able to walk.
The police were called and an officer assured us they would contact the owner of the property and “take care of” the deer.
In the end they dragged the deer’s carcass into the river 10-15 feet from the riverbank where he was last seen alive.
Listen
Please watch this for a minute and count aloud
https://www.worldometers.info/abortions/
Each second a person dies, and with each, light among us.
The Be-born
When words are inaccurate, or worse yet, dehumanizing, then we should change them
Let fetuses become young ones
Let blastocysts become our sons and daughters and let us consider that if the dividing line between protected and unprotected in the lives of young humans is the womb, consider calling our littlest ones the be-born.
Make it a blessing to each one-
Be born, little one
Be-born
“Unborn” is not enough
Not enough of an acknowledgment of the inimitable beauty, power and purpose inherent and irreversible invested in each human life.
https://theexperiencedmama.com/bible-verses-about-unborn-babies/
Yeshua
I usually call him Jesus, like to think I am “his girl” and rarely live up to what he deserves.
Yesterday the daily Bible reading was Isaiah 53 and it brought me to tears, as it always does. “Crushed for our transgressions”? I think of the ordinary atrocities we humans endorse on the reg as well as the ones which will forever radiate darkness in our history.
He took them.
And he offers such untrammeled friendship. King of kings, yet he is the friend of every yet-born child.
I should stop there. Benign, seek Jesus stuff, right?
But that is not all. Isaiah’s view of the Messiah is polarizing. He is not depicted as the universally recognized cool guy everyone loves. He is depicted as “despised and rejected of men.”
Why?
Because we do not usually like to be told we are wrong, helpless—supine. We like to be in charge.
Jesus is our, wants to be, our friend, but ultimately that should be on his terms, not yours or mine.
Does that galvanize or offend you?
I do not enjoy thinking about Jesus’ crucified death, his humiliation, blooded and broken and naked and alone, but I know
That and worse was to be my lot without him.
The Music Box
It is morning, the day before my mother’s funeral. My oldest son and I are standing by the French doors in the great room of my mother’s house. He is cleaning the windows and I am admiring the view of the pond when we both hear music coming from the mantle above the fireplace, six to eight feet from where we are standing.
I go over, thinking it must be one of her clocks. It is not. It is a music box, playing its song.
It played for a couple minutes, then the morning quiet resumed.
That was all.
Carrying Light 