Questions & Answers
In you, His kingdom. In you, friend, the realm in which His will is being fulfilled rhythmically deathlessly irrevocably.
How can we follow if our feet turn back to paths of greed or self or deep remorse? How can we come with fists so tightly closed on matter, taking error's winding course? There is a way— the Christ way it is called— to hold all things but lightly in God's sight, to seek Him first: to let our cluttered lives make place—large place—for knowing, now, His might. There is a way.
Time that mythical serpent will always softly hiss that now is nothing but that yesterday was sweet (though lost forever in the neverland of nostalgia)— that tomorrow is our true trust toward which we should speed headlong. O time, you deceiver! you make-believe, many-linked dragon! Like a snake-train in an amusement park you would carry us on unseen wheels with such a rocking, mesmerizing movement that before we know it we are being swept away from stability of now into your meaningless round and round.
No harvest Without the sowing, No fruit Without the growing. No truth Without Truth's proving, No love Without Love's loving.
The accepted salutation of the day to a mighty ruler must have had special meaning to Daniel after a long night spent with the great beasts— hungry, whining, and snuffing in frustration. But, let us remember, that night was also spent with angels soothing both man and beasts with the consolations of a mercy and of the divine, preserving Love which can deliver from every fear, fill every need, and provide an angel to companion any occasion.
When at the end of some encumbered day I turn in quietness to God, Confident of His unlabored grace, Comes the sweet thought "I am cared for by angels. " Legions of angels, Love's teeming thoughts, Serene, enfold me.
In those days, Peniel, prison, cross, wilderness, or water, anywhere, could be the place of Love's prevailing. Why should I discount the striving— and the glory— when my Peniel place is right here in my kitchen? Margery Macdonald Cantlon.
New rhythms tease the mind, and rhymes Come all unbidden to my thought. The song is sweet; the rhymes are true— Wherefore rejoice, O listening heart! The wilderness is left behind, Mount Horeb scaled, the mount of God; And wind, quake, fire, are proved unreal.
There is singing going on bird songs brooks that travel over rough stones soft winds whispering their way into the noisy tumult of the day. Then there is the trusting heart that makes a melody of its gratitude.
Let his tears be ours. Have we not each at one time hotly determined to be faithful and, then, denied? Whenever we would draw a sword, feeling that if we could go down fighting we would be accomplishing something, we deny the peace of the Christ.