It seemed so real,  when, through tears,  I felt as though  God had gone and in Her place  was fear. I cried out to Her and She held me in Love,  wrapped me in comfort with a bow of promise.

How the world would have drastically changed, if Jesus had just tried to heal, or if he’d just said to try to believe, how would that make you feel? What would have occurred at the sheep market pool had he said, “ Try to pick up your bed”? Or if he had just tried to feed the crowd would they have all been fed? Did Jesus ask us to try to know the truth that would make us free? Did he ask us to leave our nets, “To try to follow me”? Love does not try to meet our needs. As Love, it simply does.

We desert flowers Reach for the waters of Life Rooted deep in Mind. — Christian Pascale.

The crucifixion hung over the world, a deathly pall, a crushing curtain of devastated hopes, the seeming defeat of good bowing before the cross. But wait! Before the whispering treachery, before the payment of envy 1 could pass from hand to hand, before the night of agony at Gethsemane, God’s promise stood, inviolable— “Thou art my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased!”  2   The promise arched over all mankind, tenderly caring for Jesus and lifting humanity above the waves of hate and ignorance.

I was, as always, on the side of the road, encumbered by the cloak of what I thought my destiny. Suddenly, I heard the news of Christ approaching.

You’re here when all else seems to fail to quiet pain and loss. Your goodness always will prevail; You help me bear the cross.

It opens my eyes (my real eyes) to realize Love never loses sight of light. Love’s eye is single, in-sight-full, delightful, you see.

The sparrow stills  as I clip entrapping mesh— my heart pushing out, wordless,  to Love’s honed serenity that  cuts through all entanglement. At the last snip—no slow perk-up,  no halting from its trust—just sudden  full-blown flight; the questions,  what if I can’t do it? what if I can’t? what if I …? loosen and let go.

My prayers are not pleas To change or to heal As much as they are prayers That consistently reveal The splendor that has always been And will always be—  That perfect selfhood that reflects The Father constantly—  The likeness, like the Father,  Vibrant, loving, pure, and free! — Ann E. Hastings.

I’m grateful for Life, for spiritual things unseen.   Like holding a small seed,  yet beholding a tree.