Marks across the sky. Whispers of things beyond the Earth’s curvature. What transparent revelations move the heart to action? What dedicated freedoms move man to try, create or long for solution and continued attempt upon it? What sponsors direction? Must the liquid nature of ambition or aspiration perpetually seek the low point en piso? Or is there an intrinsic yearning to reach for angelic insight? Is the birth of reason a quest to find beginning or learn the path transcending all endings? What is the danger and blessing of contentment?

Palsied comfort. Possessing the blessings of mentality, morphism and marching and indifferently choosing quiescence. Storms to seed, worlds to imagine and stars to reach, yet my anger has no enemy. No joy in conquest. No passion for enslavement. No taste for usurpation. Simply being and becoming the mystery programmed within the reasoning of God. Is the dawn relentless in its beckoning you forward, not to right or left but to certain unknown effort and momentary destination leading to eternal growth? Do the whims of governance and rest construct mobius performance and disconnection? Or is the burning gold of morning calling to something beyond understanding, talent and capacity? A Promise not of place, time and season but of continuance in glory?

Let me be the drip that weakens stone before me. Let me be the breath of God to sponsor lively spirit. Let me be the resting hand that refreshes heals and finishes. Let me be the dusk promising slumber and refreshing. Take from me the raging seas and super nova’s blasting. For I am the helping hand of planting and to nourish. Fill the bucket to rim with fresh Earth and know that soon a forest will be tended, providing shade and color, depth and shelter. Let me be the sigh between the call of chrysalis. The waiting hand of change to shape destiny, mass and thinking. That all may be acquainted at gathering to their Maker.

I can’t said the unsure to the jump being bid before him. The fear readily visible on his chin and eyes scrunched to fight back the palsy and frozen nightmares. This man was remade yet clutching the memories of impossibility the narrow purposes of old restrict his flesh, thinking and action. Regardless of observers in quantum participation the outcome remains random and unfulfilled in the moments before trust builds foundation for perfection. The doctrine screams and the fiery will of Spirit wins out over sight, sound and perspiration as my friend let’s go to God’s whisper and bidding. Fly Son, Fly.

Where is the translation, deciphering and analysis of the insides of your eye? Who knows explanation or rules associated with taking the next step. We stand aloft and struggle with the toddler as that moment of balance, courage and inertia produce posture. We are but newborns learning the parameters of operation within a paradigm yet understood. You would ask that I present material, speech, love or promise to accommodate ease in pacification. But each man writes with unique hand, sings with a voice different before God and dreams of things that may never pass muster in the midst of mortal comprehension. These are the things beyond you and me, to speak of them is by nature a venture into that which may yet be knowable.

This heart knows love yet never may find voice to explain the flavor, scent, passion or brevity brought to heart. What then of the inquirer in languages yet written. Shapes and squiggles, nothing but symbols representing: thought, sound and reason. How can a man searching the depths of ponds or fields he has never wandered describe in adequate precision to meet the expectations of those onlooking? I walk, the associative talk is by nature going to capture little comfort useful to second comers. However, consideration of the presence in spirit of Him who transcends time and dimension there is always ample wisdom available to them who diligently seek it. For God approves of this struggled understanding, seeking that which may yet be known or the expanded understanding of rebirth. I may not offer ample description or comfort but that was never my job until such time as I resemble Him.

Do I Now know those things beyond my understanding? Well, I have a helmet of salvation and access to the mind of Christ and in trust/faith may always ask the Spirit for insight. Therefore, these broad expanses of the world to which I currently have sight but inadequate knowledge are simply being described in infant eyes. Can we see wind, can we explain time’s power of humanity, can we explain why water is wet to touch and taste? Dancing and singing to test the tones, rhythm an echo is standard process for accessing depth, breadth and distance. What then are the mechanisms of Spiritual sounding? What process and tools do we now have as norm that we yet to comprehend nor better yet know in application? This is the beginning of tomorrow, finding things beyond the curve with talents, treasures and post human tools designed to navigate eternity. Bear with me as I discover how the sound of my mind transcend or rebounds from the dimension yet expected.

Leaks in my boat inhibit my float and there is no spotted goat for my blaming. I bail and travail over the rail to avoid the lion worth taming. Paddle you fool fill that pale as your sword to prevent the pirates who would see us thrown overboard. The Lord sleeps in wait this wind He’ll abate never too early or late. Precisely as planned we soon understand that none of this is conducted by fate. But in God’s perfect script we’ve all been equipped to arrive at the opened east Gate. Come in He will say your family is on their way well done now have a seat and together we’ll wait.

This morning is neither proof nor admission of failure. It is neither recognition of my prowess nor longevity but the expression of God’s maintenance of the temporary constancy of my extended dilemma. Getting off the ride simply extends it exponentially as the only real choice is found in abiding in fealty or fate’s fickle reason. Even plodding along with apparent discontent or limited mobility is tantamount to eventual victory. So hobble I will with John, Jean and Bill until the gates open wide admitting His Bride to the lake those who’ve murdered and lied. I’m thankful for all that after my fall I heard the arch Angel’s Trumpeting Call.

You want miracles or magic from a man who knows only how to seed, weed and feed tender uprisings. I am no Lord or Singer of Seance, wisdom or mathematics. I’ve no prophets sight nor vampires bite and evade the Oracle’s telling. No priestly voice simply by choice I know that My God hears me yelling. My story is long with no rhythm or song but to some it is still worth the telling. For a simple young bloke threw off the false yoke and now is an ox in season. We’d found him contrite ready to fight but was given Word, Love and reason. These are not the hands or mind of the eloquent and ageless. The scalloped brow scarred back, and calloused head do not foretell the heart bigger than Nebraska. For in God’s simple tools, we find the light beyond time, space and sourcing.

These are the fields of greatness surpassing my imagination’s founding. The depths are impassable for such are far lower and wider than sounding. In realm’s not my own to where I am shown my heart rests no longer racing and pounding. The context and plot I so soon forgot not caring which ending delivered. My sword of no use my thinking obtuse and my arrows were quickly re-quivered. Why would man seek war with the wind having so frequently grinned at the cankered and sinned when lepers have all been forgiven? Choose to live on beyond dusk and dawn forever in the light of our Maker. In simplicity the paradise of peace ls given only to believer and taker excluding the doubting or faker.

Wrestling with Almighty. A worthy cause? Misunderstood promise and labors unwanted, trying so hard to achieve that which is already secured. Wed to insignificance. Born to expectation, reborn to wait upon the miracles of Grace and plenty in solidarity. Dreams leading into glamour or darkened, treasured opulence. What fancy found in the son of dukes and wizards infatuated with their capacity to flip a switch or collide the elements? Who understands why they have matter, mass or density, except through observation? If in formula I celebrate my wisdom what then is true power found in creation?

I do not make or condemn your choices. These days are yours to plunder, pass or measure equal to every man. The motivation of objective focus is the delight of purpose sought. A tire rolls, an ox withstands the burden a vision foretells. When wells bone dry what relief does my adoration deliver? Applaud in the completion of love instructed and given by the one who wrote its story. This pleading to be found the hand up or stool upon which many reached the fruitful boughs of everlasting. Time wants and consumes without favor. To it this life is fed til limits removed and even foundation is shaken from certain footing.

My feast awaits at the hand that by any right should never give me morsel. Yet in display we find grand answers to all mystery. To live again or fill the span of history and time yet coming with the annals of eternity. What equal plane upon which we touch down delights in our receiving? There is no shame nor gain in choosing against the gifts of twice wonderful. There is no rest or peace embroiled in fires of Gehenna. There is only what you’ve demanded, separation from all that God offers. By choice deserted on the island of self worship, retribution and regret for having dutifully done it your way. Arrogance, the mistress who promises flight with White Throne in our assembly. To rise and fall as empires choosing fate and not the faithful.

There are no misconceptions in the pull of gravity upon us. There are no alternate realities as the wind pummels unmercifully, reminding flesh of its impermanence. No escape from aging skin and ebbing strength of person, mind or fashion. Yet, relief is real and rest for certain. Do we possess that abiding essence and fealty fashioned of hope, faith and picture in our imagination? How powerful the pontificate of dream. Do we count this mortal treasure? Seeing beyond the curvature of time into space yet ventured? Knowing that the unknowable is attainable in some forgotten hope. What then is value in life if not the things, table, taxes, conquest or wisdoms this world wants for your possession? If the greatest of weapons, fruits and love are endemic to something other than sight, feel and smell?

What bucket I leave at wellhead’s sitting? Running child to tell all of the master and mystery. What freedom in the precise recounting of my passage? That burden no longer defines my greatness. That freedom is the absence of regret found only in forgiveness. What then may be the greatest gift I’ve given if love the only thing that bridges times withholding? What solace achieved in being known to rock, tree and ground? Aligned in everlasting documentary of God’s Glory reflected in my living and inclusion. I am the richest of us all, yet I pray my Sisters and Brothers soon surpass me. overjoyed, the boot boy, rewarded in service eternal, the Bond Slave of Christ the Master.

August memories are retreating, reflecting and putting the work, thought and mission to bed. Reconciled reality, laying the bricks of further foundation for years still coming. Have bugs gone to refrain from pestering, perhaps not but somehow the stifling stillness speaks of relief and change. Patience the crucial weapon evades our mastery, and we are left to struggle against the demons of dark and imaginary conclusion.

These are not the scraped knees of the malleable and flexible child we remember, but those scabs, wounds or fears assembled against the woman or man we have taken seriously into the tablet of days. What relief is offered in simply breathing? What cause the wind blowing hot across our brow in formulating, fixing or frustrating the restless soul within us? How do the comments so differ in their effort to conform our reason? Why does the fate seek our stiffness of extremity and blight of resting strength?

Where is the harvest work still coming? What fields lay ripe, readied and set apart for collection? Who may say that the fall storehouses will soon be firm and full for tending to winter arrival? The work left undone reminds us of summer’s ending. Gone are the joyous expectation in dalliance and sweet tea swigging on porches made for slumber? Who dreams of tabernacled tent in simplicity of prayerful pleasure? What hope of forgiveness has the goat of our scaping? Relinquish the pressure brought along with unforgiveness to heal that which may be closed and lay aside the burdens of expectation’s plunder.

What treasures must never be hidden, tossed or concealed from measure presenting the pleasures of fulfillment and purpose that are never envied, stolen but freely shared? What are the opposite of wounds found in the healthy heart that cast the die in courage and hold within the power, hope and elastic muscle against encroaching dawn? What bandage the love of those who give encouraging care without request? What promise has the man with no worry, no weapon lashed against him, no plight of trepidation?

We focus on the dark, storm, crashing waves and onslaught forgetting to remember the sun in its glory and promise or warmth, growth and dimension. Have we been promised some manner of delivery, some faithful expectation of courageous stand against the night? How might we explain the will to mount defense against the whims of everlasting conquest/? What is the joy in handful of pure mountain spring brought close to lip for quenching? When relief unnecessary for the work was sought in joy, the discomfort the burr beneath a saddle of our training? Is that peace here in the late summer noon’s of buzzing and sharpened sawgrass? Why does simply sitting in the cool evening sand watching the sky turn fifty hues of crimson and gold fill and calm the heart?

Want to go where I cannot get just beyond the land of quit. With angled sides and impassible features of screaming eagles and whispered creatures. A place we think we’ve always been hard to describe and never seen. Where up is left and back is right the moon shines its face when noon is bright. Where clocks fly fast on downhill runs and every finish sounds starting guns. Where talk is cheap and by the dozen and everybody’s friend is your second cousin.

A place to be where all want to go but they’re just too busy rushing to and fro. Where kids and dogs are in the know and when good time planting begins in snow. A time and place where I don’t have to guess where there’s no two-minute drill or full court press. Some place that is no space at all but the substance of the distance between two walls. Where jolly’s giant and Leprechaun’s pail are both quite satisfied to cross the veil. Been torn and left asunder to free us from the curse we were under.

To dance and sing without explanation to give our love without depredation. Where sound races wind and wind the sky and we all race each other to find out why. To be understood without discourse while giggling a top our saddled horse. When framing men without big thoughts and teaching kids the should and oughts. A fancy suit without a tie and a smiling girl with no need to cry. A happy day without ambition and forgiven man lost in contrition. A place where we thought we’d die to sit on clouds and watch the sky. When we got here to end the story we found so much more wrapped up in Glory. With God Himself and His chosen man walking content within His Plan.

Here and now I cannot go even if you told me so. I try and try and then I see the answers don’t reside in me. The great beyond found inside today where tomorrows convinced it’s here to stay. I pray for peace and forgiveness found and cried out loud without a sound. Hoping hard when soft is needed planting corn where wheat’s been seeded. Working hard to hardly work focusing earnestly on my greatest quirk. To the throne to make amends adjusting wrongs and praying for friends. The outcomes come without my aid for He alone this price was paid. To fly or preach or sing a sonnet or swing a sword with His Spirit upon it. Armored up and worried not for what I’ve lost or haven’t got. For a perfect end is where I’m headed to meet the one to whom I’m indebted.

For those who left their blood on the sand, dirt, stone and sea for me. There is no payment worthy of that sacrifice you’ve made on my account. No amount ample for the exchange of your life, dreams and pursuits for mine. What you wanted was for our kids to be safe, our families to breathe free and for me to stand in the courage that you demonstrated for each of us to follow.

Knowingly express those things which are worthy of this sacrifice. Eagerly stepping forward to defend the innocent the vulnerable and the weak. Losing sight of fear in the presence of right standing, fully aware that God did not furnish this spirit of weakness and retreat. Mine is a day where I may not proceed forward without clearing but I certainly will stand in good courage remembering.

What day is coming for those who shall follow our path? What possibilities present to those of US who see the error of our folly and look to surrender to transformed mind and heart? What hope and faith foundation shall become widespread being tended by men of tenure? How shall man be viewed by children who know not how to gloss over or lie, but speak truth to power and weakness? For how shall any of US be remembered kindly if not in the eyes of those who we leave to follow?

Where is my heart if not wrestling with the blessings I am freely offered? What blessing is found in gifts, talents and hope that may never be called upon or used? We are not living dreams but building upon them with action, strong decision and power of spirit, heart and mind. Am I loved for simply being me or for those times that I have put aside my own self-service to assure the safety, health and future of someone who simply could not? These are my days that I have been assigned to make what can be made in my own muster and good thinking, while seeking God’s further provision of Spirit, equipping and provision to do that which is impossible.

This is the gift of life lived in the light that glory comes to God or in darkness that no one is remembered,

Behind the gray. Persimmon, dandelion and what happens in Helvetica. Bold as promise, proud in betrayal, captured in reluctance to champion life. What dreams encountered real are forbidden welcome? What answers sought in need or wisdom are chased beyond town border? What strategy employed as graffiti fails in footing? Where is my rule book when rules themselves are broken in once hallowed time?

Is Treason enough? Is reason sufficient exchange for love’s sweet loss? What sodden brown for the lush verdant whispers in windy sawgrass? Impotence for offspring, injustice for wrong, allegiance to the enemies of right? Beauty swapped for decades and health for cash as freedom ebbs in the rangy rules of celebrity. What then is the promise of this lifetime as its advantages sold for perceived treasure?

These steps are ordered beyond the viewing of moments in perspective. Systems and collage moving eye’s gaze beyond myopy. No distinct focus no shiny thing all hodge podge absent the unique aspect of deliverance. Camouflaged on purpose to blend into horizons forgotten and light extinguished that none will see or be seen. What hope in knowledge unwanted?

We ask to seem responsive. We sing to catch the tune. We dance without joy in the bidding of masters uninvited. Where shall a young man venture if all ports be captive or surveyed to millimeters correction? To die upon the tundra of the blanched and tired. To leave the gainsay gawking. Timeless, weightless, hopeless in the wilderness of space unconquered.

Who are we really America? Were we taught this is an experiment at Constitutional Republicanism, that would at some point fail or succeed regarding our defense thereof? Well, yes. We were handed this wonderful, fragile freedom, all of US having to admit out front the blood, treasure and honor it took to secure, with warning that it would dissolve if not protected. Did we ignore that warning? Well, no and yet we spent most of our defense in protecting the world against infringement’s upon their nationalism. Was this ill advised? Did we fail to heed equal warning to stay out of foreign dilemma and attend to our own farms, families and culture? Yes, we seem to have neglected to listen and take to heart those wisely offered oaths of sanctity given by our founding fathers, leading to this menagerie of madness, this clown show without a big tent.

If we are not the broken men of promise and regret that comes with having something so precious and neglecting its value then what men of stone hearts have we now become? Where are the pillars of humanity that made this nation worthy of remembrance? Where is the culture that is admired and eagerly taught to children as example of a life well ventured? What are our children now holding close in consciousness, in hope that will maintain their nearly impossible attempt to defend, edify and support a bright future for their grandkids? What are we handing them if not broken backs of debt, smashed moral compass and the deflated weather balloon of a globe headed for disaster or a desperate ending in calamity? Am I the one to tell them truth or fill them with stories of “it’s going to be alright” after the soup has been poisoned, notice to next of kin sent and dreams smashed or dashed upon the staircase of broken steps that used to lead to shining destiny?

Will we neglect this opportunity to define first and foremost who we wish to be instead of stabbing into the broad darkness of opining for times gone to history’s recording? Are we to be men who govern themselves or will we always be doubtful, in flight and fright of the empirical hands of the elite who crave dominion over all that may be controlled, bought or made dukes, earls and demons over mankind? Is there a time to which we may return or deliver ourselves into the healthy, transparent, crystal thinking of men who will never give up their right to words spoken truthfully, freely, without regret or second guessing? Are there things that are right and will always be right no matter who interprets them or pays to offer revision? For until we find that which is inviolate in our thinking and identity, we will always be prey to dark attempts to twist the compass one degree from dead center. We cannot be safe until our thinking is established and protected inalienable from the defining moment that brought US to truth. The moment our hearts reached out and met our God.

When we decide that we are of God, by God, With God and For His Perfect Will for those he created we are simply swaying on the top of weeping willow, susceptible to the direction, strength and dangers of the wind. There is no other path forward to freedom but through our capitulation to the historical and present fact that God’s Sovereign Hand upon America is what made anything inviolate, immutable or beyond alien intervention. This revolution is not against man or beast but against SELF, the self reliant inner voice of our own personal God’s of Me and You. Are we done service at the high places and altars or our false god’s of self and lust for eye fulfillment? Really? Until that decision is made regarding our identity as Americans who are grateful, humble and spiritually sound in our debt to God Almighty for everything we are, have and will be then we are headed for the national scrap heap of failed republics. Thank God He is long suffering and patient awaiting our counsel, realization and return. But my people, my lovely Brothers and Sisters, the end of that patience nears and Wrath is promised for all who will not heed His lengthy and promised warnings. Will we now decide who we are or parish into those ill remembered or forgotten nameless of mankind’s most foolish moments? This is ours, what will we use it to become?

The Lord told me to tell you that it is you that he came here to set free. Not that you would be remanded as some mindful reminder of what He had done, but because you were suffering, headed to forever without Him and He wanted to know His Rest. This is not some clever fable of men and dreams with monsters and horrific images of celebrity, brutality and heroic intervention. This is the one who made you, knowing that your mistakes or disobedience have included you in the horrific destiny of the dead and angels departed and creating a path made especially for those who find misery in their everlasting predicament. That longing to rectify, repair and know what we’ve missed awakens us to cognition that we never could fix this problem. You see His Rules cannot be changed ones transgressed, only a new way circumventing the eventual payment of the broad boulevard, forcing reroute to a new understanding, life and destination. The skinny path that is only found by those readied for new wine, all things made anew, prepared for everlasting with Him.