What is the core of our being, the axis on which the self turns? Where do convictions take root? Where does understanding dwell before it is named by thought? Not in the province of reason, which drafts its careful arguments. Not in the scaffolds of logic, which assemble ironclad frameworks
This is the desert. There is nothing here. Nothing. The road dissolves into horizon. No billboards. No wires. No structure but wind. Sand folds upon itself Repeating waves Rippling like silence learning to breathe. Here, beauty is found in the absence of beauty. No spectacle. No ornament. Only contour and
Named for Walter Flanders, formerly a production manager for Ford, these cars were built from 1910-1912. To illustrate how crazy the automobile business was in the early days, in 1908, Flanders was the F in the E-M-F cars which were distributed by the wagon-building Studebaker Brothers.
I had AI create an image of the outrage algorithm that influences us through social media and has us at each other’s throats. Instead of a demon, it appears as a slick salesman, empathetic and trustworthy. If you analyze Satan’s tactics throughout the Bible, he never appeared evil.
Listen for great words recast: Love Justice Mercy They once strode the earth barefoot, calloused, their hands scarred from lifting the fallen, their eyes steady enough to look upon guilt and still command change. They sound different now, softened, perfumed, taught to whisper, taught to soothe, taught never to interrupt
A painting speaks in silent truth, A song declares the heart. But crafted tales are forged for power Where dark narrations start. The presses groan, the ink runs hot, The forgers stir the flame. The powerful conspire and foment fear Seeking fortune and fame. Media move like fields of wheat,
Why are we here brief sparks beneath eternity? What is our time, measured in breaths and seasons, and what is our purpose under heaven’s wide gaze? How shall the heart be satisfied? What do we seek when we rise before dawn, when we labor, when we ache? When shall
There is one Book, and only one, that embraces all the heights and depths of human nature. It sounds every sorrow, answers every cry of the human heart, and speaks to every age and condition of men. The Bible belongs to those elemental things like the sky, the wind, and
Miracles do not shout. They rush quietly unnoticed. Morning arrives light travels ninety-three million miles to fall without applause on the table, on the cup, energizing the planet We call it ordinary and move on. We are busy not with survival, not with wonder, but with rehearsals of old
Obligations of adult life Fulfilling purpose The sanctity of vocation Deadlines, schedules, pressures Responsibilities honored Providing shelter, comforts Familial warmth and security Yet … How precious are childhood memories How vibrant the smells How vivid the colors The seasons, the weather How fresh and new Amplified by acute senses How free
God is not absent. He is hidden in plain sight, veiled by what is obvious, lost behind everywhere. We hunt for truths that stand before us clearly, and miss Him because there is nowhere He is not. The miraculous fades by abundance. Each breath, each moment, too common to astonish,
By Matthew Arnold, circa 1851 The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is