"Show me Your strong love in wonderful ways, O Savior of all those seeking Your help against their foes. Protect me as You would the pupil of Your eye; hide me in the shadow of Your wings as You hover over me." Psalm 17:7-8

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Vintage Bridal Shower


Extravagance – that is what one prayed Sarah would receive from Father – the desire of His heart to lavish on her extravagant love.  And every moment spent over burlap runner sewing on trim, every wildflower picked in scratchy field, every stroke of brush applying paint to canvas was understood to be union with Him in lavishing love on His precious daughter(s).  On Sarah – and yes, on Terry and on Charlcie, as they united their hearts with His in pouring out to bless, to value, to communicate love of heaven in tiny measure.



Sarah and I


Sarah and daughter Charlcie
He showered His lovely ones both in the preparations, in the uniting of efforts, and in the laying out of a sweet feast under twinkling lights with tables hosting vintage pretties from all over the world.  Much was borrowed from another time and from bridesmaid’s and sister’s homes – old windows and doors, small leather bound books with yellowed leaves, candelabra abloom with rusting flowers, Morrocan treasures brought home by missionaries, set among flowers of the field in jewel-filled jars.  There in the sun’s afterglow, crystals split light into diamond fragments, and tissue roses swayed happy in the trees.  Torches burned chasing night and all that would distract away.  Glory filled, and spilled from Sarah sitting beneath spangled tree opening gifts.  Her face glowing under soft light, seated bride in Bentwood cradle, being loved by God.  She looked exquisite, pregnant with His love.  I stole many a glance between low lying branches as she pulled from the trunk gift after gift, and gave thanks.  Eucharisteo!!  And His joy was hers, and was mine also– communion at foot of tree.  Seems to be a favorite trysting place for the Lord and me!!

 


Sarah and daughter Lori

Sarah, Abby, Jessica, and Leah
Then I heard Him say, pour out my heart in human language -- pray.  Let her know how taken I am with her, how her hungry heart melts Mine, how her upturned face lights night sky, and takes my breath away.  Plant seeds of hope in her concerning the future I’ve planned as she joins her life to Al’s, and a cord of three strands is formed to change the world forever.  Tell her to fall on Me, into My Great Arms, in this season of preparation, that I might make My little bride ready, ready for union.  Tell her there will be many surprises, small tokens of My love that to her will seem straight off the pages of fairy tales, romantic and sweet.  For that is My heart, my veiled passion for her she sees in handmade things, in desserts dripping sweet, in lights and music, in summer breeze kissing her face.  How very taken I am with her!!!





Romanced in His Shadow,
His Beautiful Bride(s)




Visit www.andersoneythphotography.com to see more of Charlcie Eyth's beautiful work!!
And for more inspirational reading visit www.bloggerspirit.blogspot.com

Graveyard Dance

I chose the route through town, stopping at McDonald’s for an Egg McMuffin and a yogurt parfait.  Typical of my first morning off, this meal signals mind and body that we are now headed home and can begin the unwind.  On this particular morning, I returned a call to my sister Susan, waking her, and determining to talk later in the day.  I drove past cornfields, my camera on the seat beside me, hoping to find the morning light dancing gorgeous on the backs of newly rolled bales.  I’d witnessed this the morning before but didn’t have my camera.  This morning, all bales had been removed and half the field already plowed, dark clods of dirt burying all evidence that corn once stood tall, lived and died there.




I drove past my house in search of a similar scene.  Cornfields have of late been calling my name – beckoning me to study them under different conditions though I’m not sure of the reason why.  Just past my neighborhood an elderly field of stalks remains standing, backs bent, waiting to be cut and rolled into winter feed.  The harvesters work in neighboring fields and honey wheels dot the landscape.  Ahh, closure, happy ending, for what grew only to wither under brutal summer sun now will nourish and give life to another.  This I waited to see.

Before going to bed, I responded to the commotion on my front porch, parting the wood blinds and gazing up at the mud nest, home to two baby birds.  One sat perched precariously on the porch light a few feet away, fluttering untrained wings to keep from falling.  The other, as if to encourage his brother, chirped anxiously from the edge of the nest.  Below, my cat Mitty yawned and lazily licked her lips.  This had become her favorite resting place for obvious reasons.  She knew something of the benefits of patience.  Day after day, she settled in the shade of the porch waiting for manna to fall.  I opened the front door and chased her off the porch, hoping to give the tiny bird a chance at life.  About that time the daring bird took flight and came to rest like a plane without landing gear on a nearby shrub.  Before I knew it a terrible scene ensued.  The virtually helpless bird tumbled through the leaves and just as I reached to rescue, a stray that often hides in this flowerbed leaped and barely averted a collision with my forehead.   He caught the bird between his two greedy paws and quickly scampered off with it in tightly clutched jaws.



With that, I went to bed hoping the other bird had better sense and a future!  My son, on seeing light escape from under my bedroom door, came in to report hours later that the birds had flown the nest and one now fluttered and hopped as though in a frying pan on the driveway.  Did this bird not realize the territory he had ventured into was fraught with danger?  My son moved the bird into the grass.  Unable to just let nature take its course, I went out for a look, knowing full well my temptation would be to intervene likely without obtaining positive results.  I walked past my favorite cat, Garfield, in search of the struggling bird.  We spied it about the same time and Garfield promptly did what all cats instinctively do on sighting easy prey.  I scolded him and held him by the scruff of the neck, telling him to let go.  Obediently he released the poor tormented bird.  I scooped it up into a small plastic box and brought it into the air conditioning until I could come up with a plan.  Then I left for lifegroup.

I could spend several pages on lifegroup, but for the sake of continuity, I’ll return to the rest of the story concerning the baby bird.  My son decided when night fell to put the plastic box out on our mailbox in hopes the bird’s family might swoop in and instruct the foolhardy bird or take it by the wings and teach it to fly under cover of darkness.  Knowing my cats have no problem jumping atop the mailbox, I moved the box to the backyard where cats dare not to venture.  I placed it securely in the branches of the largest tree in the yard and thought about the Lord being aware of even the tiniest sparrow falling to the ground.  I prayed hopeful and went to bed after a good read.

Like a child on Christmas morn I looked out the window early and noticed the box askew in the tree.  While, I didn’t cross my fingers, I hoped like a na├»ve child that the bird somehow flew from this “magical” perch to safety, rocking and leaving the plastic box behind forever.  In search of truth, reluctantly I scanned the grass beneath the tree.  There in a little hollow lay the bird motionless.  A colony of ants had come for breakfast which fell from the sky like a blessing to them.



Perhaps around fifty one begins to take notice of death, to study it, to prepare for it, to see the “good” God causes to arise from it.  As I watched the corn sprout this past spring and delighted over acres of green, I gave little thought to the seeds that split beneath the earth to produce stalks tall and strong waving youthful in the wind.  And then as the rains refused to provide drink, I observed somewhat desperate the hardy stalks bearing immature ears fading colorless, lifeless.  What a waste, I thought, on driving by field after field of dead corn.  However, the Lord made certain to inform me this year that these fields at the proper time would be harvested, and then stored away until barren winter months when hungry livestock would feed on the store.  God wastes nothing!!  And He is good, good when fields are flourishing green and good when fields are pale and bent low in death.



On my last round of days off, God drew me to the cornfield near my house.  Somehow I knew He wanted to be with me there, so I went, taking my camera, paper and pen, and most importantly my hunger to be with Him in that crunchy graveyard from which life would spring anew.  I parked and entered the field, the sun low in the sky just beginning to paint my surroundings with rich evening colors.  I felt like Ruth, a widow gleaning on the field perimeter all the Lord had for me there.  I wrote my impressions, what I felt, saw, and heard from Him.  I’ve wanted to return to my notes and eat of what He gave me in the field – to ruminate and meditate on truths nesting inside the images and feelings.  What a blessing to be given that opportunity today!!

On parking my car, I opened the door and heard sleet falling as the breeze stirred the corn to greet me.  God directed the wind like a conductor to play upon brittle stalks, and I then heard rainfall on a tin roof which calmed and became a gentle snowfall.  I closed my eyes for the concert and thrilled at the crackling of Spirit fire that accompanied His approach.  At times I heard the swishing of antebellum dresses as though angels danced all around, their hems swirling on cracked gray earth.  Submissive stalks bowed with the wind as happens in the presence of Kings.  They moved together with the angels in a well choreographed dance.  Brown silk tassels fell to the floor in celebration, a ticker tape parade in His honor.  The moon hid her face at the sight of His glory!!  The field’s music intensified with the cool breeze and then fell hushed and steamy warm.  “I jumped up to open the door for my love, and my hands dripped with perfume. My fingers dripped with lovely myrrh as I pulled back the bolt.”  Oh to be near Him, to let Him in, there is nothing like it in all the world!!!  The sky turned crimson and silvery clouds came late.  Husks cradled life, and cobs nearly cleaned littered the ground spilling jeweled kernels like confetti.  It dawned on me that this dance occurs night after night in the fields.  They dance for Him in the breeze until finally they fall to the ground in reverence and return to dust or are harvested.  I think about all the seeds of life tucked in to sleep in crisp graveyard linens until time comes to produce new life.  I hear the wonderful sound of brokenness pealing sweet in the fields.



Night falls silver and dim and I am tempted briefly to fear, to flee, imagining I hear the rattler of a serpent slithering near to harm me in the field.  Compelled to turn in all directions to catch sight of those moving around me invisible, snagging their shrouds on the arms of sentries forbidding them to trespass, I take captive my thoughts.  I crouch and abide with the sense of Someone near as breath that I cannot see.  I kneel small with the humbled grain.  From here, I look up the rows and see the celebrating stalks forming a receiving line for their King, and dancing the cornfield CanCan, and I laugh and rejoice with them.  I’m struck by all the life in this dead cornfield, by song of insects and evidence of visiting creatures, by what appears to be discarded hairnets on this marble dance floor.   I sense many have come and “let their hair down” to dance with the Lord in this place. 



Meanwhile, life rushes by unaware on the highway that borders this field.  Stalks lean to touch me, to observe my choice, and to remind me to attend to my Groom.  Then I hear a great waterfall in their movements and I stand, my dress swirling in the wind about me.  I close my eyes again to hear the “real” sounds of life in this dusty graveyard.  Playful sounds like the popping of bubble wrap, like clapping and tap dancing.  I hear feasting – a party getting underway in the field as night falls.  The world’s traffic slows and disappears.  Crickets play a happy dirge!!  The wind moves in the field toward me and I see Him coming as the stalks animate and in excited waves express their awe and wonder.  They dance and dance, and clap crunchy palms.  There is constant movement when He walks through the field – He oozes life and animates everything in His path and presence!!




Planes fly overhead lit against the night sky.  I hear their props whirl and for a moment I sense I’m standing on a battlefield safely hidden beneath the train of my Lord.  This brings me to think about the fact that when I’m attacked or hurt (as was the case the night before), I like the dry husks about me tend to split open before God.  Then He works His “magic,” exposing and cracking the jeweled seeds that contain life after death.  For life is a series of tiny deaths, of ascending to higher and higher places with Jesus as one learns to let go and follow Him on the path of death to life.


Behind me I notice two stalks embracing in death.  They make a great deal of noise in the wind as they hold to each other tightly.  I turn and cling to HIM!!  I am learning in death to cling to Him and let go of all else, and when the wind blows on the two of us embracing a new song rises to fill the air with a joyful noise.


Deeper shades of night fall on the field and I see like white icecicles slivers of moonlight reflected on raised arms.  Fireflies add their light to the glory of the stalks praising their Maker.  I realize, sometimes it is in fields of imperfection, tragedy, untimely, cut-short life – fields of death where we meet The Resurrection and the Life face to face and cheek to cheek.  And so He calls and woos.  “Come, My love, to this seemingly barren crackling place and hear My heart in death as in life.”

I came and I heard.  “Perfect on earth is never what it seems.  I’ve much to teach you and to show you, My little harvester, My sweet little widow in the corner of the field.  Long We’ve been together, and yet We’ve only just begun.  It will always be so!!”  I hear the barking of dogs in the distance which turns to howls of agreement.  “I’ve loved watching you change, grow, become.  At every stage, SEE ME – SEE ME PLEASED!!   I See you – I notice everything.  Nothing escapes My gaze nor deep, infinite knowledge.  I move about you in the fields.  I watch.  I die with you.  I touch.  I feel you move, brush against me.  I clap, I bend low, I surround, I invite you in as does this field.  You are Mine and I AM yours, and I’m so thankful.”

I stepped out of the field as from lover’s chamber.  I looked back at the quivering stalks and remembered the fields of Uganda with faces of children innumerable smiling up at me from the cornfields.  And I remembered His love, making love, pure and simple and fiery hot and thanked Him for all He conceived in me there, and here too that is yet to come to full term.



The Lord and I shared one of Our first dances twenty years ago in a quiet field bordered by a busy highway.  Beneath our feet, in cemetery bittersweet, lay my husband’s body.  I came hungry and to be held, and there God took me in a marital embrace and nurtured my budding faith convincing me of the undeniable reality of HIM.  I recall that first dance like yesterday.  I parked and walked toward the small circle of shade under a liveoak beside Chuck’s grave, leaving the van door open so I could hear the praise tape in my cassette player.  It was just the “three” of us there, and I began to sing, trading in sorrow for the joy of My King.  He then through the song on my tongue spoke concerning my husband, informing me of his new life and granting me peace concerning mine.  We both had new lives to live in death’s aftermath.  We danced in resurrection celebration and I heard, as in memory of the future to be, my husband cutting a rug on the Crystal Sea and shouting a new song, a hymn of praise and freedom to His God.  I continued to sing “Jesus Is Alive,” with Ron Kenoly and choirs of angels, the veil between heaven and earth opened wide.


Twenty years later, God still woos me into fields, figuratively into graveyards, where life sleeps hidden beneath gossamer sheets.  Death where is your sting?  Grave, where is your victory?  For Jesus is alive.  He’s alive!!  And He will eternally and with great joy never cease to breathe new life – His very own -- into His loved ones as He plants tender kiss after tender kiss on their lips.

 
Dancing in His Shadow,
Terry













For more inspirational reading visit Spiritual Sundays at www.bloggerspirit.blogspot.com

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Honored to Serve

I did not anticipate a “good” cry in the dentist’s chair this afternoon!!  Tired and having already opened the flood gate briefly beforehand, I must have forgotten to tighten the valve when I left home for the short drive to the dentist’s office.  With x-ray film awkwardly situated in my mouth and a camera brought near my cheek, I tuned into the song playing on the office radio:  Let Faith Arise.  Quite unexpectedly, the song opened the gate, and from then on I could not put the lid back on my emotions.  While letting faith arise, emotions rose simultaneously, threatening to choke me, spilling from the corners of my eyes, filling my nose, running down my throat so that I couldn’t breathe, while on the flat of my back.  Above me, two concerned hygienists peered into my mouth and distorted face warm and compassionate.  There I lay, flushed and awash in mist from the instrument used to jack hammer plaque from between my teeth.  I recalled giving oral care to my two patients the night before, and all the particulars of the experience.  I joined my patients briefly in that dental chair.  And, with tears came a stream of thoughts I wished I could postpone dealing with until later.  I tried every trick in the book: focusing on some element of the ceiling or equipment around me, controlling my breathing, or intentionally running into a happy memory to trick my emotions.  Nothing worked.  My lip quivered, meanwhile an occasional small trickle turned into a steady stream of crocodile tears, and then my chest started to heave, until the scene was almost comical!!  The two hygienists blotted my eyes and face with tissues and bib, doing their best to comfort without knowing what on earth was wrong with me.  I knew how they felt, for I’d been in their shoes too. 

The river ran past my ears and followed the curve of my neck.  I felt tears drop from the charm on my necklace and pool on the chair behind my head.  On being asked if they could do anything for me, I gave a brief explanation, something to the effect that I’d worn my professional face several nights running and was trying my best to recover it until a better time to process.  Thankfully, I restrained myself from asking for a hug – how silly – but really that is what I felt I needed in the moment, and prayed desperately for FROM THE LORD.  “Please, Holy Spirit, just hug me in this place like Mom would were she here for me to spill my heart out on her shoulder.  Do it invisibly, not through strangers, please.  I am so embarrassed.”  Then I waited, basically with all walls down, vulnerable, when least I wanted to be.  I waited on the Lord.  



Extremely sensitive to my desire yet difficulty in regaining composure, the hygienist asked if I would like to sit up for a minute and have a drink of water.  She brought me a welcomed glass of cold water, no ice, to quell the wildfire of emotions consuming me.  Water swirled turbulent in the hammered glass and I proceeded to drink.  Swallowing hard I noted a cold lump forming in my throat.  “Please God, help me swallow this water down and emotions with it, and see me through this most humiliating of dental visits!”  I fought throwing up for a moment or two, but then mercy rushed in to save and momentarily contained the fire.  I thought to myself as the kind hygienist polished my teeth, “This is the side of nursing few see, the hidden work that takes place generally when no one is looking.  As a nurse I’ve learned pressure internalized either hardens the heart, or by the sheer grace of God tenderizes it, conforming a weak vessel seeking to carry the image of God into patient’s rooms and lives into a vessel fit for honor – honor that comes from the Lord Himself, and at times from no one and no place else!!”

Nursing: Offering Living Water to All Who Thirst

I’ve realized how very much I like to do things well – perfectly in fact.  To top it off with a cherry, I also crave receiving like a little child, an occasional (okay, to be honest maybe frequent) “Great job!!”  “Well done”  “I’m so proud of you.”  In my little girl mind, these messages equate with “I love you – I’m crazy about you.”  “You please me”  “I like everything about you.”  “You matter.  You are valuable.  You are an asset.”  Best of all, “I want to be with you always.”  I say this by way of confession, really.  You see I’ve been struggling to “feel” the work I do is noticed – SEEN – by that I mean both the heart behind it and the effort expended, and more so the sacrifices required and the refinement of character God works in through my pouring out in the workplace.  To deny this little girl desire for commendation would be to stop short of receiving what God Himself longs to give (no matter my performance, by the way!).

I find it interesting that God has called me to nursing, and placed me in an environment where perfection is expected, and regularly demanded – after all, people’s very lives are at stake.  God often comes in through the back door, or works in ways that appear “upside down”.  What I’m driving at is that the Lord has approached delivering me from the chains of unholy perfectionism by promoting me into a profession where seemingly what gains the most attention are one’s imperfections, mistakes, and need for improvement.  Grace can seem foreign in such a place and the requirements frustratingly impossible, especially for one who strives to please through performance due to aforementioned reasons.  And so, along comes God with a heart to teach me about honor from all angles.  His motive:  to bestow honor, to accomplish the impossible in and through me, to love on His little girl and be SEEN through her as she nurses for His pleasure.



Honored to Serve in His Shadow,
Terry








For more inspirational reading, please visit Spiritual Sundays at: http://www.bloggerspirit.blogspot.com/

God Still Speaks Through Horses


The Lord has been speaking to me on the subject of honor for some weeks now.  I’ve wanted to write from a position of mastery, but honestly I write from a kindergarten desk, a place of only beginning to truly understand what honor looks like and how integral it is to joy in the Christian life.  But, God, Joy-Giver, is working with me communicating truth to me on this wonderful subject: HONOR.  What follows are some notes from a sermon (only the first ten minutes – I’ll share more in future posts), delivered by Chris Bennett.  After notes on the sermon, entitled “A Community of Honor,” you’ll find a short piece I wrote about a horse named Bunny who also delivered a powerful sermon to me on the same subject days before Chris Bennett.


Notes:  We ought to live in a community of honor!  Typically we honor or recognize people for what they have achieved or accomplished in life.  We tend to focus on honoring people most at their funeral, when they are no longer alive to receive it!!  In the Christian life honor is meant to be built into the fabric and DNA of every one of us. 

What does it look like when a community lives in such a way that people feel honored and valued not just at the end of life but daily.  I Peter 2:17 says, "Show proper respect to everyone; Love the brotherhood of believers, fear God, honor the king."   There is a commission in Scripture to honor everyone.  Every person is valuable to God.   We all have lives worth more than we can imagine.  The enemy would like to convince us otherwise.

Honor is different than just encouragement.  Encouragement says, "This is what I like about you."  Honor says, "This is what I see in you."  It's a deeper place of encouragement, not just words, but finding the value and heart that each person carries and calling that out.  Honor means to place a high value upon something or someone.  When someone enters your presence and later walks away from an encounter with you they should feel more valuable than when they first approached, because your job is to bestow value upon every person that walks into your sphere.

Mother Theresa spent much of her life finding the most broken dying people in gutters and cleaning their wounds.  She created a home for the dying so every person, of great worth to God, could die with dignity.  Honor puts dignity and value on people regardless of what they've done and where they've been.  Every person has intrinsic worth and carries something of great value to God.  Honor celebrates who somebody is without stumbling over who they are not.  (Bill Johnson)

The challenge is that we have issues.  And don’t kid yourself, everybody has issues!!  We must learn to celebrate who people are, not camp on who they are not.  Romans 12:10 instructs, "Love one another with brotherly affection and outdo one another in showing honor."  If you are a competitive person this is your verse!  The foundation of honor is love.  You cannot honor unless it is founded on love.  What would it look like if we chose to outdo every person we encounter in showing them value and honor?

Proverbs 29:23 says, "Those who are lowly in spirit will obtain honor."  If we worry about obtaining honor (recognition, appreciation…) we will not get it, but if we will humble ourselves and give honor to all, we will in turn receive honor.  To receive honor we must give it away.

Bunny

Bunny’s Sermon:

My daughter and I watched intently as Bunny, an Arabian cloaked in dark chocolate, repeatedly walked in circles about her rider submitting to a warm-up exercise.  Round-and-round she went, dust rising from the floor of the arena, obeying without resistance the one who soon would climb upon her back for a ride.  She orbited this young girl a fraction of her size, gladly anticipating riding together as one.  Obviously mutual trust and respect had been lovingly cultivated for commands were received readily and obeyed enthusiastically. 

Charlcie and I couldn’t help but notice that Bunny’s tongue hung limp fully extended from her mouth waving in the dusty air like that of a happy dog.  Tickled, we remarked to each other that we’d never seen a horse “pant for joy,” and that it made her look a little silly.  The stable owner standing only a few feet away informed us of Bunny’s story.  Apparently, at birth a large tumor in her head threatened her survival.  Born to thoroughbred parents, her owner valued her highly in spite of this defect and opted not to destroy her.   Instead he paid for a series of complex surgeries to preserve her life and saw to it rehabilitation and training optimized her intrinsic worth.  While deaf in one ear and left with a severed nerve controlling the muscles responsible for keeping her tongue in cheek, Bunny nonetheless thrived.  With a jaw out of alignment she somehow managed to eat and grow healthy and strong.  Possessing the spirit of an overcomer, her hearing loss did not deter her from heeding with eager heart her trainer’s commands.  Unswerving obedience led to her becoming a ribbon-capturing champion.

When bridled, Bunny’s tongue remained neatly tucked in her mouth held in place by the bit used to guide her.  Her grace and beauty in the arena mesmerized all onlookers.  With a proud gait she pranced, head held high, in no way hindered by her “handicap.”  Those at the stable who knew her did anything but laugh at her lolling tongue during preliminary workouts, rather they quickly jumped at the chance to defend her honor, to tell her overcoming story, and point out who she really was:  a champion.

After Bunny completed her circuits in the arena, I approached her in the barn.  Glistening with sweat and even more glorious up close, she gently lowered her head and invited me to run my hand over her nose and to follow the unique curve created by removal of the mass.  Her velvet coat sloped lovely into this valley, a reminder to all of both her journey to victory and her owner’s extreme love for her.  In her eyes I saw flashing like a gem, contentment.  Love, far more than bloodline, had made her the honored champion God destined her to be!!

By God’s grace I entered the world healthy and whole physically.   However, I’m the first to admit that I possess “handicaps” which the Lord, my Owner/Trainer must contend with.  Spiritually speaking, He has had to excise cancerous growths (identity distortions, lies embraced…).  He has had to deal with impaired hearing, and at times bridle my tongue that I might run in union with Him.  During warm-up exercises I often feel as Bunny must when dust and flies threaten to distract and distress, but my Trainer works tirelessly and He sees to it that I learn to focus and endure to the end.  He honors me by drawing out my true identity – who He made me to be.  While on occasion I feel drained, tired, even overworked, my Trainer God is merciful and knows exactly what He is doing.  He is teaching me to boldly yet humble carry His life on Earth’s battlefields.



If Bunny could speak she’d say, “Terry, your Lord, like my owner, chose not to destroy you.  Rather He adopted you at great personal cost and healed you of what would have claimed your life.  He chooses to operate on the ones He loves to restore them to their royal bloodline destiny.  It may seem He requires much of you, you may feel self-conscious concerning your handicaps, but just trust, listen, obey.  You, too, are His champion.  He looks at you and sees His champion.  He will see to it that you are trained to run sure-footed, neck held high for having been reined in by Him over time until trust and habit are well established."  Thanks, Bunny, for a much needed sermon!!

Daughter Lori and Johnny at English Riding Lessons



Honored to Live In His Shadow,
Terry




For more inspirational reading, please visit Spiritual Sundays at the following link:  http://www.bloggerspirit.blogspot.com/