The most beautiful gift in the entire world is The Word, the Old and the New Testaments of the Truth.  They mark a path over the Rainbow to the Perfect image of God.  The God who is the One God, the Father and Creator of all of the heavens and earth He is the only true and Living God.  There is no other.  We are all his creatures.  The same as He yet uniquely different we each arrive in time for His purpose.

 

We have one Father and for me reading his Word comes together like a treasured family album. The timeless image in the faces of thousands upon ten thousands of his children etched within the bounds of verses, chapters and books.  

 

Countless times throughout the life of the children God blessed me with I have studied their faces looking for familiar traits.  The years passed so quickly and as they have grown older I have given them the space needed and required to grow.  I miss the time so I redeem the time by looking at the images.  Little faces with no lines of worry yet even in the beginning wrinkled with the unknowing of an unfamiliar place.  If you could see close enough each picture is perfectly salted with tears of traveling and looking back in order to move forward.

 

Before each was born I held them each within me.  I dreamed about what they would look like.  I imagined how they would sound.  Pictures were inside of my head and love growing inside my heart building an extraordinary creature that lit up my dark place with the same first spoken light.  Pride swelled with each month passing as my flat world became a perfectly round globe not void but somehow not finished.

 

One tiny circle within me when I was born had found its way to a fertile place and from flower to bud to perfection the right time arrived the two who came together become one.

The day came when my old self would return but not without leaving the marks of footprints like pictures drawn in sand. I wear them now as badges of honor at first just purple ribbons then turning to silvery reminders of the redemption of my soul.  I touch them to remind me of the truth that time stretches into eternity.

 

I know my Father.  He loved me before I knew him.  He knew me before I was born.  I know that my time here on earth has stretched that knowing love he has beyond measure.  He stepped outside the portals of heaven in an age past just because he knew that I would step outside the lines.  

 

I can see the lines in bold black colors outlining the image but often times the gift of color appeared awkward in my hand.  Rods of learning arrayed in brilliant colors I grasped everything but seemingly could not hold on to anything.  I lost sight of the rainbow as I choose to build my own world behind clouds of mistakes.

 

He saw me in the storms.  He whispered through the storms.  The sound of the first was calling me at last to return to my first love.  He allowed me to choose and I tried everything while He allowed it to rain when I was dry.  He allowed the snow to fall to cool my passion and again would ignite my heart anew when it was cold.

 

I cannot stand in the middle fences are just too uncomfortable for me.  I’ve straddled quite a few in my time and just came away hurt.  The kind of pain you cannot see for the gray you’re in but you just know the familiar waves of nausea that rise past the lump within your throat crashing over into salt filled pools from your eyes.

 

I’ve looked into the eyes of my children and seen my own blurry image.  Hurts and failures of the arrows thrown without aim were forever hitting the wrong target and the others with good intentions just missed the mark.

 

Falling my head is lifted with two hands strengthened by the weakness of the scars I created He calls.

 

My flesh is consumed like a fire shut up for ages as the Ancient of Days washes away the marks and I begin to see through the glass a little clearer.

 

His Word is manifest in the flesh and blood of countless scribes engraving the image boldly that I might die to my own self as they before me into the wonderful depths of childlike wonders of faith.  It is not the ink of their blood these tireless scribes I desire.  Theirs just cry out from the pages like sap running from strong trees cut down as though life would end with the penning of the Word.  The sword we bear is quick and powerful flying through time locked skin until the pages of flesh are paper thin.

 

This worn book is my soul.  My breath lies not in the Word but the sound.  The rustling sound that as time closes the book the sound remains and in one tongue with one accord we cry Come! 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements