Knowing in Whom You Have Believed

November flings its door open in a show of cold and color and speaks the creators amazing beauty.

There's a chill in the air, a hop in the tired step, and a hope in the heart that longs to draw near to a certain, calling peace. 

A peace that the season slowly but hurriedly inches closer to that rings joy and good tidings, but for now pumpkin seeds and spiced coffee and bags of candy that spark buds and leaves that crackle and logs that burn from a nearby pit, it all blows homeward.

It's here again and yes, it fills just like it came and went only days ago. 

Each year after year, each windy, blustery, leaf fallen season that passes and reappears my mouth slowly closes more and more in its rushness to complain and as I said before I can out wail a dog~head bowed down shamefully~ but to soak quietly in what is before me, simple goodness.

It was the day of should we or shouldn't we and deeper hidden meanings and what ifs and not rights but I've always believed this verse of truth in my mind after years of hearing the carpenter speak it, "to the pure all things are pure." 

Its a drop in a bucket of something tiny and sweet and it brings wide eyes and big grins and its blessed for the church opens its doors for a night where games and worship fill buckets full of treats and happy hearts. 

And yes it can lurk there in the dark, its dweller, and its real and we watch and shield but we sigh and breath for "to the pure all things are pure" and He holds these tiny hands for they are His.  

It passes by and November stands wide open another month but this one of thanks.

It doesn't come easy to all, especially myself, for it depends on the place of the thanks, and how much the eyes choose to really see.

Its hard to give thanks when you feel life is empty and barren and when you look around at all to be seen and it never seems to filter through your door.  

Wait and wonder because theres never certainty with emptiness for full lurks near but empty creeps closer to swallow. 

Its hard to give thanks when you see an empty plate but an empty plate means a full soul for the plate can't be taken up nor can emptiness devour the spirit that connects with His. 

You have to speak it or the empty wins, speak thanksgiving because it brings gratefulness to the soul and hope to the heart. 

Without hope there's no salvation song at the end of the day and if hope can't be seen or felt or believed the heart can't thank. 

Giving thanks brings the spirit of gratefulness and its not your plate or mine I see in the end but His. 

When the mind wanders from the self to the creator we praise thanks, we praise hearts that beat, and little hands to hold, and wrinkled faces to gaze, and we remember that better His courts of thanksgiving than an earthly door that never seems to open. 

For only one door really matters, one gate. 

First, foremost, at the top of the to do list, before the feet touch the ground in the early morning hours~ to give thanks is to know in whom I have believed in. 

Before thanks can be given, genuine, adored thanks that cries to heaven and bends the legs to the bed, and clasps the hands in tearful joy, "to know in whom I have believed in."  

It comes from a reverent place where the heart meets His. Its a connection of souls and hearts and hopes for He willingly hopes for us and longs for us to be as He is and we can pick up the cross and follow and for this there is thanks~ know in whom you have believed.

How? Make Him the first yes, the first, trying this and sticking to it the first of everything, the first fruits of my harvest, of time and self offered to Him, to know in whom I give thanks and follow.

Yes, 1883 David Whittle, a man whom He believed.

~But I know Whom I have believed,
And am persuaded that He is able
to keep that which I've committed
Unto Him against that day.

I know now what of good or ill
May be reserved for me,
Of weary ways or golden days,
Before His face I see.

I know not when my Lord may come, 
At night or noonday fair,
Nor if I walk the vale with Him,
Or meet Him in the air.

But I know Whom I have believed,
And am persuaded that He is able
To keep that which I've committed
Unto Him against that day.

To Say it is Good at the End of the Day

Sometimes there is nothing like silence.

Good, peaceful, absolute, still silence.

The kind of silence where you sit and drown in the quiet, resting the weary body and mind, and for once you can actually think and reveal in undisturbed thoughts.

I love these moments though there few.

In our home silence is unseen for when there's a little boy or a carpenter under its roof the mouth does not sleep, the noise knows no quiet, and the brain desires no boredom or stillness. 

Living adhd is being constantly surrounded by thoughts, emotions, actions, and ramblings and its sporadic and genuine and enlightening and exhausting and its none of your own and all of theirs. It always runs, their mind and brain, it never quiets until there's the silence of night.

And moments of quiet are soaked in these dry, thirsty bones.

God knew they were needed these adored, sincere instances of silence. Its a cup of cool on a parched tongue, a shaded tree from the heat of the day, a hallelujah, amen in its own way.

Silence blankets the house, rooms are dimly lite, darkness shows under the closed doors of the children's rooms and for once they stayed in their beds, their little voices full of song finally drifting off in quiet.

The crickets chirp and their sounds wander in through open windows happy to play a song for falls warm night.

Dim the light. A days work has been done and to say it was good? 

If the mind were to rethink the days events it would turn up empty in many places, too fast it sped, too many things would have to be redone, too few moments of what I wouldn't give up or trade.

Too many repeats. Day can seem like repeats if there's no celebration in life, if there's no shouts of praise, no spoken words of Spirit, no faith in in the race.

The wrist flung faster and faster as potatoes were peeled for dinner. Skins flew across the counter as I quickened the pace of the wrist. How much easier it would have been to tear open a pouch, pour, and mix? How much time it would have saved? How much peace would have been gained? But yet, how real?

Real takes time and sometimes I would just rather give it up and opt for the easy, semi real, good enough to get by blend.

But real, it makes the mind think how real this all is the still, peaceful, here and now. The crazy, glorified, chaos of real. I would rather have real, then the semi-real life.

It drew me to question how real was He the maker of the still quiet?  How real was God to me? Just a name that I knew and prayed and thanked but yet how real? For something to be real it must be uncovered, it must be felt, it must be tasted, it must be learned, it must be seen, it must be lived, it must Be Spoken, it must be Known.

How real is God in my life? As real as the rare peaceful moments so sought for? But for Him to call me by name? God must be real and I must be real wholly, flung open, humbled, fully surrendered, willingly laid bare, to see His face. 

To seek God is to hunger and thirst for righteousness, to live God is to Speak His Spirit, to praise God is to glorify and give thanks, to fully see God is to Know God. 

Knowing God, really knowing God is an immerse of the whole self into everything that Speaks His name, "Yahweh." Its a fight of the fleshly self to see deeper, much deeper than a worship song sung on Sunday, much deeper than a prayer whispered in need, much deeper than a verse skimmed over for the week. 

God is only as real in your life as you make Him to be. 

To say it is good at the end of the day is to know the Maker who holds this being in His palm, who won't let this shattered and torn soul wander, who gently reminds that "this is the day, that He has made for me and to rejoice."

To say it is good and that end of the day is to know that my redeemer lives and because of Him I live and He is good and He beats this heart and carries this family and while there is breath say that "it is good" even when its hard and life is saddened.

To say it is good at the end of the day is to walk hand clasped to the One who yes adores His children flaws and all.

Making Him real in the day is how it's all good. 

To Fear Death

"What's going to happen to all my stuff, all my things?"

Eyes big and blue look at me searchingly.

His small, sharp, chin is hidden under covers of red fire trucks and blue cars and his fingertips grasp the edge of the sheets as he waits.

Stuffed animals lay close to his sweet, yellow haired head that my hands gently touch and smooth. Pooh, and a bear that still rattles from infancy, an eagle, and an owl named Jamberin snuggle close by. 

On the walls hang his art, pictures of him as a little boy, his small hand prints and fingers prints on a frame. On the shelves his latest creations from legos and there's magnets, and train pieces and gears and books and who knows what under his bed.

"What do you mean what will happen to your things?" My eyes squint, brows crease, a hand lifts to brush his cheek.

"When I die? What will happen to my things? I guess some other children will have them."

Silence. Death it comes up at least once or twice a month. The pages of the Book are covered with stories of life and death and resurrection and miracles that's it only rational for a little, curious boy of seven to want to know more.

More of what I feared the most and what I liked to talk the least.

More of what I knew little of, heaven, and I didn't let him see it, the fear of death.

Pushing it aside, I spoke peace and happiness even though grey clouds the brain and the heart skips a beat for death can mean done if you let it.

"Well, hopefully they will be your children who will have them. But don't worry honey heaven is an amazing place, full of things that your little mind and my big one can't even imagine. But its the perfect place, the most beautiful home, more like a castle with jewels and a big gate and walls, maybe a robot castle and I'm sure there will be plenty of mazes for your feet to travel, plenty of tire swings and sea green pools and you won't have to worry about holding your breath or swallowing water and yes God and Jesus are there and yes, people from the Bible and yes, I will be there waiting for you."

"Can I fly?"

I picture him even as a young boy he always would try, he would flap his skinny little arms and jump and jump always hoping to soar, to fly high.

"I can't fly because of gravity...see." The covers come off and a little, excited boy stands on his bed and flaps his arms only to drop to his feet on the floor.

"Well, I don't know about that. Maybe if you ask God he will let you fly. It does say that we will be like the angels in heaven but we have to believe with all hearts, believe in His truth."

His eyes lock mine and for a moment his ears soak in words and I can see pictures looming in front of his mind.

"Heaven is a place that we don't really know much about except that it must be the best place for God is there. There's no crying, or pain, or anger, or unkindness but only happiness and excitement like Christmas morning over and over again but while we are here on earth we should praise and worship God and thank him for everyday, every night, every laugh and cry, every moment."

I kiss his cheek and he is content, content in believing he can fly in heaven and a Mom touches his cheek hoping to be able to see her little boy grow up to the moment when she know longer does.

{Death can mean done and so can Life. Life can be done without even having to die.}

{For to live life in fear of death is to live a life that is already done, already gone.}

Sometimes this fear can trap the throat, and tremble the heart, and shake the bones, and cry tears and it kills the life of the soul and its real.

But to speak Heaven and life to a boy opens and flings the gate of the spirit into His majesty of peace and rest and joy in the death.

God never meant for there to be death. 

Since creation he adored Adam and Eve and there was no sickness and death but life and freedom and deliverance from but with sin came death with deception and jealously came evil and it flourished and grew.

Death and evil angered Him. He sought away around it but could find known except His Son whom death could not hold or keep buried and through Him became a passage of deliverance.

The body will crumble and be sickened and shortened and years blow by and whither away and hair turns grey and legs crack, and hips pop, and eyes squint, and skin wrinkles but the soul... the soul and spirit continue to grow and its a growth that will break through the cage of its dwelling and it will one day fly and it will soar into the heavens above because it has been delivered and it is home.

Tend the soul and spirit. Tend the Spirit. Speak the word. I need to. For it erases fear and pushes Life towards deliverance and a life that is never done.

{Speak His words in life for it rids the mind and body of fear and flings open the soul to really live and grow.}

On the Broken Path

So some afternoons are just meant to be spent with a six dollar bag of kettle corn on your lap.

And there's no stopping the shoveling of the sweet, puffed corn into the mouth except to fill the cups of the young ones and send them off with remarks of its "your last cup, no more."

But I'm thinking in the back of my mind yep this is dinner.

Even though in thirty minutes a tired, weak, dirtied hand, saw dust headed husband will walk through the door with a sweet smile and an empty belly...to a wife with her legs up and a bag (now half gone) of corn on her lap.

Until then, this Mom needs her share of quiet and kettle.

Yes the scale will tip higher (work off that tomorrow).

And those surprise moments of biting down on whole kernels too close to cavities that are waiting for root canals are happening too many times but its kettle and corn and a big bag and it took a big, long, broken way to get it.

I was lost and in more ways then one.

The morning dawned early with kids in tow and off we were for a day of apple picking, pumpkin patching, and hay jumping with a local homeschool group.

Don't be late. 10:00am sharp. Tickets were purchased in advance. Apple Picking 10am.

I should have stayed the course straight instead of pulling the wheel right towards the wrong direction. It took 30 minutes to realize that exit 20 was not Weston and so I back tracked heading back towards the straight highway.

Telling the kids we might just miss the apple picking to which my oldest was completely okay with and offered me encouraging words that soften and shock the soul.

But in my mind it was not okay. The kids would have fun. They would miss that ride in the wagon up the green field towards the swaying, apple plucking trees whose branches were now only waving goodbye in my mind.

Call if your running late that's what the memo said. Except in my case the 7 was supposed to be a 1 and so I couldn't dial.

The highway ended and in its place a winding, country two lane road with cow farms and fields of corn and hay appeared. Easy. I knew rolling country hills and farm lands having grown up in an appalachian town.

I drove and drove. It can seem endless on a country road.

I had passed too many signs and I couldn't find "the" street and I had forgotten my roots that not all gravel roads are named and in this case this one wasn't. 

I pulled over to ask an old man in blue overalls and greying hair for directions and of course he smiled and spoke his country twang and told me that I had gone too far.

I had passed "the sign" not the road sign but the sign for the red barn.

By this time my oldest in the back was saddened as I had built these grandiose illusions that were now floating out the window because of time passed, a good two hours.

We finally arrived sweaty, tired, hungry, and ready for fun.

Lets say the boys had a good time but there was no wagon ride up the steep hill towards the apple orchard for it was only a few feet from the barns. There were no fields painted with orange rows of pumpkins, or hay mazes, or corn stalks, or face paint, or tractor pulls, or tractor rides or...I could go on.

But there was kettle corn.

And forgiveness and sweetness in my oldests eyes because children  really don't know what their missing or maybe they do and they don't really mind.

{The only thing that matters to children is the smile on your face and the light in your eyes and the sound of your voice because they can really do without it all but what they can't do without is your love.}

Your heart that pumped and fluttered and raced with the birth of a miracle now grows and tends theirs, so sacred, so sweet.

{Children's hearts bring His presence closer to you.}

Yes, truth here~being lost and broken is the only way to see the Mender who pieces it all back together towards His Spirit.

{If were not broken, we can't be forgiven.

If were not torn, we can't be healed.

If were not lost, we can't be found.

If were not hungry, we will never be fed.

If were never close, He will never be Real.}

{It's the torn spirit along the broken path that brings us back to the One who was broken and torn for us.}

When the Wind Blows

Autumn is here.

I can feel it in the wind, a change. 

It comes too quickly and before I know it the sun soaked days of trips to the pool, soft feet in warm sands, juicy watermelon on plates, and melted ice cream cones have faded.

Now there are the cries of a two year old as he stands in his blue jeans, rummaging through his drawers for shorts. 

 There are whines of jackets that are missing and have I seen them and I think there in a box somewhere in the closet or garage and more than likely there in a box that's not labeled. 

 And the jacket, that waterproof black jacket that I would have loved to have purchased in my size, its collar tickles the neck and tickles are scratches that annoy a young boy. 

 Rain boots from last year are tattered and torn but hold memories of little feet and muddy puddles and wet legs and sopping pants but they pinch and pinches make moans. 

Wind can change every moment, even the smallest. 

 I stiffen and harden. 

Change comes with the wind and it brings new pressures, new days unknown, new challenges, results, and deadlines. 

 But I gain nothing stiff and braced. 

From high the wind seeks to find the low to change its pattern and its course.

So is the Creator seated on high, He seeks to change the lowly, the worn and tired, the sufferers, the lost, the anxious, the fearful, and in its place He offers His Holy eternal light that speaks love and peace. 

 Seasons change and with it so do seasons of life.

Days become shorter, always fleeing too quickly, some painfully but He gives hope in the new, a rebirth in every moment. 

And so the wind comes and leaves lose their green and colors once covered shine, soaking through in brilliant streaks of red, oranges, and yellows because there's still life hidden underneath it all. 

 The Spirit reveals it, the true self underneath that shell.

It’s shame and regret that can be seen but to carry on, to cry out in sorrow, to ride the wind, is to seek the light. 

 {It’s His light that draws and beckons so live it and speak it even though the winds push and pull because God breathed this life and its His Spirit that carries us along.}

God loves me the way that I am but I want to live the way that He lives.

For the Beauty of the Earth

Click, click.

7pm cicadas sing.

Burrowed under ground for seventeen years, they emerge, well hidden among shades of green and tymbal muscles contract. 

Click, Click.

Only  for a few weeks, they strum their song.

Summers last song. 

Warm nights darken early. 

End of season is close and nature knows how to fold, its purpose planted by God who supplies and sustains even the tiniest of insects. From fields of wheat, to orchards of apples, to roaring seas God has the palm and in it is all that moves and breathes.

Summer moved and breathed and its last exhale lingers close. But beauty and memory remains of warm, hot nights, sea salt air, the sounds of waves against shore, the shouts of laughter and surprise from little mouths.

Part of our summer was spent there. Amongst the warm sands and hot sun and sea green oceans, we laid and praised this massiveness.

This massiveness of ocean's expanse, unfathomable. 

His love reaches beyond this, beyond this massive floor of oceans depths, it is nearly incomprehensible to the human mind, fathomless. 

For the beauty of the earth He made us and His love for us reaches beyond this place, past all that can be seen or felt, more than can ever be imagined or discovered or uncovered or reasoned. 

Through Him there's more, more than just this. 

In the moment we may think this is all there is, hold onto it, every moment, every memory, every breath and exhale. But to realize giving it up, letting it go, resting because the Creator created splendor unimaginable to the human mind and it waits for us. 

He knows heart, His creation.

But for now, oceans roar gives glimpses of His love and His image. Powerful, beautiful, strong, peaceful, ever changing, a haven to all who seek.

It was a gift that a giver gave and it gave joy, undeserving joy.

Undeserving joy while hearts tug, tear and show sides of human nature.

But joy it strengthens spirit, hopes, and it never goes unnoticed for eyes that give are forever seen long after the gift has been given. Loved relentlessly, cherished, seen forever.

Memories of moments of soft warm sands beneath toes, early morning walks, long and warm afternoons spent in waters warmth, while innocence laughs and screams in its delight.

Its the sunset over the oceans sea green waves that catches breath and gasps and I remember.

The sunset splashed with orange, pinks, and reds next to the darkening sky's blue and white wide expanse.

She's there. I still remember because that's where she is, a loved one.

For the beauty of the earth, I see with eyes that long to know, all of it and He beckons us to beyond, to see beyond.

Holiness surrounds. Holiness abounds here in the whiteness of sands, the coolness of oceans morning lap against feet, mesmerizing sunsets of orange and pinks, hands that feel oceans warmth, its all holiness, His all His.

Breathe in beauty and holiness and life for where it is so is His presence. 

Life is only a taste for more waits and its more than a taste, but a peaceful rest of heart in knowing that He carries the hand that He made, and He rests the souls worries, and He quiets the hearts that mourn and God will silence it all, for He has given a salvation from, bought with a price He protects.

And what's left on shore will be in His palm; offer up prayer that He sustains and will fight and keep charge over the spirits we love. 

But for now, summers song.

7pm cicadas sing. 

And little hearts laugh and question life and big hearts tell the tales and learn to laugh and let go because its okay, Gods got this life.  

Reach for His hand and Holiness here, wherever you are, on dusty gravel roads, on the seats of  tractors, at a supermarket, brushing strands of soft hair, taking pulses, touching worn cheeks, protecting hearts, building homes, planting seeds, feeding hungry, serving sick... Reach. 

His Holiness is here and cicadas sing His song.

This is All I Have to Give and Its At The End of the Rope

Yes, I'm at the end of the rope. 

That long, braided mass of brown fibers that I hold onto and tug and stretch and yank day after day and it scratches and burns and so I let go. Opening my worn hand, for good, its gone. 

I see it and feel it as it waves goodbye showing itself wildly dangling and flapping in the wind as if to entice me back into its reach. It wants to be chased.

Do I reach for it? Do I want it back? That rope. Do I give it another shot, another try? Wrestle with it and the mind and body grows weary yet this need to know could I have? Could I have done it better? Made it work? Fixed it? Believed enough? Been that someone?

Sometimes yes and sometimes no and it will be missed.

It soared away and out of me, leaving behind a tug at the heart, a willingness to finally lose control of what can't be controlled. 

Giving it all I have to give I couldn't get it back now. 

Watching sometimes there's regret for who am I? Who are we?

All we have to give is what we've been given. 

Does anyone really want it anyways? All I have to give. Its 10:30pm and the pot still soaks in the drain that big pot that held dinner for four and that I wish would be easier to scrub the longer it sat but it wouldn't be. 

The sweep of the night with broom in hand as broken chips, leftover cheerios, and blueberries are swept into a pile mingled with dust and dirt from happy feet and theres little legos that are carefully picked out and placed away. 
Exhaustion shows herself and I can't remember where I laid the brooms pan and spend extra precious glances from tired eyes to find it. 

Basket in tow, laundry is finally being done and the machine comes alive and I continue to clean, pay bills, and toss away trash and wash and write. 

Soon the lock on the door will turn and the carpenter will come home his hands soiled and splinted and wish to talk the talk of tired mouths to which more than too often mine remains closed. 

Morning hours comes and my tired legs finally head off to bed and before this body can feel rested the alarm goes off for an early morning walk and I think about me and Him and life and wishes and unfilled dreams and unexplained expectations of those close. 

Its easy to feel like a failure, like you haven't given it your all, when there's no silver plaque adorning the wall, no rolled white paper with red ribbon, no golden silhouette, nothing to show that's tangible that's so highly placed as above the worth of the heart and soul. 

Don't  believe the belief you have given it your all and that it runs dry or its worthless because giving never stops and its love that gives. 

We just may not know how much we do give and not everyone sees all the giving those little moments that mean big in His eyes and that drops a shining stone into an awaiting crown that's not sealed with a red ribbon or plaque but with eternity.

Just because it hasn't been seen or may not be done doesn't mean it should have been or couldn't have been. 

All we have to give is what we have been given and we have been given the greatest gifts of love and Spirit. 

His Spirit that lives and breaths in us that fades from mind too often and which I tend to forget, this powerful, resurrecting Spirit that speaks life and and truths and hope and salvations eternity.

Give a testament a testament to Him no matter the circumstances though life is hard and can crush and bruise the soul  it can still give Spirit. Turn cheek and give love that keeps renewing, strengthening, testing, encouraging. Commandment love.

Give the commandment love that commands to be given in homes and across seas and green and desert and it never stops and fills hearts and souls and spirits, its fathomless and knows no boundaries, selfless.

The joy He is, is Love. 

The Hope He is, is Love. 

The Promise He is, is Love. 

The Freedom He is, is Love.

All we have to give is what He has made us to be, Him in His own image.

And its fibers fly, woven, braided and faded and it soars away and I let it fly this rope that's tangled and tucked and yanked for some things are meant to be let go and given away to find the true Giver who gives chances and grace and mercies and salvation. 

Who wipes away every tear. 

The love of the Giver is He always gives and there is another and always another and its grabbed, that woven fiber, in this tired, worn hand and "in His time" He works all things beautiful.


**This is part of the Proverbs 31 bloghop for the online book study by Lysa TerKeurst "Am I Messing My Kids Up," a wonderful read.**

"Don't Lose Heart"

A heart string was pulled.

The kind that slaps you back into reality. 

But then in breaks the light and the pastor speaks on exactly what teased, plucked, and pulled this string.

And He is so right and I am so wrong and we are all wronged, and everyone hurts when God no longer remembers. 

But we do remember, our flesh does, and we eat from it, live it, and share it with others this wrong, this mistake, this unfortunate sin nature.

Share sins and it consumes every step, every word, every action, it breathes its lie of destruction with its silent whispers.

But God, He wants nothing from this or of this. For it says bring no gift to God. 

He doesn't want it with this in hearts. 

This wrong as the motivating factor on how to live this one precious gift of life; these moments that waste in wants and pity's of self.

If God no longer remembers why the starving of flesh and souls peace to give way to fear, uncompromise, and pity.

It must be because God is no longer the center of hearts. When He is not the center We are and we miss. 

We miss out and we may not care. Time too much time has flown by; too many seeds have been sown that have fallen.

But we are always planting seeds..the seeds of life..of souls..of spirits..of fruit...of forgiveness..of love.

Don't lose heart, the seeds have not run out for the Giver gives them plentifully and we must sow the seeds that will reap harvests not just on earth but Gods harvest in His heart which will reap in ours.

Summer=sight of seedlings breaking through revealing there show of exuberant beauty, of its survival, of its root hidden underground strong, entwined in the reach soil that nourishes.

Entwine the roots of hearts and of souls into His word so that it nourishes and produces such a show of His glory that it stems life into Us the life that bears His fruit.

Don't lose heart.

Seeds, every instance is a chance to plant a seed.

Seeds will fall and scatter and will lay by the wayside useless and we may feel as it does useless, scattered but then we find the strength to plant a new seed and we hope and tend to it on His promises that love will sustain life.

Don't lose heart. The Giver rejoices when a seed has revealed its true heart broken and molded and tended by Him. 

Its the honest strive to dig deep into the depths of our soul and spirit to find His that gives us the light to shine even when the clouds hover dark. 

His light protects and tends and it grows this seed while time takes time and don't lose heart, it will grow if cared for and looked after. 

And they will come those that wish to choke the good and the life and the strength from them, don't grow weary. 

Seeds tenderly cared for are souls tenderly sown. 

Go through seeds. 

Some fall and some flourish but don't grow weary, plant the seeds that will reap a harvest of His words, His peace, and His joy, His blessings.

"Let us not lose heart in doing good, for in due time we will reap if we do not grow weary." Galations 6:9