#mercy — Public Fediverse posts on home.social

Slow Mover @[email protected] · 2026-08-13 · 02:17 UTC

The early morning is still dark when my hound and I arrive at the dog park. Almost immediately, there is a flash of white, and suddenly chaos ensues.

A cat is trapped inside the smaller of the two fenced-in areas. Even though a chain-link fence separates the two, both animals instantly go into a frenzy. My hound begins howling, while the terrified cat races back and forth, careening into the fence as it desperately searches for a way out.

I try to help it escape, all to the loud dismay of my hound, but the cat is too frightened to understand what I am doing. After crashing into the fence several times, it finally collapses low into the grass and simply lies there. I keep my distance, unsure whether it may be injured or sick.

Eventually, I leave the gates open and manage to pull my thoroughly over-hyped hunter away from the scene, fighting against everything years of breeding and evolution have taught her to do.

It takes most of the morning at home—and then a return trip to the now-empty dog park, where she follows one scent trail after another—before she finally begins to calm down.

Needless to say, it was not the most ideal way to start my day.

I, too, needed some time before I could let the chaos of the morning fade away.

And perhaps that was the first lesson.

There are some things that are better left alone.

That sounds simple enough, but I am not especially good at it. Neither, apparently, is my hound.

Once she caught the scent, something ancient took over. The world became very small. There was no longer a dog park, no morning, no leash, no person calling her name. There was only the cat.

I wonder how often I live that way.

Something catches my attention—a problem, a slight, a fear, an argument, a worry, some unfinished thing—and suddenly the whole world narrows around it. I circle it. I howl at it. I follow its scent long after the thing itself has disappeared.

There are habits in us that are older than our intentions.

The hound was not making a philosophical decision to terrorize a cat. She was doing what generations of hounds had prepared her to do. Her body knew before her mind could know.

Human beings are not so different.

We carry instincts of our own: to defend ourselves, to retaliate, to prove ourselves right, to pursue what frightens us, to hold tightly to what we think belongs to us. Sometimes we call these things personality. Sometimes, principle. Sometimes even righteousness.

But occasionally, they are simply old instincts running loose.

The spiritual life may involve learning that not everything within us deserves obedience.

Paul wrote about taking thoughts captive. Jesus spoke repeatedly of watching, waking, remaining alert. Perhaps part of discipleship is noticing the moment when something inside us begins to run.

There is a hound within me, too.

There are things I chase simply because they moved.

There are arguments that do not need another reply. There are offenses that do not need another inspection. There are anxieties whose scent I follow until I have wandered miles from peace.

Sometimes, faithfulness means pursuit.

Sometimes, faithfulness means calling the hound home.

But there was another creature in the story.

The cat.

The more frightened it became, the harder it tried to escape. And the harder it tried to escape, the more violently it crashed into the fence.

There was probably an opening somewhere. I had opened gates. I was trying to make a way.

But fear could not see the opening.

Fear only saw the threat.

So the cat ran harder.

I know something about that, too.

There are moments when I become frightened enough that I begin throwing myself against whatever boundary happens to be nearest. I want out of the discomfort immediately. I want the problem solved now. I want certainty restored.

And sometimes, in trying so desperately to escape, I hurt myself against the very thing I am trying to get through.

The Psalmist says, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

We often print those words on peaceful photographs of mountains and lakes.

But perhaps they belong just as much at a chain-link fence.

Be still.

Not because there is no danger.

Not because everything is fine.

But because panic is not always capable of recognizing an opening.

There are times when running is necessary.

And there are times when running harder only drives us deeper into the fence.

Eventually, the cat did something remarkable.

It stopped.

It lowered itself into the grass and became almost completely still.

At first, I thought it might be injured. Perhaps it was.

But there was also something strangely wise about that surrender. When every frantic attempt had failed, the animal finally quit fighting the entire world.

Sometimes, this is where grace begins.

Not when we finally overpower the situation.

But when we stop exhausting ourselves against it.

“Come to me,” Jesus says, “all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens.”

Not: figure everything out.

Not: run faster.

Not: break the fence.

Come.

Rest.

There is perhaps a third lesson as well, and it concerns my own place in the drama.

I could not make either animal understand what I was trying to do.

The cat could not understand that I was trying to help it.

The hound could not understand why I was preventing her from doing the one thing that seemed most important in the universe.

From their perspectives, I was probably interfering with both of them.

Yet I could see something, neither could you see.

I could see the whole enclosure.

I could see the gates.

I could see the fence.

I could see the danger.

I could see the way out.

That thought has stayed with me.

Perhaps there are moments when God seems strangely obstructive because God sees the whole enclosure.

We pull toward something, and the leash tightens.

We run toward an opening and somehow find ourselves redirected.

We pray for one thing and receive another.

From inside our frightened or excited little worlds, divine restraint can feel like abandonment or interference.

But perhaps the One holding us back can see something we cannot.

The old prayer says,

Your will be done.

There are days when that prayer may simply mean:

God, if I am chasing something I should leave alone, pull me back.

If I am panicking against a fence, help me become still enough to see the gate.

And if I cannot understand what you are doing, help me trust that you see more of the field than I do.

By the time my hound and I returned to the dog park later that morning, the cat was gone.

Only the scent remained.

Naturally, the hound investigated every inch of it.

She ran from fence to fence, nose down, reconstructing the entire drama from invisible traces.

Eventually even those grew faint.

Her breathing slowed.

Her body loosened.

The morning became a morning again.

Perhaps that is grace too.

The thing that once filled the entire world eventually becomes only a scent in the grass.

The crisis passes.

The fear fades.

The instinct quiets.

What seemed moments earlier to demand every ounce of our attention becomes simply one more thing that happened.

And somewhere between the hound and the cat I recognize myself.

Sometimes I am the pursuer.

Sometimes I am the pursued.

Sometimes I chase things better left alone.

Sometimes I run terrified into fences that cannot possibly become doors.

The difficult wisdom is learning which is which.

Perhaps this is why the spiritual life requires so much attention.

To know when to pursue.

To know when to stop.

To know when to run.

To know when to lie quietly in the grass.

To know when the leash pulling against us is not punishment but mercy.

And above all, to remember that somewhere beyond the frenzy there may already be an open gate we are simply too frightened—or too excited—to see.

Prayer

God of the open gate,

When I chase what I should release, call me home.

When old instincts rise in me—fear, anger, pride, the need to be right—teach me that not every impulse deserves obedience.

When I am frightened and cannot see a way forward, keep me from throwing myself again and again against the same fence. Slow my breathing. Quiet my spirit. Help me become still enough to notice the opening I could not see before.

Give me wisdom to know when to pursue and when to stop, when to act and when to wait, when to hold on and when to let go.

And when your restraint feels like a leash pulling against everything I want, give me enough trust to believe that you may see more of the field than I do.

Make me gentle with frightened creatures, including the frightened places within myself.

Let the things that consume me today become, in time, only a fading scent in the grass.

And when chaos narrows my world, remind me that beyond the fence there is still a morning, still a horizon, still grace, and perhaps an open gate I have not yet learned to see.

Amen.

#Anxiety #beStillAndKnow #cat #ChristianReflection #Discipleship #divineGuidance #dogPark #Fear #FindingPeace #Grace #hound #instinct #lessonsFromAnimals #LettingGo #Mercy #openGate #Prayer #spiritualLessons #SpiritualReflection #TrustInGod

#anxiety #bestillandknow #cat #christianreflection #discipleship #divineguidance

Slow Mover @[email protected] · 2026-08-13 · 02:17 UTC

The early morning is still dark when my hound and I arrive at the dog park. Almost immediately, there is a flash of white, and suddenly chaos ensues.

A cat is trapped inside the smaller of the two fenced-in areas. Even though a chain-link fence separates the two, both animals instantly go into a frenzy. My hound begins howling, while the terrified cat races back and forth, careening into the fence as it desperately searches for a way out.

I try to help it escape, all to the loud dismay of my hound, but the cat is too frightened to understand what I am doing. After crashing into the fence several times, it finally collapses low into the grass and simply lies there. I keep my distance, unsure whether it may be injured or sick.

Eventually, I leave the gates open and manage to pull my thoroughly over-hyped hunter away from the scene, fighting against everything years of breeding and evolution have taught her to do.

It takes most of the morning at home—and then a return trip to the now-empty dog park, where she follows one scent trail after another—before she finally begins to calm down.

Needless to say, it was not the most ideal way to start my day.

I, too, needed some time before I could let the chaos of the morning fade away.

And perhaps that was the first lesson.

There are some things that are better left alone.

That sounds simple enough, but I am not especially good at it. Neither, apparently, is my hound.

Once she caught the scent, something ancient took over. The world became very small. There was no longer a dog park, no morning, no leash, no person calling her name. There was only the cat.

I wonder how often I live that way.

Something catches my attention—a problem, a slight, a fear, an argument, a worry, some unfinished thing—and suddenly the whole world narrows around it. I circle it. I howl at it. I follow its scent long after the thing itself has disappeared.

There are habits in us that are older than our intentions.

The hound was not making a philosophical decision to terrorize a cat. She was doing what generations of hounds had prepared her to do. Her body knew before her mind could know.

Human beings are not so different.

We carry instincts of our own: to defend ourselves, to retaliate, to prove ourselves right, to pursue what frightens us, to hold tightly to what we think belongs to us. Sometimes we call these things personality. Sometimes, principle. Sometimes even righteousness.

But occasionally, they are simply old instincts running loose.

The spiritual life may involve learning that not everything within us deserves obedience.

Paul wrote about taking thoughts captive. Jesus spoke repeatedly of watching, waking, remaining alert. Perhaps part of discipleship is noticing the moment when something inside us begins to run.

There is a hound within me, too.

There are things I chase simply because they moved.

There are arguments that do not need another reply. There are offenses that do not need another inspection. There are anxieties whose scent I follow until I have wandered miles from peace.

Sometimes, faithfulness means pursuit.

Sometimes, faithfulness means calling the hound home.

But there was another creature in the story.

The cat.

The more frightened it became, the harder it tried to escape. And the harder it tried to escape, the more violently it crashed into the fence.

There was probably an opening somewhere. I had opened gates. I was trying to make a way.

But fear could not see the opening.

Fear only saw the threat.

So the cat ran harder.

I know something about that, too.

There are moments when I become frightened enough that I begin throwing myself against whatever boundary happens to be nearest. I want out of the discomfort immediately. I want the problem solved now. I want certainty restored.

And sometimes, in trying so desperately to escape, I hurt myself against the very thing I am trying to get through.

The Psalmist says, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

We often print those words on peaceful photographs of mountains and lakes.

But perhaps they belong just as much at a chain-link fence.

Be still.

Not because there is no danger.

Not because everything is fine.

But because panic is not always capable of recognizing an opening.

There are times when running is necessary.

And there are times when running harder only drives us deeper into the fence.

Eventually, the cat did something remarkable.

It stopped.

It lowered itself into the grass and became almost completely still.

At first, I thought it might be injured. Perhaps it was.

But there was also something strangely wise about that surrender. When every frantic attempt had failed, the animal finally quit fighting the entire world.

Sometimes, this is where grace begins.

Not when we finally overpower the situation.

But when we stop exhausting ourselves against it.

“Come to me,” Jesus says, “all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens.”

Not: figure everything out.

Not: run faster.

Not: break the fence.

Come.

Rest.

There is perhaps a third lesson as well, and it concerns my own place in the drama.

I could not make either animal understand what I was trying to do.

The cat could not understand that I was trying to help it.

The hound could not understand why I was preventing her from doing the one thing that seemed most important in the universe.

From their perspectives, I was probably interfering with both of them.

Yet I could see something, neither could you see.

I could see the whole enclosure.

I could see the gates.

I could see the fence.

I could see the danger.

I could see the way out.

That thought has stayed with me.

Perhaps there are moments when God seems strangely obstructive because God sees the whole enclosure.

We pull toward something, and the leash tightens.

We run toward an opening and somehow find ourselves redirected.

We pray for one thing and receive another.

From inside our frightened or excited little worlds, divine restraint can feel like abandonment or interference.

But perhaps the One holding us back can see something we cannot.

The old prayer says,

Your will be done.

There are days when that prayer may simply mean:

God, if I am chasing something I should leave alone, pull me back.

If I am panicking against a fence, help me become still enough to see the gate.

And if I cannot understand what you are doing, help me trust that you see more of the field than I do.

By the time my hound and I returned to the dog park later that morning, the cat was gone.

Only the scent remained.

Naturally, the hound investigated every inch of it.

She ran from fence to fence, nose down, reconstructing the entire drama from invisible traces.

Eventually even those grew faint.

Her breathing slowed.

Her body loosened.

The morning became a morning again.

Perhaps that is grace too.

The thing that once filled the entire world eventually becomes only a scent in the grass.

The crisis passes.

The fear fades.

The instinct quiets.

What seemed moments earlier to demand every ounce of our attention becomes simply one more thing that happened.

And somewhere between the hound and the cat I recognize myself.

Sometimes I am the pursuer.

Sometimes I am the pursued.

Sometimes I chase things better left alone.

Sometimes I run terrified into fences that cannot possibly become doors.

The difficult wisdom is learning which is which.

Perhaps this is why the spiritual life requires so much attention.

To know when to pursue.

To know when to stop.

To know when to run.

To know when to lie quietly in the grass.

To know when the leash pulling against us is not punishment but mercy.

And above all, to remember that somewhere beyond the frenzy there may already be an open gate we are simply too frightened—or too excited—to see.

Prayer

God of the open gate,

When I chase what I should release, call me home.

When old instincts rise in me—fear, anger, pride, the need to be right—teach me that not every impulse deserves obedience.

When I am frightened and cannot see a way forward, keep me from throwing myself again and again against the same fence. Slow my breathing. Quiet my spirit. Help me become still enough to notice the opening I could not see before.

Give me wisdom to know when to pursue and when to stop, when to act and when to wait, when to hold on and when to let go.

And when your restraint feels like a leash pulling against everything I want, give me enough trust to believe that you may see more of the field than I do.

Make me gentle with frightened creatures, including the frightened places within myself.

Let the things that consume me today become, in time, only a fading scent in the grass.

And when chaos narrows my world, remind me that beyond the fence there is still a morning, still a horizon, still grace, and perhaps an open gate I have not yet learned to see.

Amen.

#Anxiety #beStillAndKnow #cat #ChristianReflection #Discipleship #divineGuidance #dogPark #Fear #FindingPeace #Grace #hound #instinct #lessonsFromAnimals #LettingGo #Mercy #openGate #Prayer #spiritualLessons #SpiritualReflection #TrustInGod

#anxiety #bestillandknow #cat #christianreflection #discipleship #divineguidance

chrissbiblenewsletter @[email protected] · 2026-08-07 · 18:18 UTC

#Biblical Ethics, #Exodus, #Justice, #Mercy https://mastodon.social/@chrissbiblenewsletter/117055600521264158

#biblical #exodus #justice #mercy

chrissbiblenewsletter @[email protected] · 2026-08-07 · 18:18 UTC

#Biblical Ethics, #Exodus, #Justice, #Mercy https://mastodon.social/@chrissbiblenewsletter/117055600521264158

#biblical #exodus #justice #mercy

Tim Mocarski @[email protected] · 2026-08-05 · 13:36 UTC

"The Christian gospel is a summons to peace, calling for justice beyond anger, mercy beyond justice, forgiveness beyond mercy, love beyond forgiveness."

Wendell Berry

#quoteoftheday #Christianity #Peace #Justice #Mercy #Forgiveness #Love #TheWord

#quoteoftheday #christianity #peace #justice #mercy #forgiveness

Slow Mover @[email protected] · 2026-07-31 · 07:04 UTC

In Somnia

A Journey Through the Land of Night and Morning

Here is a more narrative version, following the journey through the

In Somnia

A Journey Thr

I entered Somnia through the Border of Yesterday.

I did not know when I crossed it. There was no gate, no guard, no stone marker beside the road. One moment I was lying awake in my room, staring into the darkness, and the next I was walking beneath a sky crowded with stars.

Behind me stood the day that had ended, though it had not released me. Its conversations, mistakes, hopes, and unfinished tasks clung to my clothing like burrs. Ahead, somewhere beyond the hills, lay morning. I could see a faint golden light on the horizon, but it seemed impossibly far away.

A weathered sign leaned beside the road.

SOMNIA
The Land Between Night and Morning, Sleep and Wakefulness.

I had heard of this country, though I had never seen it drawn on any ordinary map. Travelers entered it when the body longed for rest but the mind refused to surrender. Some wandered there only briefly. Others became lost among its winding roads and strange provinces.

I carried no provisions except my hopes for the coming day.

They were heavier than I had expected.

I wanted the day to go well. I wanted to be joyful, caring, gracious, and generous. I wanted to say the right things, notice the people who needed noticing, and allow God to work through me. Every hope had seemed beautiful when I gathered it, but now they crowded upon my shoulders like sacks of stones.

The road curved downward into the Province of Restless Hopes.

The province was filled with unfinished towers.

Everywhere I looked, builders worked by lantern light. They raised arches toward destinations that did not yet exist. They constructed stages for events that had not begun and rehearsed speeches for audiences that had not arrived. Bells rang from every direction, calling people to prepare for possibilities.

A merchant hurried toward me carrying a tray of tiny glass futures.

“Would you like to see how tomorrow may go?” he asked.

Inside each glass sphere was a different version of the coming day. In one, everything unfolded beautifully. In another, I stumbled over my words. In a third, someone misunderstood me. In a fourth, I was too exhausted to be kind.

I leaned closer.

The spheres multiplied.

Soon the merchant’s table stretched farther than I could see, covered with hundreds of possible tomorrows. I tried to examine each one, believing that if I studied them carefully enough I might prevent disappointment.

But the more futures I considered, the less prepared I felt.

At last, I fled the province and followed a narrow road into the Thorn Fields of Worry.

The thorns grew higher than my shoulders. Each branch bent toward me and whispered.

You will be exhausted tomorrow.

You will disappoint someone.

You speak of peace, but look at the chaos within you.

What if you are not as gracious as you wish to be?

What if the day is ruined before it begins?

The thorns caught my clothing. When I tried to pull free, they tightened.

I began answering them.

“I know,” I said.

“Yes, perhaps.”

“I should be better.”

“I should be calmer.”

“I should already be asleep.”

With every answer, the thorns grew stronger.

Soon I was kneeling in the field, unable to move, while the stars stared down like silent witnesses. I felt as though all Somnia had become a courtroom and I was both the accused and the judge.

Then I heard water.

A river flowed not far from the field, silver beneath the moon. I tore myself loose from the thorns and stumbled toward it.

Its name was written upon a stone bridge:

THE RIVER OF MERCY

I knelt at the bank and washed the scratches from my hands. The water was cold, but gentle. It carried no accusation.

An old ferryman waited beneath the bridge.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To morning,” I told him.

“Most travelers say that.”

“I need to get there quickly. I must sleep before the day begins.”

The ferryman looked toward the distant golden horizon.

“The harder you chase morning in Somnia,” he said, “the farther away it often becomes.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Travel honestly.”

He invited me into his boat.

We drifted along the River of Mercy without speaking. As we passed beneath overhanging trees, I saw words reflected in the water.

I am wired, but I am not wicked.

I am unsettled, but I am not lost.

The peace I offer others is also meant for me.

I reached toward the reflections, but the water scattered them into ripples.

“Were those words meant for me?” I asked.

“Mercy is always meant for the one who believes it belongs only to others,” the ferryman replied.

He left me near the Mirror Lakes of Self-Doubt.

Two lakes lay side by side beneath pale trees. Their surfaces were perfectly still. When I looked into the first, I did not see my face. I saw the person I wished to be: peaceful, composed, generous, patient, filled with joy.

When I looked into the second lake, I saw myself as I feared I was: anxious, restless, self-absorbed, exhausted, broadcasting peace while carrying disorder within.

I turned from one lake to the other, unable to decide which reflection was true.

A woman sat between them, mending a torn cloak.

“Which lake should I believe?” I asked.

“Neither tells the whole truth,” she replied.

“But one shows who I should be, and the other shows who I am.”

“No,” she said. “One shows your longing. The other shows your fear.”

“Then where is my true reflection?”

She pointed toward the river behind me.

“Moving water reflects differently than still water. You are not a finished image.”

I remained beside the lakes for a long while. I had always thought grace would show me a better reflection. Instead, it asked me to stop confusing any single reflection with the whole of who I was.

From the lakes, a narrow road wound toward the Forest of Spinning Thoughts.

The trees there grew in circles. Their branches curled back upon themselves, and every path eventually returned to where it began. Owls watched from the shadows as I walked.

I thought about tomorrow.

Then I thought about being tired tomorrow.

Then I thought about how worrying about being tired would make me more tired.

Then I worried that I was wasting the little time remaining for sleep.

Then I thought about the fact that I was thinking too much.

Around and around I went.

At the center of the forest, I discovered an enormous wheel turning between the trees. Hundreds of thoughts were tied to it like ribbons. Each time the wheel revolved, the same thoughts returned.

A small child stood beside the wheel.

“Who keeps it turning?” I asked.

“You do,” the child said.

I placed my hands against the wheel and tried to stop it. It crushed my palms and continued turning.

“You cannot stop it by fighting it,” the child said.

“What else can I do?”

“Step away from it.”

That seemed too simple.

Nevertheless, I stepped back.

The wheel continued to turn, but I no longer turned with it.

For the first time, I understood that a thought could pass before me without becoming a command, a prophecy, or a verdict.

The child led me to the edge of the forest, where a pale road crossed the hills.

A sign named it:

THE PATH OF SUSPENSION OF JUDGMENT

The path was guarded by a robed figure carrying neither weapon nor scales. Behind the figure stood a closed courthouse with no lights in its windows.

“State the charges,” the guardian said.

I began listing them.

“I am not peaceful enough.”

The guardian nodded.

“I am too anxious.”

Another nod.

“I tell others about grace, but I am hard on myself.”

The guardian waited.

“I may be exhausted tomorrow.”

“Is that a crime?” the guardian asked.

“No.”

“Is anxiety a moral failure?”

“No.”

“Is weariness proof of hypocrisy?”

I looked toward the ground.

“No.”

“Then why have you brought yourself here for sentencing?”

I had no answer.

The guardian opened a ledger, dipped a quill into ink, and wrote across the page:

NO VERDICT SHALL BE RENDERED IN THE LIGHTLESS HOUR.

The courthouse doors disappeared.

“Walk on,” the guardian said. “You may reconsider your life after sunrise, food, and rest. Not before.”

Beyond the path lay the Clockwork Plains.

Thousands of clocks grew from the earth. Some were as small as flowers. Others towered above villages. Every clock displayed a different time, yet all of them ticked together.

The sound filled the air.

Tick: You have fewer hours left to sleep.

Tick: Tomorrow is coming.

Tick: You should be asleep by now.

Tick: Count how much rest remains.

I covered my ears, but the clocks seemed to tick inside my bones.

At the center of the plains stood a great clock tower. Its keeper leaned from a window.

“Tell me the time,” I called.

“The time for what?”

“For sleep.”

He shrugged.

“There is no such hour here.”

“But surely you know how much of the night remains.”

“I know many travelers have been harmed by that knowledge.”

He descended and placed a cloth over the clock I carried in my pocket.

“In Somnia,” he said, “the clock does not measure rest. It measures fear of not resting.”

He instructed me to leave the covered clock at the foot of the tower.

I did so reluctantly.

Without it, I did not know whether I had hours or minutes before dawn. Yet the sky did not collapse. Morning continued approaching at its own pace.

Past the plains, the road climbed toward Starwatch Ridge.

The air grew colder. At the summit stood an observatory with an open roof. An astronomer looked through a brass instrument at the night sky.

“Are the stars watching me?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “You are watching yourself through them.”

She invited me to look.

Through the instrument I saw not stars but my hopes, scattered across the darkness: the people I wanted to encourage, the peace I hoped to embody, the generosity I wanted to offer, the goodness I hoped the day might contain.

“They are beautiful,” I whispered.

“Yes.”

“They are also exhausting.”

“Only because you are trying to hold them all in place.”

She adjusted the instrument.

The stars continued shining without my assistance.

“Hopes do not need to be abandoned,” she said. “But they may be entrusted.”

“To whom?”

She pointed toward the center of the map, where a faint light pulsed beyond the hills.

“The road will show you.”

I descended from Starwatch Ridge into the Valley of Grace.

Nothing dramatic happened there.

No angel appeared. No sudden sleep fell upon me. No voice promised that tomorrow would be easy.

The valley was simply quiet.

People moved slowly through vineyards and gardens. No one hurried. No one appeared to be proving anything. Some worked. Some rested beneath trees. Some sat beside those who were weeping.

A gardener offered me bread.

“I have nothing to give in return,” I said.

“Then receive it,” she replied.

I ate.

It was more difficult than I expected.

I knew how to offer grace as an idea. I knew how to speak of compassion, mercy, and peace. But receiving them without earning them felt almost unbearable.

“I want to be joyful, caring, gracious, and generous,” I told the gardener.

“A worthy longing.”

“I want God to work in spite of me.”

She smiled.

“Why only in spite of you?”

“Because I am full of chaos.”

“God has worked with stranger materials.”

“What must I do?”

“Stop treating yourself as an obstruction God must overcome.”

She handed me a small seed.

“What is it?”

“Grace.”

“It looks ordinary.”

“It often does.”

I planted it beside the road.

Nothing immediately grew.

From the valley, I followed the river until night deepened again. At last I saw a warm light beside the water.

It came from the Quiet Inn.

A lantern hung above the door, and beneath it was written:

REST FOR THE WEARY TRAVELER

The innkeeper welcomed me without asking how far I had come or whether I had traveled well.

“I cannot promise I will sleep,” I said.

“You are not required to.”

“What kind of inn does not require sleeping?”

“One that offers rest.”

Inside stood a long table. I placed my hopes upon it one by one: joy, kindness, grace, generosity, peace, a good day, the wish not to disappoint anyone, the desire to be useful to God.

The innkeeper placed each hope into a wooden bowl.

“Will they be safe here?”

“Safer than upon your shoulders.”

“Will I receive them again?”

“If morning requires them.”

“And if tomorrow goes badly?”

“Then you will meet it imperfectly, as all travelers do.”

I lay down near the fire.

Sleep did not come at once.

But for the first time, I stopped pursuing it.

I listened to the river. I felt the weight of the blankets. I allowed the night to be night without demanding that it become morning.

Somewhere between one breath and the next, I heard bells.

Not the frantic bells of the Province of Restless Hopes, nor the ticking alarms of the Clockwork Plains. These bells were low and gentle.

I rose and discovered a final road leading from the inn toward the center of Somnia.

It brought me to a walled sanctuary.

Above its gate were the words:

THE HEART OF GOD
A Sanctuary of Rest and Perfect Love

I hesitated outside.

“I am not ready,” I said.

The gate opened anyway.

Within the sanctuary, there were no clocks, mirrors, courtrooms, or merchants of possible futures. The hopes I had left at the inn were already there, floating like lamps upon a pool.

A presence met me—not as accusation, demand, or solution, but as welcome.

I began to explain myself.

I spoke of the chaos within me.

I spoke of how I proclaimed peace but could not always feel it.

I spoke of my fear that exhaustion would make me less kind.

I spoke of my longing to be gracious.

I spoke until I had no defense left.

Then, in the silence, I understood:

I had not arrived at the Heart of God because I had successfully crossed Somnia.

The Heart of God had accompanied me through every place.

It had been the water in the River of Mercy.

It had been the woman beside the Mirror Lakes.

It had been the child who taught me to step away from the wheel.

It had closed the midnight courtroom.

It had covered the clock.

It had held the stars without my help.

It had offered bread in the Valley of Grace.

It had kept the lamp burning at the Quiet Inn.

God had not waited for me at the end of the journey.

God had traveled through the chaos with me.

Beyond the sanctuary walls, the horizon began to brighten. The Threshold of Morning stood open.

I did not know whether I had slept for hours, minutes, or not at all. I did not know how tired I would be or how the day would unfold.

But the future no longer appeared to be a kingdom I had to conquer.

It was only a road.

Before leaving Somnia, I looked back at the country through which I had traveled: the thorn fields, spinning forest, mirror lakes, clockwork plains, river, valley, and inn.

None of them had vanished.

Perhaps I would visit them again.

But now I knew there were paths between them. I knew there was mercy in the landscape. I knew judgment could be suspended. I knew hopes could be entrusted. I knew that rest might begin before sleep arrived.

At the Threshold of Morning, I found a final inscription carved into the gate:

Do not judge your life by the lightless hour.
Walk gently.
Dream wisely.
Love deeply.
You are still held.

Then I crossed into the day.This version could also serve as the opening chapter of a longer In Somnia allegory, with each region becoming its own chapter.

#allegory #Anxiety #ClockworkPlains #ContemplativeWriting #dreamscape #Faith #fantasyJourney #ForestOfSpinningThoughts #God #Grace #Healing #Hope #InSomnia #innerChaos #Insomnia #mentalUnrest #Mercy #MirrorLakesOfSelfDoubt #peace #QuietInn #Rest #RiverOfMercy #selfJudgment #sleeplessness #SpiritualReflection #suspensionOfJudgment #ThresholdOfMorning #ValleyOfGrace

#allegory #anxiety #clockworkplains #contemplativewriting #dreamscape #faith

WIST Quotations @[email protected] · 2026-07-23 · 21:54 UTC

A quotation from The Talmud

When the Egyptians were drowning in the Red Sea, the angels in heaven began to break forth in songs of jubilation, but the Holy One, blessed be He, silenced them: “My creatures are perishing — and ye are ready to sing!”

בִּקְּשׁוּ מַלְאֲכֵי הַשָּׁרֵת לוֹמַר שִׁירָה, אָמַר הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא: מַעֲשֵׂה יָדַי טוֹבְעִין בַּיָּם, וְאַתֶּם אוֹמְרִים שִׁירָה

The Talmud (AD 200-500) Collection of Jewish rabbinical writings
Babylonian Talmud, Seder Moed, Megillah 10b.26 [Rosten (1972)]

More about (and translations of) this quote: wist.info/talmud/4579/

#quote #quotes #quotation #qotd #talmud #callousness #celebration #compassion #creation #creator #divineintervention #divinelove #divinewrath #God #grief #inappropriateness #mercy #sorrow #tragedy #war

#tragedy #war #celebration #quote #grief #compassion

Dawahudhud @[email protected] · 2026-07-15 · 17:19 UTC

Forgiveness belongs to God. Turn to Him, and He is the Most Merciful.
#Islam #Mercy #Faith #Dawah

#islam #mercy #faith #dawah

Dawahudhud @[email protected] · 2026-07-15 · 17:19 UTC

Forgiveness belongs to God. Turn to Him, and He is the Most Merciful.
#Islam #Mercy #Faith #Dawah

#islam #mercy #faith #dawah

Kowachi @[email protected] · 2026-07-14 · 16:00 UTC

Keeping the skies clear together

#pharmercy #overwatch #overwatch2 #pharah #mercy

Lisa J. Warner / Lisa Luv @[email protected] · 2026-07-14 · 12:22 UTC

🌴🌞💛🏖️🚣🏼‍♀️🌊⛱️🪸🫍🦑🐠⛵🦞🍢🐚🦭⛲🏄🏼‍♀️🤽🏼‍♀️💚😊🏩🫶🫶🏿🫶🏻🫂🌐🌏🩵💁🏿‍♀️*DEAR BELOVED FRIENDS I AM FEEDING MY SPIRIT WITH GOOD!*& LOVING THINGS TO START MY DAY!*& SHARING IT WITH YOU ALL TOO SO WE CAN ALL BE BOOSTED UP IN POSITIVE HOPE!*AMEN!🙏👉

(John 1:1-5)
#The #Word #Became #Flesh #Christ #Our #True #and #Only #Light #Jesus #Devotional #Father #GOD #Holy #Spirit #Savior #People #Pray #Believe #Christian #Heaven #Hope #Peace #Faith #Goodness #Kindness #Hospitality #Gentleness #Unity #Prayer #Love #One #Another #Mercy #Forgiveness

#the #word #became #flesh #christ #our

Lisa J. Warner / Lisa Luv @[email protected] · 2026-07-14 · 12:17 UTC

🌴🌞💛🏖️🚣🏼‍♀️🌊⛱️🪸🫍🦑🐠⛵🦞🍢🐚🦭⛲🏄🏼‍♀️🤽🏼‍♀️💚😊🏩🫶🫶🏿🫶🏻🫂🌐🌏🩵💁🏿‍♀️*DEAR BELOVED FRIENDS GOOD TUESDAY MORNING!🌞*& I AM FEEDING MY SPIRIT WITH GOOD!*& LOVING THINGS👉

(John 1:1-5)
#The #Word #Became #Flesh #Christ #Our #True #and #Only #Light #Jesus #Tuesday #Devotional #Father #GOD #Holy #Spirit #Savior #People #Remember #Pray #Believe #Christian #Heaven #Hope #Peace #Faith #Goodness #Kindness #Caring #Hospitality #Helping #Others #Gentleness #Understanding #Everyone #Unity #Prayer #Love #One #Another #Mercy #Forgiveness #Saved

#the #word #became #flesh #christ #our

Lisa J. Warner / Lisa Luv @[email protected] · 2026-07-14 · 12:12 UTC

🌴🌞💛🏖️🚣🏼‍♀️🌊⛱️🪸🫍🦑🐠⛵🦞🍢🐚🦭⛲🏄🏼‍♀️🤽🏼‍♀️💚😊🏩🫶🫶🏿🫶🏻🫂🌐🌏🩵💁🏿‍♀️*DEAR BELOVED FRIENDS AROUND THE WORLD GOOD TUESDAY MORNING!🌞*& I AM FEEDING MY SPIRIT WITH GOOD!*&👉

John 1:1-5
#The #Word #Became #Flesh #Christ #Our #True #and #Only #Light #Jesus #Tuesday #Devotional #Father #GOD #Holy #Spirit #Savior #People #Remember #Pray #Believe #Christian #Heaven #Hope #Peace #Faith #Goodness #Kindness #Caring #Hospitality #Helping #Others #Gentleness #Understanding #Everyone #Unity #Prayer #Love #One #Another #Mercy #Forgiveness #Saved

#the #word #became #flesh #christ #our

1ban.news @[email protected] · 2026-07-14 · 03:52 UTC

Russian Energy Is Now at Ukraine's Mercy

https://1ban.news/russian-energy-ukraine-mercy/
#1ban #russian #energy #ukraine #mercy #geopolitics

#1ban #russian #energy #ukraine #mercy #geopolitics

1ban.news @[email protected] · 2026-07-14 · 03:52 UTC

Russian Energy Is Now at Ukraine's Mercy

https://1ban.news/russian-energy-ukraine-mercy/
#1ban #russian #energy #ukraine #mercy #geopolitics

#1ban #russian #energy #ukraine #mercy #geopolitics

Lisa J. Warner / Lisa Luv @[email protected] · 2026-07-13 · 14:16 UTC