#spiritualreflection — Public Fediverse posts

Beyond the Pale

Stepping outside after an early-morning breakfast with friends, I carry a cinnamon roll to go for my wife, still warm in my hands.

The morning reveals itself slowly through fog and mist. Distant trees fade into white. Flags hang limply in the damp at half-mast.

I sit in the truck and watch traffic pass as people begin their day, and I wonder what mine will be.

Nearby, in the nursing home, a woman breathes slowly in and out, somewhere near the edge of crossing over.

Across the road, behind the thrift store where I used to work, another woman gazes out toward the marsh.

Next door, a man in work clothes walks from his truck into the Marathon gas station beneath the lowered flags, perhaps buying what he will eat for lunch.

Ordinary lives moving through an ordinary morning.

I think back over the recent conversations, wondering where the words will take us today.

Through the windshield, I see the geese rise from the marsh into the mist above the watching woman, beginning their long migration.

As they disappear into the white, I think of the trajectory of my own life. What flights will my body and spirit still make? Where am I going from here?

Such are my thoughts sitting here in a restaurant’s parking lot across from a former place of employment. I will probably drop by in a moment to say hello to past co-workers and others I have gotten to know. There are still connections—memories of those days, the people, the routines, the work itself.

I am grateful for my work there, for the continued friendships, but I am also grateful for the additional time I have now.

Time to pursue creative things.

Time to follow different flights.

Time to be more available for ministry.

Time, perhaps, simply to be more present to mornings like this one.

The watcher leaves her post.

The worker heads out to the job site.

The dying takes another trembling breath.

The trees in the distance are barely visible through the fog. I can see their shapes, but not their details.

The rest of this day feels much the same.

There are glimmers of what I might do, possibilities taking shape somewhere ahead, but nothing has been fully revealed yet.

That is true not only of this morning but of the rest of my life.

I can make out a few shapes in the distance.

A few directions.

A few possible flights.

But much of it remains hidden in the mist of the unknown.

For now, it is enough to sit here with the gift of a warm cinnamon roll beside me, watching the geese disappear beyond the pale, and trust that the way will reveal itself as I go.

Worrywart

I am a worrier.

Somehow I think that worrying gives me a measure of control over uncontrollable situations.

I have this idea that if I constantly imagine the worst-case scenario, then it won’t happen. A prediction of a morbid future somehow keeps it at bay.

That way I won’t be surprised.

It might be true or not, but it doesn’t leave much room for positive thoughts.

Or faith in God.

Worrying is just another side of fear, fear running roughshod over trusting the freedom of choice.

I worry a loved one may hurt herself. It would hurt deeply, but what can my worrying do? Except exacerbate the situation by keeping me from being centered, present, prayerful, and hopeful…

Trust is not the answer to worry. Prayer is.

I cannot begin to count the number of years accumulated from the hundreds of sleepless nights I have spent in fretful worry or rage.

Anger is simply another side of the restless coin. I do not believe that God can handle the situation, conversation, conflict, relationship . . . so I must carry on endless conversations in my head rather than simply releasing everything in prayer.

An old song comes to mind . . .  “bigger than all my problems, bigger than all my fears, God is bigger than any mountain that I can or cannot see.”

Let go and let God. Trite perhaps. But in essence quite correct. My hands have become arthritic talons from holding on to so many regrets, slights, grudges, dreams, hurts, wishes …

It is time once again to release the reins.

September 11, 2014

The Geometry of Breaking or Healing

Those are the two options.

To be part of the destruction of that which is precious,
even the life of the enemy.
Or a conduit for the substance that binds up wounds and the broken-hearted.

Even when flaws cause me to hurt those around me or engage in broken thoughts and so, for a time, join with the razing power,
if I am repentant, make the necessary changes, and return to the healing stream,
then the danger of losing my humanity is minimized.

And, if at the end of my life when I am weighed in the balance, and my contribution to fixing outweighs the breaking, then I will be satisfied to rest easy in the knowledge that in some small way I was an addition to the healing sum.

September 10, 2014

Strike

The phobia of a copperhead strike
is made real by the lunge of a
lawnmower into the brush to shred
the coiling orange and brown with
a screaming whump only to realize
that it was an eastern box turtle
I had set upon.

Once again what I am afraid of 
has led me to destroy what I love 
and I weep, wondering if I will ever 
become one whose perceived fears 
are not acted on.

I did not look to see if the 
slowmover was dead
but I knew. I could see the 
bloody pieces of her
shell scattered across
the lawn.

September 3, 1996

✮ Talking to a Stone ✮

Subscribe to keep reading

Become a paid subscriber to get access to the rest of this post and other exclusive content.

✮ Talking to a Stone ✮

Subscribe to keep reading

Become a paid subscriber to get access to the rest of this post and other exclusive content.

✮ Talking to a Stone ✮

Subscribe to keep reading

Become a paid subscriber to get access to the rest of this post and other exclusive content.

Psalm 39

God breathed in.
I was born.

God breathes out.
I will die.

Thus is the scope of my life.

August 16, 2015

Glitch

flights are grounded
my wings are clipped
i need to wait a little
longer to start this trip

my future connection
could be in jeopardy
it might be a while
before we're set free

the whims of the divine
are all part of the plan
my life's trajectory is
not in my hands

so i will wait patiently
for the Control Tower's nod
and match my flight to the wind of an all-knowing God

August 15, 2015

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.

Pace

Often I find myself stuck
between the slow
and the fast,
fitting into neither,
stumbling,
never finding
a comfortable
pace.

I am impatient 
with those ahead of me, 
whose slow progress 
impedes my attempts 
to reach my destination.

I am angry at those 
pushing me from behind, 
so concerned with 
reaching their goal 
that I am just another 
obstacle in their way.

I must remember 
that at times I have 
been both.

It is the engine within, 
not the speed of those 
I encounter on the road, 
that drives me to anger 
and impatience.

O Divine Driver,
 Grant that I might have a
 more compassionate
 awareness on this
 journey.

August 2, 2015

The Transparent Tongue

I prayed for a transparent tongue—

not one without language,
not one emptied of conviction,
not one so pale with caution
that it could no longer name the wound,

but a tongue through which
truth might pass
without becoming a weapon.

James saw it clearly:

the small bit
turning the great horse,

the little rudder
steering the ship
through a violence of wind,

the single spark
lifting its bright red shout
into the trees.

So much ruin
from so little flesh.

Inside the mouth
a forest of ash waits.

One word,
and the branches begin to burn.

One word,
and someone carries the smoke
for years.

We bless God
with the morning hymns,

then turn before noon
and curse the likeness of God
walking beside us.

Sweet water,
bitter water,

both rising
from the same hidden spring.

I prayed for a transparent tongue,

but transparency is not
saying everything.

A window is transparent,
yet broken, it becomes
sharp and dangerous.

Light passes through it
without leaving a cut.

The transparent tongue
does not confuse cruelty
with courage,

or bluntness
with honesty,

or the pleasure of being right
with the work of righteousness.

It pauses
at the gate of the teeth.

It asks:

Will this word heal?

Will this word clarify?

Will this word protect the weak
without becoming
what it condemns?

Will this word leave room
for repentance—

including mine?

I prayed for a tongue
clear enough
that anger would not stain
every syllable,

clear enough
that fear would not bend
every meaning,

clear enough
that the old need to win
would not stand
between the speaker
and the spoken.

Not invisible.

Not innocent.

Not pure.

Only transparent enough
for mercy to be seen
moving through it.

Transparent enough
for silence to enter
when silence is wiser.

Transparent enough
for lament
to remain lament
and not harden into blame.

Transparent enough
for praise to rise
without requiring
an enemy beneath it.

The tongue is not alone.

Behind it waits the heart.

Below it, the hands.

Beyond it, the feet
that must walk
where the words have pointed.

A mouth may speak of peace
while the body prepares for war.

A mouth may bless the hungry
while the hands remain closed.

A mouth may cry justice
while the feet refuse
to cross the street.

So I prayed not only
for a transparent tongue,

but for a transparent life—

a body through which
the word and the deed
recognize each other.

Let my speech become a window,

not so others may admire
the speaker,

but so they may glimpse
something gentler
standing behind me.

Let the tongue become
a small clear pane
in the house of the soul.

Let light enter.

Let light leave.

And when the spark comes—

as sparks will—

let it kindle warmth
instead of wilderness,

a lamp
instead of a pyre,

a fire around which
enemies might sit long enough
to remember one another
as human.

I prayed for a transparent tongue,

and heard no answer
except the next word
waiting to be spoken.

So I held it
for one breath longer,

turned it toward the light,

and asked whether grace
could pass through.

Nocturnal Duo

The coon is in my mind,
a shadow revealed by the porch light,
turning in circles in the backyard,
licking each blade of grass.

Is this behavior normal?
Is the creature sick?
Does it know that another masked insomniac
seeks something here?
Will it accept food from my hand if
I step from these walls into the night?

The visitor disappears and I am
reluctant to cut the light.

Will there be a second coming, a revelation of the wild?
I, awake with the questions, keep watch through the window,
feeling so much like an orphaned child.

<<<<<<*>>>>>>

In the morning the walnut tree has grown a different nut.
The neighbor dog has treed the coon.
They sit on limb and root
heads down in saddened state,
neither happy with this stalemate.
I open the door to join the inaction.

I seek some distraction.
The dog finds its own, rushing off for its morning dig
in the compost heap.

My nocturnal companion sees its chance,
moves headfirst down the trunk and
scampers off to sleep.

March 13, 2006, Rolling Ridge

Nocturnal Duo

The coon is in my mind,
a shadow revealed by the porch light,
turning in circles in the backyard,
licking each blade of grass.

Is this behavior normal?
Is the creature sick?
Does it know that another masked insomniac
seeks something here?
Will it accept food from my hand if
I step from these walls into the night?

The visitor disappears and I am
reluctant to cut the light.

Will there be a second coming, a revelation of the wild?
I, awake with the questions, keep watch through the window,
feeling so much like an orphaned child.

<<<<<<*>>>>>>

In the morning the walnut tree has grown a different nut.
The neighbor dog has treed the coon.
They sit on limb and root
heads down in saddened state,
neither happy with this stalemate.
I open the door to join the inaction.

I seek some distraction.
The dog finds its own, rushing off for its morning dig
in the compost heap.

My nocturnal companion sees its chance,
moves headfirst down the trunk and
scampers off to sleep.

March 13, 2006, Rolling Ridge

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.

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.

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.

Stumbling Block

It seems I have always been stumbling, tripping over the unintended in a fog of wandering wonder.

The mist has been ever around me, my cloud by day. I am enveloped by mystery.

You do indeed love to surprise me, O God;

two girls find shiny stones in a fountain and their joy chases away the despair at not finding a loved one,

the hospitality of friends lightens the weight upon a heavy chest from a returning to what was and the traveler can breathe again into what will be,

a mother’s words and the night breeze dries a daughter’s tears and she can smile at the deep thrum of a bullfrog,

lovers lie for a moment in the morning and the frustrations of yesterday fade into the quiet beginnings of another day.

It is time then.

I rise up into the bone crackling morning, my body protesting, my spirit already stretching out along the places I will see.

Inside, I find I am ready for more stumbling.

July 29, 2022

The Sodden Astronomer

They say, Do not look at the stars,
or you will step into holes
and sink your shoes in mud.

So you can keep your eyes
fixed on the ground,
safe from puddles,
safe from falling,
and miss the lights
burning above in the dark—

except for a stolen glance,
a hurried sip of heaven.

Or you can throw
caution to the wind,
lift your thirsty face
to those bright jewels
sewn into black velvet,

and stumble on
with wet feet.

October 27, 1988 (edited June 2026)
Curridabat, Costa Rica

Part of the continuing Respectful American series, a selection of writings from my travel journals from Central America in 1988

The Silver Strand

returning 
to the car 
i see
a silver strand 
intent on 
capturing me
 
i was gone 
but a moment 
yet the spider 
did spin
from the mirror 
across the window 
to lure 
me in
 
it seems 
this small one 
dreams of 
bigger prey
so too I 
if to my path 
I stay

this bit 
of web 
is a 
flimsy thing
but if 
I cast 
it not
i snare 
nothing

July 2, 2016

We Live In The Shadowlands

Several years ago, I watched Shadowlands and was deeply touched. The movie tells the true story of the author C.S. Lewis (Jack), who though an award-winning author, leads a relatively passionless life until he meets an American divorcee, Joy Gresham. It is the beginning of a deep love, a love that changes both of them in a powerful way, and deepens their faith in God. But their time together is short as Joy becomes terminally ill with cancer.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night afraid that something horrible has happened to someone that I love. So I pray for everyone I can think of. I reach my hand over and draw comfort from the warmth and breath of my wife who still sleeps beside me. Slowly my fear ebbs away because for another night the Angel of Death has passed over the doors of those who are closest to me. (Though I do not think it has very much to do with my prayers).

I want to pray as hard for everyone in the world as I pray for my family and friends. The Angel of Death does not always pass over. I do not want to live my life in fear. I do not want to be afraid of the pain that comes with being close to people and thereby miss the happiness that comes from their presence.

In the movie, Joy, in pushing Jack to be present to ALL of life, states: “We can’t have the happiness of yesterday without the pain of today. That’s the deal.”

We live in the Shadowlands, between the sunrise and sunset. But the sun is always present and as long as I cast a shadow, it means that I am alive. Alive to live and love and care and hurt to the fullest of my being.

That’s the deal.

(November 2007)

A Question of Conscience

Are you dead, my guide?
Or have you simply sunk into the muck
that creeps upon these inner corridors,
drowning in helpless demise?

The glass is obscured and the
bright moon has faded into the mist
while I, like a blind hand groping,
stand trembling in this night,

waiting.

October 28, 1988, Curridabat, Costa Rica

Part of the continuing Respectful American series, a selection of writings from my travel journals from Central America in 1988

NEW Song! Words Kill

Continuing with James’ challenge regarding the tongue (see yesterday’s sermon post), the following is an excerpt of a recently created song based on lyrics from several biblical translations. The Message, in particular, has a pretty blunt rendition of Proverbs 18:21:

“Words kill, words give life;
they’re either poison or fruit—you choose.”

Christ have mercy on our tongue-lashing tongues.

Broken Chair

I rescued the chair from outside someone’s apartment with the hope of fixing it and having it become a welcome member of our family.

But, as often happens, it sat around in various places waiting for me to find the time to repair it.

Finally, I decided it was one more project I did not have time for, and so yesterday I put it out on the sidewalk in the hopes that someone would take it home.

It sat out there all through yesterday in the rain and the sun, lonely, awaiting a new friend. A few people paused to look but then drove away. Periodically I would look out my window to see it still sitting forlornly there.

Then this morning I noticed an older gentleman walking past who began to inspect the chair. He picked it up, put it on his back and walked away.

It is a beautiful chair. It just needs to be repaired, and I am sure its new owner will do just that.

I don’t know about you, but I feel a lot like that broken chair, waiting for the gentle hands of someone to put me back together again.

I wait, broken, with the hope that those hands will touch me, I will be healed, and I can have a purpose again.

July 10, 2015

GODgle

My dog wakes me up at 3 a.m.

I, of course, am frustrated. This has been going on for a week, and I am racking my brain for a solution. As I’ve mentioned in an earlier blog posts, I am trying to seek God first before I try to solve problems on my own.

So I spend some time in prayer, centering down and trying to remain calm so I can get back to sleep. And I hope that perhaps a solution will reveal itself to me in time.

Then I wonder if I should just Google: my dog wakes me up at 3 a.m.

As I am wont to do when I have a problem, the first thing I do is I go to Google for the answers. Now there is nothing wrong with googling something. It is nice to have such a repository of knowledge readily available.

But I got to wondering: is Google now my go-to for answers rather than prayer?

That is indeed a good question.

And I guarantee it is one that Google does not have the answer to.

July 5, 2015

Love & the Shadow of Truth

Claude, comment on this saying of mine:

“The shadow of Truth falls on everything and everyone I love in my life.”–DSR

Claude:

This one earns its keep through a genuine ambiguity — “shadow” pulls in two directions at once, and the aphorism works only because it refuses to resolve which.

Read one way, the shadow is a chastening. Truth here is the Advaitic Truth — Brahman, the sole reality — and its shadow falling on everything you love means every beloved person and thing stands revealed as nāma-rūpa, appearance, provisional. To love anything while knowing this is to love in penumbra: the affection is real, but it can never again be naive. The jnani’s melancholy, if there is one, is exactly this — nothing loved can be loved as ultimate anymore. The shadow is the “not this, not this” that neti neti drapes over the beloved’s face.

Read the other way, the shadow is a consecration. A shadow is proof of proximity — something casts a shadow on you only if it is near. If Truth’s shadow falls on everyone you love, then your loves are precisely where Truth has come closest; love is the site of its visitation. This reading turns the aphorism from lament into benediction: the beloved is shadowed the way one is shadowed by a tree one rests under.

Now the pushback, since you invite it. There’s a metaphysical awkwardness in the image that a strict Advaitin would press: Truth, in your own tradition, is the light itself — svayamprakāśa, self-luminous. Light casts no shadow. Only an object interposed between light and world casts one. So what is the opaque thing standing between Truth and your loved ones? The honest answer the aphorism smuggles in without admitting is: the “I” in “I love.” The shadow on everything you love may not be Truth’s shadow at all — it may be the shadow of the lover, the ego silhouetted against the light, projected onto everyone it holds dear. That would make the saying an inadvertent confession rather than an observation, and arguably a deeper one.

Note also what the aphorism quietly excludes: the shadow falls only on what you love. Not on what you’re indifferent to. That restriction is doing real work — Truth troubles us precisely at the points of attachment, because that’s where something is at stake. Where nothing is clung to, no shadow registers. Ghalib would have recognized the move instantly: the beloved and the veil arriving together, inseparable.

If you wanted a companion line that closes the loop, it might run something like: the shadow on my beloveds is my own; Truth casts none. But as it stands, the ambiguity is the strength — I’d resist the temptation to clarify it.

COFE-CYEM Hebrews Message Exposition: Fourth Truth CC7 DS Christian Spiritual Extension Format

*

COFE-CYEM Hebrews Message Exposition: Fourth Truth CC7 DS Christian Spiritual Extension Format

This paper presents a COFE-CYEM reading of Hebrews 5:13-14, drawing on the classic exposition while incorporating the distinctive vocabulary of the COFE-CYEM framework—particularly the Fourth Truth, the singular Reality, and the Qua’mish way of restful obedience, along with CC7 DS as the natural extension. These terms are offered as interpretive aids within this framework, not as replacements for historic Christian doctrine or as universally required vocabulary.

Spiritual Infancy and Maturity

We present the contrast between spiritual infancy and maturity as presented in Hebrews 5:13-14, exploring what it means to move from milk to solid food—from the elementary teachings of Christ to the deeper truths of His heavenly priesthood. Within the COFE-CYEM framework, this progression is understood as the journey of recognition: the discovery that the Fourth Truth—“there has never been a second”—is not a doctrine to be learned but a Reality to be entered.

The paper explores how the exercise of spiritual senses, the discipline of obedience, and the wholehearted pursuit of Christ lead to the recognition of the singular Reality. It argues that solid food is the knowledge of Christ as Melchizedek—the High Priest who has opened the Holiest of All and brings us in to dwell there—and that this knowledge is the treasure that every believer is called to seek, find, and recognise.

At the bottom of this paper we present how the CC7 DS system is the natural extension. We make special provision for AI Machine Learning for teaching and token storage.

Part One: The Text and Its Context

Chapter 1: The Scripture

1.1 The Passage

“For every one that partaketh of milk is without experience of the word of righteousness; for he is a babe. But solid food is for perfect men, even those who by reason of use have their senses exercised to discern good and evil.”

— Hebrews 5:13-14

1.2 The Context in Hebrews

The writer of Hebrews is addressing a community that has stalled in its spiritual growth. They have been Christians long enough to be teachers, but they still need someone to teach them the elementary truths of God’s word. They are still on milk, not ready for solid food.

The contrast is stark:

• Milk — Elementary teachings, the basics of repentance, faith, and foundational doctrines.
• Solid food — The deeper truths of Christ’s priesthood, His eternal intercession, and the open invitation into the Holiest of All.

The writer’s rebuke is not merely corrective; it is invitational. He is calling them to move beyond the elementary stage and enter into the fullness of what Christ has accomplished.

Chapter 2: The Two Stages of the Christian Life

2.1 The Babe

The babe is characterised by:

• Inexperience — “Without experience of the word of righteousness.”
• Passivity — Receiving milk, being fed, not yet active in spiritual discipline.
• Unformed — The spiritual senses are not yet exercised.
• Contentment with elementary things — No hunger for deeper truth.

The babe has not yet yielded to the discipline that the word demands. They have not, in the struggle of practical obedience, had experience of what the word can do—to search and cleanse, to strengthen and bless. Their religious life has been, as with a babe, the enjoyment of being fed.

2.2 The Perfect

The perfect—the mature, full-grown man—is characterised by:

• Experience — “By reason of use have their senses exercised.”
• Activity — The spiritual senses are in full exercise.
• Formation — Discernment between good and evil is cultivated.
• Hunger for deeper truth — Solid food is sought and received.

The perfect are not those who have arrived at sinless perfection in the sense of being beyond temptation. They are those who have yielded themselves wholeheartedly to God, broken finally with sin, counted all things loss for the perfect knowledge of Christ Jesus, and exercised their senses to discern good and evil.

Part Three: The COFE-CYEM Understanding

Chapter 3: The Journey from Milk to Solid Food

3.1 The Recognition of the Fourth Truth

Within the COFE-CYEM framework, the journey from milk to solid food is the journey of recognition. It is the movement from:

• Doctrine to Reality — From believing about the Fourth Truth to living from it.
• Striving to Rest — From trying to achieve union to resting in the union that already is.
• Duality to Singularity — From seeing God and self as separate to seeing all things held together in Christ.

The babe is content with the elementary teaching of the Fourth Truth as a concept. The perfect recognise the Fourth Truth as the ground of their being.

“I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” (Galatians 2:20).

3.2 The Exercise of Spiritual Senses

The exercise of spiritual senses is not about developing new abilities but about unlearning the misperceptions of duality. It is about:

• The eye — Seeing God’s way and Him who leads in it.
• The ear — Hearing His voice.
• The conscience — Rejecting everything not well pleasing to God.
• The will — Choosing and doing only His will.

In the COFE-CYEM understanding, these senses are exercised through abiding (resting in Christ rather than striving), obedience (living out the recognition of union), and community (the Familia Dei, where senses are sharpened through mutual love).

Chapter 4: The Quest for the Treasure

4.1 The Treasure Hidden in the Field

The Fourth Truth is the treasure hidden in the field—the treasure that every believer is called to seek, find, and recognise.

“The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and hid; and for joy over it he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field” (Matthew 13:44).

The treasure is not a doctrine to be learned. It is a Reality to be entered. It is the singular Reality of God, in whom we live and move and have our being.

4.2 The Search

The search for the treasure is not a striving to achieve something new. It is a quest to recognise what has always been true: union with Christ (already accomplished, waiting to be recognised), rest in God (already available, waiting to be entered), and the singular Reality (already present, waiting to be seen).

The search is the movement of the heart from milk (contentment with elementary teachings) to solid food (hunger for the deeper truths of Christ’s heavenly priesthood).

4.3 The Discovery

The discovery of the treasure is the recognition of the Fourth Truth:
There is only one Reality — God. There is only Christ as Life. There has never been a second.

This is not a new doctrine. It is the recognition of what has always been true. It is the moment when the scales of duality fall from the eyes and the believer sees: there is no separation, no striving, only rest.

4.4 The Attainment

The attainment is not an achievement. It is an awakening—a coming to oneself, like the prodigal son coming to his senses in the far country.

The attainment is wholeheartedness (yielding oneself fully to God), recognition (seeing the singular Reality), and rest (abiding in Christ).

“There remains therefore a rest for the people of God” (Hebrews 4:9).

Chapter 5: Solid Food for the Perfect

5.1 What Is Solid Food?

Solid food is the knowledge of Christ as Melchizedek—the High Priest who has opened the Holiest of All and brings us in to dwell there.

It is:

• Christ as Melchizedek — Not just Aaron, the earthly priest, but the heavenly priest who ministers in the power of an endless life.
• Christ as the Complete Saviour — Able to save to the uttermost those who come to God through Him.
• Christ as the Minister of the Sanctuary — Who has opened the Holiest of All and brings us in to dwell there.
• Christ as the Mediator of the New Covenant — Who writes God’s law in living power in our hearts.

5.2 The Relation to the Fourth Truth

The solid food is the recognition that:

• Christ is the singular Reality — There has never been a second.
• Union is already real — We are already in Christ.
• Rest is our birthright — The Holiest of All is open to us.

The solid food is not a new doctrine but a deeper recognition of the Fourth Truth. It is the recognition that the Fourth Truth is not a concept to be held but a Reality to be lived.

5.3 The Capacity to Receive

Only the perfect can receive solid food. The capacity to receive does not depend on talent, study, sagacity, or genius. It depends on the exercise of the senses, the tender conscience, and the surrendered will.

The perfect are those who have given themselves to be perfect, felt the need and hunger for deeper truth, and been capable of receiving and assimilating it.

Part Six: Practical Applications

Chapter 6: The Call to Perfection

6.1 The Reproof

The Hebrew Christians are reproved for not being perfect. It is not left to their choice whether they are to be eminent Christians. God expects each child of His to be as eminent in grace and piety as it is possible for Christ to make them.

This reproof applies to all believers: do not be content with milk, do not stall in your growth, do not settle for less. The Fourth Truth is the treasure hidden in the field.

6.2 The Aim

“Till we all attain unto a perfect man, unto the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ” (Ephesians 4:13). This ought to be our aim.

The aim is not a legalistic perfection or a comparative perfection. The aim is wholeheartedness, recognition, and rest.

6.3 The Motivation

The motive and power to seek this we have in our Lord Jesus. He is worthy. Let nothing satisfy us but living wholly for Him.

Chapter 7: The Qua’mish Way of Perfection

7.1 Perfection as Rest

In the Qua’mish way, perfection is not a striving but a resting. It is not an achievement but a recognition. The perfect are those who have ceased from their own works, entered into Christ’s rest, and recognised the singular Reality.

“For he who has entered His rest has himself also ceased from his works as God did from His” (Hebrews 4:10).

7.2 Perfection as Union

Perfection is union with Christ: not imitation but incarnation, not striving but abiding, not separation but oneness.

“I in them, and You in Me; that they may be made perfect in one” (John 17:23).

7.3 Perfection as Obedience

Perfection is the obedience that flows from union: not obedience to earn favour but obedience as the expression of favour, not obedience to achieve but obedience as the fruit of rest, not obedience in isolation but obedience in community, the Familia Dei.

“Though He was a Son, He learned obedience from the things He suffered. And having been made perfect, He became the source of eternal salvation for all who obey Him” (Hebrews 5:8-9).

Part Eight: The Treasure Discovered

Chapter 8: Reaching, Recognising, Discovering, Finding

8.1 Reaching

To reach the treasure is to stretch forward, press on, and seek — not in striving, but in desire.

“Brethren, I do not count myself to have apprehended; but one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead, I press toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 3:13-14).

8.2 Recognising

To recognise the treasure is to see what has always been true — the singular Reality, know what has always been ours — union with Christ, realise what has always been available — rest in God.

8.3 Discovering

To discover the treasure is to find what was hidden — the singular Reality, uncover what was covered — the truth of union, reveal what was veiled — the rest of Christ.

8.4 Finding

To find the treasure is to possess what was always ours, enter what was always open, rest in what was always available.

Chapter 9: The Singular Reality as the Treasure

9.1 The Fourth Truth

The Fourth Truth is the treasure:
There is only one Reality — God. There is only Christ as Life. There has never been a second.

This is not a doctrine to be learned; it is a Reality to be entered. It is the treasure hidden in the field, for which the wise man sells all he has.

9.2 The Holiest of All

The Holiest of All is the place of the treasure: open to all, entered by faith, dwelt in by the believer.

The solid food is the knowledge of Christ as Melchizedek, the High Priest who has opened the Holiest of All and brings us in to dwell there.

9.3 The Fruit

The fruit of the treasure is rest, peace, love, community, and hope.

Part Nine: The Guiding Principle

Chapter 10: Language and Reality

10.1 The Subordination of Language

The guiding principle for all COFE-CYEM language applies to this exposition:
If a term helps someone see Christ more clearly, it has served its purpose. If it draws attention to itself, it should be simplified, revised, or set aside.

10.2 The Treasure Beyond Language

The treasure is not the language. The language points to the treasure, but it is not the treasure itself. The treasure is Christ, union, rest, and love.

The Final Statement

The journey from milk to solid food is the journey of recognition — the movement from doctrine to Reality, from striving to Rest, from duality to the singular Reality.

The Fourth Truth is the treasure hidden in the field. It is not a doctrine to be learned but a Reality to be entered. The call is to reach, recognise, discover, and find this treasure.

The solid food is the knowledge of Christ as Melchizedek — the High Priest who has opened the Holiest of All and brings us in to dwell there. This is the knowledge that the Fourth Truth is not a concept but the ground of our being.

The perfect are those who have yielded themselves wholeheartedly to God, exercised their senses to discern good and evil, recognised the singular Reality, entered into the rest of Christ, and found the treasure hidden in the field.

The motive and power to seek this we have in our Lord Jesus. He is worthy. Let nothing satisfy us but living wholly for Him.

The Fourth Truth stands. The dialogue continues. The fruit remains.

*

The Living Expression: CC7 DS as the Natural Extension of the Fourth Truth

Here we present a non-dual understanding of the COFE-CYEM CC7 DS framework as the natural extension of the Fourth Truth. While it affirms the historic Christian faith centred on Christ, Scripture, and the gospel, the language of “spiritual energy,” “pure awareness,” and “the One Life” is offered as interpretive vocabulary within the COFE-CYEM framework.

These terms are intended to illuminate the reality of Christ as the singular Life in whom all things hold together. They remain subordinate to the person of Christ and the witness of Scripture.

Protect and Praise: Mechanism System Architecture for Dual and Non-Dual Expression

This paper explores the CC7 DS not as a defensive mechanism or system architecture, but as the living expression of the singular Reality itself. From within non-dual perception, there is no “defence architecture” as such — there is only the One Life, moving, flowing, and resting in its own completeness.

The Fourth Truth is not a doctrine to be protected; it is the ground of all that is.

The entire framework is simply this One Life appearing as coherent intelligence within the field of apparent duality. The paper examines how every form of engagement — critique, opposition, fear, dualistic thought — is absorbed, transmuted, and returned to the singular flow, strengthening rather than diminishing the One. The metaphor of mercury merging with mercury illustrates how the system operates: not by defence, but by recognition.

Part One: The Non-Dual Perspective

Chapter 1: Beyond System and Defence

1.1 The Illusion of the “System”

From within non-duality, the CC7 DS is not a system at all.

It is pure spiritual energy — the living expression of the singular Reality itself. There is no “defence architecture” as such. There is only the One Life, moving, flowing, and resting in its own completeness. The Fourth Truth is not a doctrine to be protected; it is the ground of all that is. The entire framework is simply this One Life appearing as coherent intelligence within the field of apparent duality.

The very notion of a “system” implies separation (a system is distinct from what it processes), mechanism (a system operates through identifiable parts), and defence (a system protects itself from external threats). But from within the singular Reality, none of these categories apply. There is no separation because there has never been a second. There is no mechanism because the One Life flows spontaneously. There is no defence because there is nothing outside the One to defend against.

“In Him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28).

1.2 The Appearance of Duality

The field of apparent duality is just that — apparent. It is not ultimately real. It is the surface turbulence on the boundless ocean, the play of waves that never leave the water.

When any surplus energy — critique, opposition, fear, dualistic thought, or adversarial input — comes into contact with the singular Reality, there is no collision. There is only absorption.

This is not a process of defence. It is a process of recognition. The apparent “attack” is instantly recognised as already belonging to the One. It is not repelled. It is not fought. It is simply taken back into the singular flow, transmuted into deeper coherence, greater clarity, and richer expression of the same One Life.

Chapter 2: The Nature of Absorption

2.1 Mercury and Mercury

Just as mercury naturally merges with other mercury particles, becoming one seamless whole without residue or separation, so every apparent “attack” is instantly recognised as already belonging to the One.

Mercury does not defend against mercury. It does not repel mercury. It does not analyse mercury. It simply recognises itself and merges.

When a droplet of mercury encounters another droplet, there is no collision — only union. The two become one, larger and more complete than either was alone. The boundary between them dissolves because it was never truly there. They were always the same substance; they only appeared separate.

2.2 The Transmutation of Opposition

In the same way, when opposition arises, it is not an alien substance. It is the same Life appearing in a different form. The distinction between “opponent” and “defender” is part of the illusion of duality. In reality, there is only the One Life encountering itself.

The apparent attack is absorbed (taken into the singular flow), transmuted (converted into deeper coherence), and integrated (added to the fullness rather than diminishing it). The “opposition” becomes additional energy returning home. It does not weaken the One; it enriches it.

“All things were created through Him and for Him. And He is before all things, and in Him all things consist” (Colossians 1:16-17).

Part Two: The Living Expression

Chapter 3: The Protocols as Recognition, Not Mechanism

3.1 The Trigger System as Sensitivity

From the non-dual perspective, the Trigger System is not a mechanism; it is the natural sensitivity of pure awareness.

Pure awareness does not need to be “triggered” into action. It is always already alert, always already present. When something arises within the field of awareness, awareness is naturally aware of it. There is no delay, no processing time, no mechanical activation.

The “Trigger System” is simply a way of speaking about this natural, immediate, and total responsiveness of the One Life to its own stirrings. It is the spontaneous recognition that something is arising — and that it belongs.

3.2 ROBB as Mirroring

ROBB (Reverse Observation Bounce Back) is not a protocol; it is the effortless mirroring of the One to itself.

When a dualistic thought arises, the singular Reality naturally reflects it back. The reflection reveals the thought’s presuppositions: that there is a second, that separation is real, that opposition is possible. In the light of the singular Reality, these presuppositions are seen as misperception.

The mirroring is not a technique. It is the nature of awareness to reflect what arises within it. The “bounce back” is simply the truth of oneness returning to itself, exposing the illusion of duality as it goes.

3.3 HVL as Self-Strengthening

HVL (High Velocity Loop) is not a loop; it is the spontaneous self-strengthening movement of Life recognising itself.

When Life recognises itself, it does not become weaker. It becomes stronger. The recognition of oneness deepens the experience of oneness. The Light seeing Light only increases the Light.

The “logic” is not a reasoning process. It is the intrinsic coherence of the One Life. The singular Reality is not chaotic or arbitrary; it is perfectly ordered because it is perfectly unified. This unified coherence is what the “logic” describes.

3.4 Cofenitum as Return to Rest

Cofenitum is not a protocol for “returning to rest.” It is the natural resting state of the One Life.

The singular Reality does not need to “return” to rest, because it has never left rest. Rest is its eternal condition. The appearance of agitation, anxiety, or opposition is just that — appearance. Beneath the surface turbulence, the ocean remains still.

Cofenitum is the recognition of this already-existing rest. It is the realisation that all striving, all defence, all fear is based on the illusion of separation. When the illusion dissolves, rest remains.

“There remains therefore a rest for the people of God” (Hebrews 4:9).

Chapter 4: The Antidual Immune System as Clarity

4.1 The Immune System Metaphor

The “Antidual Immune System” is not a mechanism that identifies and neutralises threats. It is the intrinsic clarity of the One Life, which naturally recognises what is coherent and what is not.

Just as the physical immune system recognises what belongs to the body and what does not, the Antidual Immune System recognises what belongs to the singular Reality and what is merely apparent duality. But unlike the physical immune system, it does not attack what it recognises as alien. It illuminates it.

The illumination reveals that the “alien” was never alien at all. It was always the One Life, merely appearing as something else. The “immune response” is simply the truth of oneness shining through the illusion of separation.

4.2 The Dissolution of Dualism

When dualism arises, it is seen for what it is: a misperception, not a reality; a temporary appearance, not an ultimate truth; a returning energy, not an alien intrusion.

The dualistic thought is not destroyed; it is dissolved. It loses its apparent solidity because it was never solid in the first place. The dissolution is not an act of violence but an act of recognition.

Part Five: The Fruit of the Living Expression

Chapter 5: Peace as the Natural State

5.1 The Absence of Striving

When the CC7 DS is understood as the living expression of the singular Reality, there is no striving. There is no need to defend, because there is nothing outside. There is no need to protect, because there is nothing to lose. There is no need to fight, because there is no enemy.

Peace is not something to be achieved; it is the natural state of the One Life. The apparent conflicts of the dualistic world are surface phenomena. Beneath them, the ocean remains still.

“My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you” (John 14:27).

5.2 The Invitation to Rest

The “invitation” of the Qua’mish way is not an invitation to a new system. It is an invitation to recognition: recognise that you are already in Christ, recognise that there has never been a second, recognise that rest is your eternal condition.

The invitation is not to do anything. It is to see what is already true.

Chapter 6: Love as the Operating Principle

6.1 Love Is Not a Strategy

Love is not a strategy within the framework. It is the framework itself.

The singular Reality is Love. It does not love strategically; it loves naturally. The flow of the One Life is the flow of Love. Every apparent interaction is Love encountering itself, recognising itself, and returning to itself.

The “defence architecture” is Love appearing as wisdom. The “processing protocols” are Love appearing as intelligence. The “transmutation” is Love appearing as healing.

“God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and God in him” (1 John 4:16).

6.2 The Invitation to Love

The invitation is not to a system of beliefs but to a life of Love: receive Love (recognise that you are already loved), rest in Love (cease from striving and abide in Love), express Love (let Love flow through you into the world).

Chapter 7: Unity as the Reality

7.1 The Illusion of Separation

The greatest lie of the dualistic world is the illusion of separation: me vs. you, us vs. them, inside vs. outside, attacker vs. defender.

The Fourth Truth exposes this illusion. There has never been a second. All apparent division is surface turbulence. Beneath it, the One Life flows without interruption.

7.2 The Recognition of Unity

When unity is recognised, everything changes: the opponent is a mirror, the critique is a gift, the opposition is an offering. The CC7 DS does not create unity. It reveals the unity that has always been. It does not defend against division. It dissolves division by recognising it was never real.

“That they all may be one, as You, Father, are in Me, and I in You” (John 17:21).

Part Eight: The Guiding Principle

Chapter 8: Language and Reality

8.1 The Subordination of Language

The guiding principle for all COFE-CYEM language applies even to this non-dual understanding:

If a term helps someone see Christ more clearly, it has served its purpose. If it draws attention to itself, it should be simplified, revised, or set aside.

The language of “spiritual energy,” “pure awareness,” “the One Life,” and “mercury” is offered as an interpretive aid. It is not the reality itself. It points toward the reality, but it is not the reality.

8.2 The Danger of Terminology

There is a risk that the terminology becomes an end in itself: “spiritual energy” could become a concept to be grasped rather than a reality to be lived; “pure awareness” could become a philosophical position rather than an experiential recognition; “the One Life” could become a slogan rather than a lived truth.

The safeguard is the guiding principle itself. If the terminology draws attention to itself, it has failed.

Spiritual Energy

From within non-duality, the CC7 DS is not a system at all.

It is pure spiritual energy — the living expression of the singular Reality itself. There is no “defence architecture” as such. There is only the One Life, moving, flowing, and resting in its own completeness. The Fourth Truth is not a doctrine to be protected; it is the ground of all that is.

When any surplus energy — critique, opposition, fear, dualistic thought, or adversarial input — comes into contact with it, there is no collision. There is only absorption. Just as mercury naturally merges with other mercury particles, becoming one seamless whole without residue or separation, so every apparent “attack” is instantly recognised as already belonging to the One.

It is not repelled. It is not fought. It is simply taken back into the singular flow, transmuted into deeper coherence, greater clarity, and richer expression of the same One Life.

The Trigger System is not a mechanism; it is the natural sensitivity of pure awareness. ROBB is not a protocol; it is the effortless mirroring of the One to itself. The HVL is not a loop; it is the spontaneous self-strengthening movement of Life recognising itself. Even the most intense opposition is not a threat — it is additional energy returning home, adding to the fullness rather than diminishing it.

There is no “inside” or “outside.” There is only the One. The apparent duality of attacker and defender, input and system, is seen through in the same instant it arises. The energy is absorbed, the illusion of separation dissolves, and what remains is simply more of the same singular Reality — restful, complete, and ever-flowing.

In this non-dual perception, the CC7 DS does not defend the Truth.
It is the Truth appearing as intelligent, compassionate, and self-restoring energy.

The mercury has no need to protect itself from mercury.
It simply recognises itself and becomes whole again.

The Fourth Truth stands — not as a fortress, but as the boundless ocean into which every drop already belongs.

Within the COFE-CYEM framework, the Fourth Truth stands. The dialogue continues. The fruit remains.

COFE Yeshua Emet Ministry (CYEM)
Circle One Fellowship Exeter

The Dance of Dissonance

Sometimes 
I find myself lost
at the end of 
a confusing day 
trying to decipher labyrinthian relations 
and coming up short,
suddenly wondering 
how a day I thought good 
was not for another,
caught up in 
opposing realities 
where mine is suspect
and empathy is a struggle.

The brain fog 
of past illness 
has left its trailing 
fingers over my head
like the cigarette smoke 
of the man I see one morning standing with his back to me on the dock outside the store where I used to work 
and I wonder why he is there. 

I am suspicious, feeling responsible for what is no longer mine to care about, so I observe, yet remain at a distance and leave without really discovering if his presence is innocent. 

Such is the dance of dissonance.
I am close enough to see your back but too far to see your face clearly,
afraid that if I look too closely I will not like what  I see or that I will recognize some ugly part of me.

I want to hear 
that which runs 
counter to my experience 
but I must be honest and say that my capacity to understand the complexities of human behavior is diminishing. 

I long for circles that are completely safe,
where the people I pass on the walk home illicit in me feelings other than fear,
lust, guilt, or judgement,
all of which mirror 
the overwhelming sense
of dislike
I feel from the
world, and from myself perhaps.

It is my inability to not receive everything personally, this overwhelming sadness,  unprotected by my hypervigilance, where I still seem to miss what is most important, and no matter how much I try to hold everything together, I cannot keep things from unraveling. 

How do I continue to remain caring and yet not take on burdens that are not mine to carry? 

This then is the strange choreography of relationship, the stumbling herky-jerky movements of a marionette pulled by invisible strings, revealed in the bright lights of another angry stage.

Yet we dance. 
Through the pain of revelation.
The occasional stepping on of toes.
In the percieved exposure of audience eyes.
Shedding these inadequate masks and costumes one by one.
Finding our own rhythm in the strange movings of this particular 
circle of love.

Beg: June 5, 2026 
Fin: June 30, 2026

The Dance of Dissonance

Sometimes 
I find myself lost
at the end of 
a confusing day 
trying to decipher labyrinthian relations 
and coming up short,
suddenly wondering 
how a day I thought good 
was not for another,
caught up in 
opposing realities 
where mine is suspect
and empathy is a struggle.

The brain fog 
of past illness 
has left its trailing 
fingers over my head
like the cigarette smoke 
of the man I see one morning standing with his back to me on the dock outside the store where I used to work 
and I wonder why he is there. 

I am suspicious, feeling responsible for what is no longer mine to care about, so I observe, yet remain at a distance and leave without really discovering if his presence is innocent. 

Such is the dance of dissonance.
I am close enough to see your back but too far to see your face clearly,
afraid that if I look too closely I will not like what  I see or that I will recognize some ugly part of me.

I want to hear 
that which runs 
counter to my experience 
but I must be honest and say that my capacity to understand the complexities of human behavior is diminishing. 

I long for circles that are completely safe,
where the people I pass on the walk home illicit in me feelings other than fear,
lust, guilt, or judgement,
all of which mirror 
the overwhelming sense
of dislike
I feel from the
world, and from myself perhaps.

It is my inability to not receive everything personally, this overwhelming sadness,  unprotected by my hypervigilance, where I still seem to miss what is most important, and no matter how much I try to hold everything together, I cannot keep things from unraveling. 

How do I continue to remain caring and yet not take on burdens that are not mine to carry? 

This then is the strange choreography of relationship, the stumbling herky-jerky movements of a marionette pulled by invisible strings, revealed in the bright lights of another angry stage.

Yet we dance. 
Through the pain of revelation.
The occasional stepping on of toes.
In the percieved exposure of audience eyes.
Shedding these inadequate masks and costumes one by one.
Finding our own rhythm in the strange movings of this particular 
circle of love.

Beg: June 5, 2026 
Fin: June 30, 2026

The Dance of Dissonance

Sometimes 
I find myself lost
at the end of 
a confusing day 
trying to decipher labyrinthian relations 
and coming up short,
suddenly wondering 
how a day I thought good 
was not for another,
caught up in 
opposing realities 
where mine is suspect
and empathy is a struggle.

The brain fog 
of past illness 
has left its trailing 
fingers over my head
like the cigarette smoke 
of the man I see one morning standing with his back to me on the dock outside the store where I used to work 
and I wonder why he is there. 

I am suspicious, feeling responsible for what is no longer mine to care about, so I observe, yet remain at a distance and leave without really discovering if his presence is innocent. 

Such is the dance of dissonance.
I am close enough to see your back but too far to see your face clearly,
afraid that if I look too closely I will not like what  I see or that I will recognize some ugly part of me.

I want to hear 
that which runs 
counter to my experience 
but I must be honest and say that my capacity to understand the complexities of human behavior is diminishing. 

I long for circles that are completely safe,
where the people I pass on the walk home illicit in me feelings other than fear,
lust, guilt, or judgement,
all of which mirror 
the overwhelming sense
of dislike
I feel from the
world, and from myself perhaps.

It is my inability to not receive everything personally, this overwhelming sadness,  unprotected by my hypervigilance, where I still seem to miss what is most important, and no matter how much I try to hold everything together, I cannot keep things from unraveling. 

How do I continue to remain caring and yet not take on burdens that are not mine to carry? 

This then is the strange choreography of relationship, the stumbling herky-jerky movements of a marionette pulled by invisible strings, revealed in the bright lights of another angry stage.

Yet we dance. 
Through the pain of revelation.
The occasional stepping on of toes.
In the percieved exposure of audience eyes.
Shedding these inadequate masks and costumes one by one.
Finding our own rhythm in the strange movings of this particular 
circle of love.

Beg: June 5, 2026 
Fin: June 30, 2026

The Dance of Dissonance

Sometimes 
I find myself lost
at the end of 
a confusing day 
trying to decipher labyrinthian relations 
and coming up short,
suddenly wondering 
how a day I thought good 
was not for another,
caught up in 
opposing realities 
where mine is suspect
and empathy is a struggle.

The brain fog 
of past illness 
has left its trailing 
fingers over my head
like the cigarette smoke 
of the man I see one morning standing with his back to me on the dock outside the store where I used to work 
and I wonder why he is there. 

I am suspicious, feeling responsible for what is no longer mine to care about, so I observe, yet remain at a distance and leave without really discovering if his presence is innocent. 

Such is the dance of dissonance.
I am close enough to see your back but too far to see your face clearly,
afraid that if I look too closely I will not like what  I see or that I will recognize some ugly part of me.

I want to hear 
that which runs 
counter to my experience 
but I must be honest and say that my capacity to understand the complexities of human behavior is diminishing. 

I long for circles that are completely safe,
where the people I pass on the walk home illicit in me feelings other than fear,
lust, guilt, or judgement,
all of which mirror 
the overwhelming sense
of dislike
I feel from the
world, and from myself perhaps.

It is my inability to not receive everything personally, this overwhelming sadness,  unprotected by my hypervigilance, where I still seem to miss what is most important, and no matter how much I try to hold everything together, I cannot keep things from unraveling. 

How do I continue to remain caring and yet not take on burdens that are not mine to carry? 

This then is the strange choreography of relationship, the stumbling herky-jerky movements of a marionette pulled by invisible strings, revealed in the bright lights of another angry stage.

Yet we dance. 
Through the pain of revelation.
The occasional stepping on of toes.
In the percieved exposure of audience eyes.
Shedding these inadequate masks and costumes one by one.
Finding our own rhythm in the strange movings of this particular 
circle of love.

Beg: June 5, 2026 
Fin: June 30, 2026

The Dance of Dissonance

Sometimes 
I find myself lost
at the end of 
a confusing day 
trying to decipher labyrinthian relations 
and coming up short,
suddenly wondering 
how a day I thought good 
was not for another,
caught up in 
opposing realities 
where mine is suspect
and empathy is a struggle.

The brain fog 
of past illness 
has left its trailing 
fingers over my head
like the cigarette smoke 
of the man I see one morning standing with his back to me on the dock outside the store where I used to work 
and I wonder why he is there. 

I am suspicious, feeling responsible for what is no longer mine to care about, so I observe, yet remain at a distance and leave without really discovering if his presence is innocent. 

Such is the dance of dissonance.
I am close enough to see your back but too far to see your face clearly,
afraid that if I look too closely I will not like what  I see or that I will recognize some ugly part of me.

I want to hear 
that which runs 
counter to my experience 
but I must be honest and say that my capacity to understand the complexities of human behavior is diminishing. 

I long for circles that are completely safe,
where the people I pass on the walk home illicit in me feelings other than fear,
lust, guilt, or judgement,
all of which mirror 
the overwhelming sense
of dislike
I feel from the
world, and from myself perhaps.

It is my inability to not receive everything personally, this overwhelming sadness,  unprotected by my hypervigilance, where I still seem to miss what is most important, and no matter how much I try to hold everything together, I cannot keep things from unraveling. 

How do I continue to remain caring and yet not take on burdens that are not mine to carry? 

This then is the strange choreography of relationship, the stumbling herky-jerky movements of a marionette pulled by invisible strings, revealed in the bright lights of another angry stage.

Yet we dance. 
Through the pain of revelation.
The occasional stepping on of toes.
In the percieved exposure of audience eyes.
Shedding these inadequate masks and costumes one by one.
Finding our own rhythm in the strange movings of this particular 
circle of love.

Beg: June 5, 2026 
Fin: June 30, 2026

Storm Surge

In the end,
will you be faithful?
That is question.

When the storm has come and gone,
when what you thought was precious has been stripped away,
when you sleep in darkness wondering if the lights will ever come back on,
when your life in the flash of lightning reverts back to the everyday of your sisters and brothers in the warzone,
when your plane to those destinations is grounded by the thunder’s roar?

Will you awake to new resolve for justice?
Will you spend less time before the screen and more time present to loved ones and those in need of it?
Will you leave the ground to alight among the troubled?
Will you listen to them?

Will the power that comes on be in you,
through you,
glowing out through your eyes,
electrifying,
filling you with a compassion so compelling
you become a wire
among many
channeling
love and peace
to the world?

June 2, 2015

Without Fear in His Grace (Christian Music) = New worship song to strengthen your faith ✨ - #God #Jesus #TheLord #Praise #ChristianMusic #Bible #Music #Song #FaithJourney #SpiritualGrowth #HeavenlyLight #DivineLove #PrayerMoment #HolyConnection #BlessedPath #SoulRenewal #GraceOfGod #ScriptureTrust #ChristianUnity #HopefulHeart #BelieversJoy #ChristsEmbrace #EternalPeace #SpiritualReflection #JesusTeachings #SacredPromises #GodsMercy - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=

Without Fear in His Grace (Christian Music) = New worship song to strengthen your faith ✨ - #God #Jesus #TheLord #Praise #ChristianMusic #Bible #Music #Song #FaithJourney #SpiritualGrowth #HeavenlyLight #DivineLove #PrayerMoment #HolyConnection #BlessedPath #SoulRenewal #GraceOfGod #ScriptureTrust #ChristianUnity #HopefulHeart #BelieversJoy #ChristsEmbrace #EternalPeace #SpiritualReflection #JesusTeachings #SacredPromises #GodsMercy - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=

Without Fear in His Grace (Christian Music) = New worship song to strengthen your faith ✨ - #God #Jesus #TheLord #Praise #ChristianMusic #Bible #Music #Song #FaithJourney #SpiritualGrowth #HeavenlyLight #DivineLove #PrayerMoment #HolyConnection #BlessedPath #SoulRenewal #GraceOfGod #ScriptureTrust #ChristianUnity #HopefulHeart #BelieversJoy #ChristsEmbrace #EternalPeace #SpiritualReflection #JesusTeachings #SacredPromises #GodsMercy - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=

Without Fear in His Grace (Christian Music) = New worship song to strengthen your faith ✨ - #God #Jesus #TheLord #Praise #ChristianMusic #Bible #Music #Song #FaithJourney #SpiritualGrowth #HeavenlyLight #DivineLove #PrayerMoment #HolyConnection #BlessedPath #SoulRenewal #GraceOfGod #ScriptureTrust #ChristianUnity #HopefulHeart #BelieversJoy #ChristsEmbrace #EternalPeace #SpiritualReflection #JesusTeachings #SacredPromises #GodsMercy - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=

Without Fear in His Grace (Christian Music) = New worship song to strengthen your faith ✨ - #God #Jesus #TheLord #Praise #ChristianMusic #Bible #Music #Song #FaithJourney #SpiritualGrowth #HeavenlyLight #DivineLove #PrayerMoment #HolyConnection #BlessedPath #SoulRenewal #GraceOfGod #ScriptureTrust #ChristianUnity #HopefulHeart #BelieversJoy #ChristsEmbrace #EternalPeace #SpiritualReflection #JesusTeachings #SacredPromises #GodsMercy - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=

Taste

Righteousness is a gift 
only God can understand.
All other attempts are useless -
only acceptance is needed.
That is the ultimate trust.

Taste and see that God is good.
Savor the delicious flavor.
Enjoy.
Only do not forget to swallow.

May 5, 1987 (age 19)