Saturday, September 20, 2014

I Am Awesome

I am awesome
Beautiful
Wonderfully created
Loved by my Father
Glorious
Walking out my purpose
Faithful
Joyful
Free
And confident
My Father is pleased with me
Because He has empowered me to please Him.
Cassondra
Shining before man.
Just as I was called
I am me!

Saturday, September 13, 2014

I Want To Know

I want to know that I am loved
That no matter what I do or what I think
Or what I feel or what I say
I am unequivocally and irrevocably loved.

I want to know that I'm important
That no matter what happens around me
I can make it better, make a difference
Not with striving or struggling
But just by being me.

I want to know that I am valued
That other people see the treasures that
Yahweh hid inside of me
And they want to make a draw on them,
So they can have them too.

I want to know that I can see
That the way I see the world
Is rightly aligned with the way the world is,
The way Yahweh made it.

I want to know that I can change the world
That my purpose will be fulfilled to the fullest
And because I've lined up with Yahweh,
Things on Earth will never be the same
And Yahweh's Kingdom will be a little more manifest
In this natural realm.

I want to know that, even if I make a mistake,
Yahweh's got this.
He saw before time the plans He laid out for me
And He finished them before He authored them
All I have to do
Is obey
And rest in His power
For He does it all anyway.

I want to know that these things are true
And in reality, I do.
I know. Revelation comes by faith.
And three things I want you to know:
You are loved.
You matter.
You can change the world.

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Twelve Hours

Man used to live to be 900 years old. Now our days are but 120 years.

But what if the human lifespan were only twelve hours? That by the time the twelfth hour rolled around, you were already like a 90 to 100 year old man or woman?

What if you were born at 7:00 p.m. in the fall? Just as your mother was giving birth to you, twilight was approaching. Your first view of the sky held streaks of yellow-gold and purple, but it quickly disappeared, and your memory of that time is dim and vague. But by the time you were one hour old, the sky was already dark, a midnight blue with only pinpricks of lights therein. You are old enough, now, to wonder, to ask questions. Why do we live in a world of inky black with only small points of light to guide us on our way?

Your mother, who is already middle aged by now, tells you that the pinpricks are stars and that there is a time when a greater star comes out and illuminates the entirety of the sky. The whole earth shines in its splendor and the smaller stars go away, unable to be seen in the glory of the large star.

But now you are two hours old, and going through that skeptical phase of youth where you can't possibly believe anything adults tell you. You have to experience things, to find out for yourself, and you've never seen such a great star. The closest you've come to is the slightly larger and oddly shaped orb that is brighter than the other pinpricks of light, but could scarcely be called a star.

When you are three hours old you meet someone. They are perfect for you and you know that you want to be with them for the rest of your life. While you make arrangements to join your lives, you think that the stars in the sky have multiplied. Surely they could all come together to chase away the darkness.

At four hours old, you see the next generation. This small child came from your body and you are not sure how this is possible. The miraculous nature of one generation having procreated the next awes you, and yet the sky does not change except for a second in the eye of your mind.

When you are seven hours old, your mother dies, having reached the edge of her twelve hour lifespan. You are alone in your grief, and the sky seems darker somehow. As you arrange her funeral, you begin to wonder about the things she has told you, but in your grief, you don't see how it's possible. You search the sky for signs of light, but all you see is the darkness.

At nine hours old, your child has a child, and this child is beautiful and new and you are reminded again of the miracles of life, of the joy of the next generation. But now you are older, and your joy at the miraculous is tempered by your grief at the experience of living. You remember, vaguely, what your mother told you, about a great star governing the whole sky and shining brightly upon the world, but you cannot decide if it is even possible. And you've never told your children or their children the story you heard as a child on your mother's lap.

Ten hours old and you know you are near the end. Your body doesn't work like it used to; it is tired and you feel like you could sleep for a good long while before you're really rested again. You lay down, surrounded by your children and your children's children and you look up at the sky. You see, again, the streaks of gold and purple that you saw in the moment you were born, and even though you couldn't possibly remember, you do. There, in the back of your mind, the memory of the first sight of sky, and with it, the voice of your mother, telling you of the sun, telling you the stories she heard from her mother and her mother's mother.

Your time is fading fast. It is now your eleventh hour and you gasp out to your children the story of the sunrise. Though you know you will not get to see it yourself, you rejoice that they shall see the rising of the sun, the breaking of the day, the joy that comes in the morning. And somehow, you know, you will see it too, even as the light grows in the sky and fades from you eye.

The twelfth hour. It is finished, but you believed and you saw and it was good.

Monday, September 1, 2014

Rest

There is something to be said
For a nice, rainy day
When I don't have anywhere to go
Rest
For tomorrow, we work!