A Dream

Sullivan, a few years younger than when he begins to tell his story, may have looked a 
great deal like this. 
His life was not an easy one, from the very beginning – before the start of his tale – his days 
were by no means carefree or peaceful.
He began life poor and in the mid 18th century England this was next to death, particularly 
in the streets and shops of London where Sullivan spent his entire adolescence.
Like many a young man his age, he fought hard just to survive – his loyalties to his family 
were strong, his admiration of his Papa was almost idolatry, and the support and protection he was called upon to provide his mother and sister were seen as his life’s joy, not his life’s duties.
But changes happen in life.
They happen in everyone’s lives. 
And they happened in Sullivan’s life.
But instead of allowing these changes to grow and perfect him, he crumbled under them,
and soon found himself on a path that he had never imagined he would take. 
One of crime, theft, murder…and wealth.
A path which could have led to such a portrayal of him as we have above.
“Blast heaven,” I ground out the words, feeling as if my voice was trapped somewhere down inside of me. 

It was light out – too light out. The African sun was pouring into my room from those wide, clear glass windows; each pane was shined to perfection.
I closed my eyes…Abigail had already been in; those drapes were open – wide open.
My head was pounding.
I remembered.
I remembered. Last night.
Groaning aloud I drew my hands from under the thin coverlet that lay over me.
It wasn’t real.
I rubbed my burning eyes.
It wasn’t real. I thought through it all – it was so clouded, so foggy…the whole, awful scene – everything about it. It wasn’t real.
Thank God.
I tossed my bed clothes aside and almost fell out of bed onto the hard plank floor, “Blast,” I caught myself and caught my breath as well. Shaking my head, I looked down – at my waist coat, breeches, stockings….
“To bed with my clothes on,” I murmured, setting myself gingerly on the edge of my mattress and untying my cravat, “Fool.”
I tossed my coat and waistcoat off onto the floor and massaged my aching neck. That light was killing me.
“Willard!” I near choked when I saw him; the older man was seated in the Windsor next my dresser, his arms crossed against his chest, observing me, “Willard, man, what are you doing here?”
“Brought you to bed last night,” he grunted.
I brushed through my disheveled hair with my fingers, “I was wondering,” I shook my head, “What a night.”
My man only grunted again.
I drug myself up and shuffled to the table in the center of my apartment, “You just come in?” I looked over the breakfast tray Abigail had left for me.
“No,” Willard shook his head, “Been here all night.”
I looked at him, rather surprised.
He only shrugged, “Figured I’d better on account of that fever.”
I waved that thought off, “I’m well, Willard – no relapse for me,” I shook my head, “I’m quite well. Thank you for thinking of me, though you didn’t have to sit up all night with me.”
“Yes I did.”
I glanced at him, “Alright,” I nodded, “You did.”
He was silent and I turned back to my breakfast with a slight sigh, “Toast, hard boiled egg, English marmalade,” I replaced the silver cover to my plate, “Nothing more sickening than eggs on a wine-pickled stomach,” I shook my head and poured myself a cup of Abigail’s strong tea, “Or coffee,” I looked at Willard, “Coffee? She knows I like tea in the mornings – what’s wrong with that girl!”
“I told her to bring ya coffee,” Willard responded, “Thought it might do ya better – after what a state you were in last night.”
“Mm…,” I rubbed my throbbing forehead, “Last night,” slumping down in a chair by the table I groaned, “Last night.”
Willard was quiet.
“I think someone drugged it,” I shook my head, “Or either that sherry’s just awful stuff!”
“No one drugged it, Sullivan,” the older man left his chair and joined me at the table, “You’re just fool enough to think you can guzzle a bottle of liqueur and it not effect you.”
“I’m not in a mood for jokes, Willard,” I mumbled, “I only drank two glasses.”
“Ha!” he pushed my coffee towards me, “After Missy left with that Michael lad of yours you got Lassie to bring ya the sherry again and finished the whole thing off in less than a quarter hour.”
“Oh Lord,” I sat back in my seat, my head in my hands, “I don’t even remember that – I don’t remember anything…anything past…her leaving,” I massaged my aching temples, my neck, “Good Lord.”
Willard uncovered my breakfast, “Eat, Sullivan,” he almost ordered me, “Be good for ya.”
I shook my head, but picked up my fork anyways, “How’s Bennet?” I spoke through a regretted mouthful of nearly cold toast.
“Haven’t seen ‘m this mornin’,” my man responded, “Forbes gave up on waking him last night; he and I managed to get him to bed – in the parlor,” he rested his elbow on the smooth table edge, supporting his wide, chiseled chin with his fist, “No way dragging that man up those steps.”
I half laughed, “He’s a beast,” I shook my head…a beast….
“Blast it, Willard,” I shoved my breakfast aside, “I had the most wretched dream last night – nightmare.”
“Hm?” my man sat up a little in his seat.
I was quiet a moment, listening to the pounding in my skull, “I hate drinking,” I ground out the words.
Willard grunted, “That’s an improvement.”
“I mean it, Willard,” I slumped against the table, “It makes men think and do stupid, stupid things.”
“M-hm,” the older man filled my cup almost to the brim with that thick, black mud everyone knew as coffee, “Wanna’ talk about it?” he asked.
I shook my head, “Its too awful to think about – much less talk about,” I took the cup he held up for me.
“That bad, hm?” those dull grey eyes were watching me.
I took a tiny sip of the coffee and almost gagged, “Yeah,” I gasped, and set the cup aside with more feeling that was necessary – the black muck sloshed out all over the table; but I couldn’t care less. Willard was silent and sat up, resting my elbows on my knees, my head clutched in my hands, “That bad,” there was a slight pause, “Heaven blast it, Willard,” I could not bide those cruel, blurry scenes rising in my mind, “It was the type of dream where you wish you couldv’e stayed around long enough to see yourself kill yourself!”
Willard grunted, but didn’t say anything.
A thoughtful silence – too thoughtful for me – seemed to grip the room for several moments.
“Well!” the older man clapped his knee – shattering my thoughts and my skull at the same time, “Drink your coffee, boy, I’ll get your clothes – got ta’ get yourself together to talk ta Bennet; don’t want ‘m seein’ ya like this.”
“No,” I shook my head, “No….”
And I had to talk to Bennet.
My thoughts…my drink…it had all carried me far enough – too far.
I had to get away. I had to escape.
We had to get back to sea.

After reading this scene do you have any ideas (even imaginations) of what Sullivan could have dreamt,
or what it is that Willard obviously seems to know which his young friend has no idea of?

A post with a rather different tone….

Its just like that….
Could I safely say this is how I feel right now?
Isn’t that how I always do? 
Even sub-consciously. 
I haven’t been writing lately because I happened, before Thanksgiving, to come up on this rather difficult 
section in the last scene I was working on. 
Keeping close in the shadows of the more-solid buildings, I made my way slowly towards the stone fortress of Hold…but not for obvious reasons.
Realizing the extent of the danger we were so suddenly in…a precipitate fear…violent and possessing…had gripped me…such as I had never felt before….
Or an energy….
I could not label it….
But it was beyond my reason to move without its force…. My mind dominated by only one thing, it pushed me on…slowly…cautiously…but ever forward…towards the dark, morbid walls of that stone prison-house….
And…I was in no wise over-zealous for my goal….
As I reached Hold the screeching, green door was being pulled open before me. 
I jumped over the drunken guard – who still lay, serenely oblivious to every danger, before the narrow doorway – and pulled myself through the opening door not two seconds too soon….
A scream pierced the night-blacked room…glass shattered…and I found a grasp on her wrist….
“You’re not taking one step from here, lass,” I silenced her… my eyes were slowly adjusting to the dim light…I could see her…tense…panting….
“You nearly scared me half to death!” she wrung her arm from my grasp, and tried to step round me to see out the door. 
I stepped before her and blocked her way….
“You’re not taking one step from here, lass,” I repeated…my voice hoarse…

This scene has more to it, but this is all I felt comfortable with sharing…since it is very rough
and further on only gets rougher.
I’ve had no inspiration to dive in and work so hard to iron all this out. 
I’ve been busy about the house, with my family, with Thanksgiving, with the farm….
But now things aren’t looking quite so cheery or nice around here….
With work looming over us, 
and the realization that in a few days or weeks we will be back to that routine….
up at 5, to chores at 6, (if you notice that give you one hour to make up your bed and room, dress, read your Bible and study, write in your diary, and write – or either fb or blog, you have to choose which is more important; story or social – and it also puts you down at the barn in the near-dark….it was dark before day light savings ended; wonderful way to check out the goats, isn’t it?) work at 8 (commute is almost an hour, and you have to give time to pack lunch and grab breakfast), work ’till between 1 or 3 when we stop for lunch (supper), then back to work ’till between 5 and 7 depending on how much we’ve gotten done and how much we have left to do, home at last, chores in the dark, to bed by 9 if we can manage to get the van unpacked, lunch ready for the next day, dishes and laundry in, and our showers done before then, and try to go to sleep before 11 so you can get up again at 5…..
Oh boy….
I’m not mentioning the other problems in between all this.
Family troubles and the neighborhoods we work in….
I’m glad to work with my family. 
I love working together.
And I love the freedom of having our own business. 
If I feel bad one day I just say so….
No one expects you to be a feel-good-every-day-work-machine.
But I am not happy with how hectic this work makes our lives –
nor how, when we are not working everything seems to be about bids, getting up bids,
calling subs, talking to city officials, organizing meetings with home owners….
It just never seems to stop. 
There’s no “I’m not bringing work to home with me.”
Its always here…Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday – and even Sunday!
I just want a quiet life at home.
I just want a happy family where we’re all focused on serving the Lord Jesus –
not on making money. 
I know in order to live we have to make money – we can’t pay bills, buy things etc. etc. etc. without money.
The world runs on money.
But we don’t have to run on money!
Can’t making money to pay our bills be part of our lives instead of being our lives?
I’ve been able to survive the past few weeks since we left the job at Gatewood
because I don’t think about it. 
That’s one way I’ve taught myself to handle things….
I ignore problems, and just don’t think about them until I just have to.
Like now. 
We spent the entire day yesterday riding through very bad areas of town
looking at houses to bid on
when we already have low-bid on two houses in the last package and haven’t even
begun work on them yet!
The plan is to spend this morning (i.e. today) looking at the rest of them.
All total; 15 houses.
And to bid on them on Thursday.
And we haven’t even begun the other jobs yet! 
Faced with this sort of frustration I pray and pray and pray….
I know the Lord Jesus will answer me, He will hear me, He will guide our lives according to His will. 
“Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted in me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise Him for the help of His countenance.”

But I know man’s actions, behavior, and decisions can sometimes hinder His will –
and cause those involved a great deal of heartache and pain while the mess must be cleaned up
so His will can take IT’s rightful place. 
He always is my Comfort.
But my flesh is so great an obstacle. 
– like now, my friends –
I can’t seem to shake my worries and frustration enough….
But still He provides.
He has created me to feel I have two choices.
Three really.
Argue about these problems.
(Which usually will not get anyone anywhere….)
Run away and cry.
(Have I done this before!)
Frustrated, burdened, and against a brick wall in my mind,
I’m going to do like often I find myself doing 
– whether I want to or not –
completely submerge myself into another world where I can momentarily escape all 
my troubles. 
Another place where – though dark, difficult, and troublesome it might’ve seemed only a couple weeks ago –
I now find a quiet haven.
Where I can be myself again.
Where I don’t have to cry….
“Did the really, really bad trouble hurt you, Papa?” he asked, in almost a whisper.
I nodded…, “It still does,” my throat ached….
Those memories….
The past….
My entire life….
I closed my eyes for just a moment…just long enough to try to reorder my thoughts…but it was useless…utterly useless….
I was not myself….
Not the man I wanted…or I thought I had…to be….
The guilt….
The pain…..
It hurt….
“How Papa?” he looked up at my face, his head lying on my shoulder, “How does it still hurt you if it happened so long ago?”
“Because it was my fault, Michael,” I swallowed the sharp pain in my throat as best I could…but it would not go away, “Sometimes it takes time for a man to live down the mistakes he makes in his youth, lad,” I tried to explain it as simply as I could, “I just never have lived mine down,” never…would I ever? “The outcome was too awful for me to get over it quickly,” I added quietly, “I still can’t get over it.”
The young boy was silent, his small, thin hand toying with a disengaged, bone button of my shirt, “I love you, Papa.”
An Unlikely Love

I asked myself….

I wonder….

“Memories, however, are not dangerous unless one is a coward and allows them to be. I should have faced my past and been the man I was…or thought I was.” 
Sullivan ~ An Unlikely Love
Anyone who has been reading this blog for a while,
or knows me a little (but not in person)
will probably know that I love to write. 
And will probably know that I love to write historical fiction – 
always with deeply spiritual backgrounds.
Anyone who knows this, will probably know too that I pray much 
as I write…and that my goal in writing is to serve the Lord Jesus, and to bring honor 
and glory to His Name – and perhaps lead others through my writing
into His Salvation, or into a deeper Knowledge of Himself.
These are my reasons for writing.
“Everyone has a chance at life, sir. Some people are given their chance much more easily than others – and some of those people choose to throw their chance away as if life were all the better without it. Everyone has a chance – and he deserves the opportunity to make use of his!”
The nun ~ An Unlikely Love
I thank Jesus for the gift of writing. 
I began writing when I was about 10 or 11 years old. 
I thank Jesus that I’ve always had some sort of story going since then…
and through each story He’s taught me, molding my hand and my mind to follow Him more fully.
After a great battle within myself and my spirit,
I consecrated my writing to Him at 15.
From then until now writing has taken on a new meaning to me…
a new depth…and I have learned many, many things which would have been impossible
to learn if I had not chosen to rely on Him for the words to put on my pages.
“I’m scared….really….I’m scared…I don’t want to do this….”
Alice ~ An Unlikely Love
I love to write.
I love the feeling of putting a picture into words…
and knowing the characters…like I would know someone in real life…or even better
than I would know someone in real life….
To be completely honest, I am closer to the characters in my stories 
than I am to 99.99% of real people in my life.
I love to sit and watch as things come together…events manage to fit together –
where I didn’t expect them to…characters begin to develop…in a way I hadn’t expected….
Scenes begin to come to life…I can feel them, touch them, see them, smell them, taste them….
I don’t know how else to express it other than
that I love it.
I love to write. 
“They saida’ they was still born – but Jelisa, young girl there been ‘elpin’ ‘em labor, tolda Forbes the truth – them girlsa jus wana’ rida’ ’em youngins – an’ theys don’ta’ care how.”
Ravelli ~ An Unlikely Love

I know why I write…
and I love writing….
for the reasons I do it – and because I love writing…
not for itself, but because of what it is to me.
But there are still moments…
when I asked myself that awful question.

Why do I write?
Why do I spend hours…days…weeks…months…even years…
bent over a story…
my mind always occupied – consciously or subconsciously – 
with some form or facet of it?
Why do I labor…why do I write – even when I’d rather just lay down and sleep…
or spend time doing other more enjoyable things –
why do I do this?
Its not all fun.
Most of writing is hard work – truly hard work.
Studying out facts…writing the mundane…editing…filling in parts you’ve read a million times…reading and re-reading…trying to make things work when you know its hopeless…going back and 
re-writing…or completely tossing your whole week’s worth of work because it is not good enough….
Writing is beautiful…the outcome is beautiful…the characters are beautiful…
but more often than not writing is a job; a burden.
So why do I do it?
“I have seen some acts of cruelty in my time, lass, but this surpasses them all.”
Sullivan ~ An Unlikely Love

Sometimes I wonder if ever I will see these long hours of work…worry…fatigue…
ever come to the point where others have read it…
and been truly blessed and encouraged by the experience. 
Years of work have so far proved nothing more than stacks of paper piled in my
closet…characters lying lifeless, morbid…encased in dust and time.
So why do I keep adding to this?
Why do I keep adding to this pile of useless paper?
Why do I keep tormenting myself over something that gives so little return?
“I bent close to her…my hand cupping her delicate chin…the silken, hazel curls around her neck swept softly by the ocean winds brushed my arm…I could see the glow of the evening sun in those dark eyes…and I claimed her lips with my own….”
Sullivan ~ An Unlikely Love

I never have the answer to these questions…
I never see the end of this long tunnel I am going through…there is never any glimmer of light to
ban the darkness I seem to be surrounded with.
There is only comfort…a degree of comfort…
comfort….but still pain. 
The comfort is in and only in my Jesus.
My trust in Him.
My trust in Him to keep me…keep my soul…and direct my words.
“Give thy heart’s love and labor, and that which grieves thee most,
Into His faithful keeping Who guides the heavenly host;
He Who to cloud and tempest a great highroad doth show
Will find for thee a footpath, a way thy steps may go.

Trust God if thou desirest that it go well with thee, 
And on His doing ponder if firm thy work shall be.
The sorrow thou dost treasure, thy pain close cherished,
Leave Him no room to enter: Oh thou must pray instead!

Through all our ways Thou takes Thy way, all means are Thine;
Thy hand moves but in blessing and all Thy footprints shine.
Thy children’s need Thou knowest, and what doth best befit,
Unhindered and unresting, Thou shalt accomplish it.

Let Him dispose and govern, He is a Ruler wise
And will unfold His wisdom to Thy astonished eyes,
When He, in wonderous manner, with foresight and with care,
That work of thine shall finish of which thou didst despair.”
Paul Gerhardt 
I would not love writing if not for my Jesus Who is my Talent, 
and I would not love writing if not for my Jesus Who is my Life….
I could abide myself…
writing on my merry way without Him…
because writing then would be very empty…
a very empty and desolate world indeed.
It is because of Him that I can not but write…
though my flesh indeed is weak; though my eyes indeed are dim.
I cannot see what He has planned for me…
I cannot discern what His will through all this is…
sometimes I just want to give up…because my flesh sees no profit in all this struggle and pain…
I just want to give up.
Be a normal person….
“Then I said, I will not make mention of Him, nor speak any more in His Name. 
But His Word was in mine heart as a burning fire shut up in my bones, and I was weary with forbearing, and I could not stay.”
Jeremiah 20:9
This is why I cannot but write…
I cannot contain all the things He gives me to put down on paper.
I cannot bear holding them all inside….
It has to be written.
“Its tiny, blood-stained limbs flailed and beat the air weakly…its tiny hands were still crumpled into distorted fists and its toes and feet were bent and misshapen from the long months it had spent inside its mother’s womb…tiny strands of jet black hair were pasted wetly onto its tiny head…and its little face was wrinkled in unhappy wailing. Completely lost, I held it close to me…felt its cries against my chest….”
Sullivan ~ An Unlikely Love

As a child

“Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.
Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.”
Matthew 18:3-4
We think of these verses usually in the light of trust.
We must trust Jesus so implicitly that, like little children, we question not where He
leads us, or what He gives us, or what He tells.
How true this is.
But true child-trust begins with humility.
“Whosoever therefore shall humble himself….”
How much humbling it takes to become as a child.
How much pain we must endure to set our own opinions aside…
our own logic…our own knowledge and understanding.
Humility is the first and foremost position of a Christian.
It is this that Christ so labors to form in us –
but indwelling us; with His Own Humble Life!

A Family

Searching painstakingly through the archives on Ancestry.com
the Lord has blessed me with quite a collection of very rare
photos and documents of our family’s history and lives. 
I’m thankful for the ability to have kept up a membership with Ancestry.com 
for two years. 
Our families on both sides are very divided, we have only a handful of 
hardcopy pictures of our parents’ family from when they were young. 
I could probably count them all on my hands; that’s how scarce 
pictures of our family are.
But the Lord blessed us to discover Ancestry and we’ve been able to
find many more pictures of our family – more on our Dad’s side than our Mom’s –
through this medium. 
I am still looking for more, too, when I have time; especially for Mama’s side.

The first picture on this post is believed to be one of our third greatgrandparents
on our mother’s side.
Charles and Martha Tooley.
The second picture is of our great grandparents on our Dad’s side and several 
of their children.
From right to left;
John Thomas Crouch and Meggie Ervin Crouch
Albert, Dot, Carro (our grandmother), and Lottie
This picture I have shared before.
It is of our 2nd great granduncle on our mother’s side being
baptized in the Ohio River shortly before his death.
Maston Tooley.

This is Vira Kathryn; one of the Crouch girls not shown in the above 
family photograph.

This is Lottie again.


Albert and Amanda Midkiff; Amanda was an Adkins before she married,
a great cousin on my mother’s side.
They lived in Midkiff, West Virginia.

Carthrine Worrel Irvin on the right. 
Grandmother on my dad’s side who married into the Crouch family.

Albert Crouch.
Uncle Bert as Daddy knew him.
This is on the steps of Columbus High School where my Dad attended
for maybe a week. 🙂
This was much earlier than Daddy’s day here, however; this must have been
in the early 30’s.
Henry and Elizabeth Adkins 
Fifth great grand uncle and aunt on our mother’s side.
Looking back through the pictures of our family that I’ve been able to scrape up
has given me a greater light into our own lives.
Studying out where and how they lived – together with stories from both
my parents – have helped to form a greater idea in my mind
of what life means to me.
My mother came from a family who, though they ended up
residing in Ohio, were originally from Virginia – which became West Virginia 
during the Succession. 
They worked hard – mostly in coal mines – and lived hard.
They were true mountain people; moonshine, possum hunting, and coon eating not exempted. 
My mother’s Dad’s family were the Daltons and Coburns of
Logan County, West Virginia. 
Looking through the records of their occupation it is rare not to find a 
coal miner or a logger.
My grandpa himself drove logging trucks and made moonshine.
My dad came from a family who have long kept roots in the 
deep south; Columbus Georgia. 
My grandpa on his side was a car dealer, but he was raised on a farm.
Dad’s mother’s family were all farmers.
The south then was rent deeply with the turmoil still stirred from the Civil War.
Segregation was daily life; my dad can still remember when water 
fountains were marked ‘black’ and ‘white’.
Further back on the Lyons’ side, mill workers run strong in the family.
Men, women, and children alike worked long hours in the 
factories – cotton and tobacco couldn’t support a family anymore after the war.
Industrialization had finally reached the south – long after it had 
supported the north.
As I learn more about our families I am amazed by the lives they led.
To them, life was just life. But once they lived it, left their mark on the world,
and others study it a hundred years later….
their daily lives become living stories; chapter upon chapter to study on and learn from –
and to compare our own lives to. 
I feel a great connection with these people.
Not just because, by blood, we’re related despite the separation of years,
but because their lives were so hard. 
Our family has never, on either side, been well-to-do. Everyone has worked –
and worked hard. 
My granddaddy Ted (Daddy’s dad), grew up during the Great Depression.
He recalled the days you could buy an acre of land for 50 cents –
but you only made 50 cents a week working twelve hours a day in a cotton mill.
Columbus Georgia Mill Workers

My mother remembers visiting relatives – in the 1970’s – who still lived in

shacks in the mountains, worked in coal mines, heated by fire,
milked their own cows, churned their own butter, butchered their own meat,
hunted their game – not for points, but for food – and sat out on the 
porch in the evenings with their fiddles and guitars ’till late in the night. 
These people’s lives weren’t easy – and they had many mouths to feed.
Everyone married young, and a family of 18 was not uncommon – not counting the 
three or four children who never made it past their toddler years. 
I can’t judge whether or not these people knew the Lord Jesus.
I know that moonshining and serving the Lord doesn’t go hand-in-hand,
as neither does burning the town (which several uncles on my dad’s side were known for),
but many of them I believe had some sense of our Savior’s presence and 
dominion over their lives.
I associate more with the women – naturally! – who stayed home 
and worked the farm, fed their children, made their clothes, their soap, their butter,
gave birth to their children in their homes – usually only accompanied by a neighbor 
or a sister – and then would be up the next day working again. 
I can imagine how these women – at least even one of these women – knew the Lord
deeply and would seek Him for the Strength that He alone could 
be in order to endure such a life. 
We complain so much.
But we don’t seem to ever see how little we have to
complain about; and how much we have 
to be thankful for.
Truly thankful for.

Fierce was the wild billow….

Fierce was the wild billow, dark was the night,
Oars labored heavily, foam glimmered white;
Trembled the mariners, Peril was nigh;
Then said the God of God:
“Peace, it is I!” “Peace, it is I!”
Ridge of the mountain-wave, Lower thy crest!
Wail of the western wind, Be thou at rest!
Sorrow can never be, Darkness must fly,
Where saith the Light of Light: 
“Peace, it is I!” “Peace, it is I!”
Jesus, Deliverer, Come Thou to me;
Soothe Thou my voyaging over life’s sea;
Then, when the storm of death roars, sweeping by,
Whisper, Thou Truth of Truth:
“Peace, it is I!” Peace, it is I!”
Anatolius of Consantanople, 7th Century

To ask prayer

Dear friends;

Please pray for a young man we know. He is the son of a friend of ours.
He was in a car accident last night and is in critical condition in the hospital this morning. His situation is very dangerous, but the doctors say if he can make it through these next three days he will probably live. Several bones were broken including a vertebrae and femur, both lungs collapsed, and he was suffering internal bleeding. It is wonderful news this morning that the bleeding has stopped and his blood pressure is rising, but he is still in much need of prayer.
Let us pray that, if it be the Lord Jesus will, He will spare this young man’s life and also, though this tragedy, draw him to Himself.

The young man’s name is Phillip.

Thank you all and may Jesus bless you this Sunday.

What happened yesterday

Yesterday was a very big day….
We went up north to pick up our last two additions. 
Two, weaned, disbudded, and vaccinated registered Saanen doelings.
We praise the Lord Jesus for them, and thank Him that He led us 
to a wonderful farm. 
It is very special to meet people who care for each animal individually.
That's how Carra and I want to run our little outfit. 

Turn the Page please…..

Of Struggles in Writing

Looking for pictures for my post for Monday morning, I chanced to cross this one;

Which I did end up using for my post.
It was taken six years ago, while I was writing on some 
day trip we made.
It got me to thinking…..
about my writing (naturally!)
and about the years that have passed,
in respect to that.

Turn the Page please…..


"But I keep under my body and bring it into subjection: lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway." 
I Corinthians 9:27

Lest that by any means, when I have preached to others,
I myself should be a castaway.

But I keep under my body and bring it into subjection.

An active excersize of the will.

Turn the Page please…..