Davalynn Spencer's Blog, page 15

One Blessing After Another

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

About this time every year, an unusual looking fruit appears in the produce section of the supermarket, one that I first sampled at my grandparents’ farm in California:

Pomegranates.

The only attractive thing about a pomegranate is its exquisite garnet color.

Beyond that, the round, tough-skinned fruit isn’t exactly pretty, but its ruby insides are sweet, juicy, and nutty all at the same time. It is truly an unusual fruit.

Of the six tree fruits mentioned in the Hebrew Bible—grapes, figs, olives, pomegranates, dates, and apples—the unattractive pomegranate was chosen by God to adorn the garment of the High Priest who served in the tabernacle (Exodus 28:33-34).

Later, when King Solomon built a more permanent temple, the capitals of two bronze pillars were decorated with pomegranates, as many as 200 pomegranates per pillar (1 Kings 7:15-22).

It seems like grape clusters would have been more elegant. Or apples. Yet, in my wondering about why God chose pomegranates rather than a prettier fruit, I missed the obvious.

The other five fruits mentioned bear seeds in their flesh, from one to several, depending on the fruit.

But beneath the leathery skin of a pomegranate, it is nothing but seeds.

Much has been written about the symbolism associated with pomegranates. But when I look at this unusual fruit decorating my dining table in the fall, I like to think of it as a globe of goodness. The sweet, nutty seeds just keep coming, one after the other, like God’s many blessings.

Perhaps our Thanksgiving tables need a few pomegranates circling the turkey this year, reminding us of God’s great goodness.

From the fullness of his grace
we have all received one blessing after another.
John 1:16

~

One blessing after another.
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For an easy way to pluck the ruby gems from a pomegranate without dying your hands the same color, check out this easy tutorial.

How many seeds in a pomegranate? Early Rabbi’s believed there were 613, relating to the traditional number of commandments. One modern-day study’s count ranged from 165 to 1,370. The average was actually 613, so the Rabbis might have been on to something.

Anticipating a blessing from this family, Mary folded her hands and bowed her head, surprised that it was Helen who offered thanks. She stole a quick peek at Hugh, who sat staring out the window.

Telling.

“Amen.” The chorus set the boys to their plates like horses to a race.

“Slow down,” Helen cautioned with a repetitious tone, as if she gave the warning at every meal. Based on the boys’ enthusiasm, she probably did.

Mary deliberately slowed her movements, and Kip mimicked her from across the table. The other two boys snickered but fell silent at a killing scowl from their father.

Did he not know what he had at his table? Three young blessings and a kind woman who did her best to keep them all fed and in line? Her opinion of the rancher fell dangerously close to that of her brother, but she kept her opinion to herself. ~Hope Is Built

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Let the Silence In

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

Last week we looked at what it means to “be still.” Quite a challenge for busy lives that don’t have much quiet time to reflect, listen, or simply breathe.

Things always press in, demanding our attention, whether they are as fleeting as the news and social media, or as important as a spouse or child.

But being still—quiet and undistracted—is critical to our spiritual survival in this world so full of noise. So we have to make time.

Not an easy assignment, but doable.

Here are three ways to be still, though I know there must be more:

Take a quiet moment in the early morning.

Even Jesus sometimes got up before everyone else and went off by himself to pray. He was always surrounded by people, yet He made the effort to be alone with His Father.

Go for a walk outside.

One of my favorite verses says Jesus went out of the house and sat by the sea. I don’t have a sea near my house, but I have a place I walk where I can be quiet and listen.

Steal away while the kids are napping.

Seventeenth-century mother of 19 (not all survived infancy) Susanna Wesley found it difficult to get a moment to herself, so she made an “apron escape.” When she sat down and pulled her large apron up over her head, her children knew Mother was praying – leave her alone! An unusual tactic, but it worked for Susanna.

These three suggestions go hand-in-hand with three mandatory requirements for our modern world:

Turn off the television/radio.Silence the phone.Shut down the Internet.

When the Old Testament prophet, Elijah, sought God, he found the Creator not in wind, quake, or fire.

God was in the whisper. I once asked a pastor why God would whisper and he said, “Because He’s that close.”

As we prepare for the busiest time of year in the next couple of months, may we

Let the silence in.Wait for God.Listen for His whisper.

Maybe He won’t say anything earth-trembling.

Maybe He won’t say anything more than, “I am here.”

But isn’t that what we need the most? To know that He is God-Near-Us.

If you have found a way to be still in your day-to-day life, please share it with others in the comments below.

Let the silence in.
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On Monday morning, every scrap of peace Mary had cobbled together scattered like crumbs. Up well before dawn, dressed and ready, she trimmed the bedside lamp and sat with Aunt Bertie’s Bible clutched hard against her chest.

“I know You hear my prayer, Lord. Please, help me today.”

Turning to Psalm 37, she lifted the locket’s thin chain, fastened it around her neck, and read the now-familiar words: Do not fret.

The wicked would be stopped, the psalm said.

“Trust in the Lord and do good,” she whispered as she fingered the locket, willing the words to sink down into her very core. “Dwell in the land, and feed on His faithfulness.”

God had certainly been faithful, delivering her from violent death and ensconcing her in the generosity of the Hutton family. Continuing in silence, she read to verse 34, where she closed the Bible. The verse was imprinted on her soul, and she prayed it would apply to the ordeal she faced today at the auction.

Wait on the Lord, and keep His way, and He shall exalt you to inherit the land. ~ Hope Is Built

~

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Be Still …

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

On a recent trip to Pennsylvania to visit my daughter, I toured the University of Pittsburgh where she works – right in the middle of the city. The campus is scattered among blocks of governmental buildings, high-rise apartments, and historical churches, and the sense of movement is constant.

Yet in the center of it all, a park bench beckoned, like the words of the Psalmist in 46:10 –

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

The bench offered a respite, inviting people to sit and take a breath. It didn’t insist. No flashing lights advertised its presence. It was just there, available, offering to take a load off anyone’s feet who would pause.

The heart of Pittsburgh, like other cities, is not the only place in constant motion. Wherever there are people, there is movement, bustling, busyness, and pockets of commotion. Sometimes right in the middle of our own homes.

In our current societal season, there is a lot of clamoring. A lot of noise. A lot of posturing and pointing, criticism and chaos.

None of it is new. It’s all happened before, many times, in fact. And God’s antidote is always the same:

            Be still …

Ironically, that takes some doing. Some letting go. Some surrendering to the fact that we really aren’t in control of anything but our own responses.

When the mountains of man’s imagination slide into the sea, God is there.

When the faulty foundations of our scheming quake and crumble, God is there.

And when we quiet ourselves before our Maker and cease our incessant shrieking, God is there.

He is bigger than all the noise around us.

So let’s be different this year. Let’s pray more and stress less. Let’s take heart and know that the Lord of Heaven’s Armies is God, and He is there.

It could be that when we obey the directive and determine to be still, we will not only hear His voice more clearly, but become a reflection of His peace to others.

Be still.
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“I looked for Shorty, and he wasn’t in a stall. Only Sassy was there.” Mary dropped her head and whispered, “I should have turned her out.”

“But you didn’t know,” Helen offered. “Don’t torture yourself over something you couldn’t have prevented and can’t undo.”

Mary picked up the glass of water from the nightstand. “The light grew and as it grew, it flickered. I knew immediately what was happening and could think only of dousing the flames. I grabbed two pails and ran to the pump. The fire was in the corner stall at the back of the barn. I poured several buckets of water over it, but it wouldn’t go out. It spread, as if following a path, and quickly climbed the wall.”

Her breath caught and she closed her eyes against the vision.

Helen touched her arm. “You don’t have to tell me anymore, honey. Just rest for a while. You can tell us later.”

Mary returned the glass to the stand and shook her head. “I kept filling the buckets. They got heavier and heavier, and the flames crawled higher and spread across the hay loft. I couldn’t stop it—I couldn’t stop it.”

She fell against the pillows at her back, breathless. “Then Hugh was there, whirling me away from the flames. He wouldn’t let go but backed us away from the barn, and we stood there watching it burn.”

Helen stood and leaned over her, smoothing her hair. “Sleep, child. Give yourself a chance to rest. Everything will be all right. It always is.” ~Hope Is Built

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My Name Is Written

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

A child’s perspective can open our eyes to things we’ve forgotten about as adults.

Like the vintage carnival-prize horse that belonged to my husband’s mother. My granddaughter discovered her great-grandmother’s prize a few years ago and let me know that she placed high value upon it. She turned it over and around and even hugged it to her little chest in adoration.

One day when she was visiting, she went predictably to the bronze figure and picked it up, surprised by the piece of paper taped to its belly.

“That’s your name on there,” I said when she looked to me for explanation. “Someday, that horse will be yours.”

Again, she hugged it endearingly.

Each visit since, she checks to see if the tape is still there. “My name is on it,” she says. “And tape.”

She’s reminding me of her future ownership as well as reassuring herself that I won’t forget.

Though she doesn’t know it, this little girl is also reminding me of God’s unfailing love for us as His children.

The Old Testament prophet, Isaiah, encouraged people by saying, “Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I [God] will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;” (Isaiah 49:15,16). 

In the New Testament, Jesus told His disciples upon their return from seeing evil succumb to God’s power, “Don’t rejoice that the spirits submit to you, rejoice that your names are written in heaven” (Luke 10:20). 

It’s important where our names are written.

My granddaughter is in love with horses – a common malady among young girls that often hangs around through adulthood. I suffered from it myself and was never quite cured.

Perhaps this has something to do with why Jesus said, “Let the children come to me … for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these” (Matthew 19:14). 

What they love as children will hopefully take root and grow into a part of their lives that never fades or dies.

“Rejoice because your names are written in heaven.”

My name is written

The drawers in the desk itself held loose paper and ledgers, envelopes and a rolled parchment tied with ribbon. Hugh looked over his shoulder as if the Dodsons themselves would find him snooping. But they were gone and he wasn’t. He pulled the ribbon and read the document. His stomach dropped.

In fancy bold script, Last Will & Testament scrolled across the top. It named the Dodsons’ niece, Mary Agan McCrae, as the heir to all the worldly possessions of Ernest Edward Dodson and Bertha Agan Dodson, including the homestead and its increased acreage—a second section. The Dodsons had added to their holdings with no one the wiser.

At the bottom, a third signature followed the Dodsons’: T. F. Beckman, Attorney at Law.

“This changes everything.” The words cut harsh through the room. Who and where was Mary Agan McCrae? No one he’d ever heard of in Fremont County had a name like that. Where were these people from?

Like a black snake, an idea slithered through his mind. He could destroy the will and no one would know. ~Hope Is Built

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Who Can Heal a Broken Heart?

Please welcome friend and fellow author, Susan Mathis, as she shares today about brokenness and healing.

Who Can Heal a Broken Heart?

By Susan G. Mathis

So many of us just cannot find a way to forgive, whether it’s ourselves or others. We hunker down in our pain and refuse to see there is One who can take those hurts and heal them. But when someone has the courage to tenderly touch that pain and give us hope, we find a way.

In my latest story, Rachel’s Reunion, Rachel felt her former beau, Mitch, had abandoned and rejected her. She’d become angry and hurt, and that turned to bitterness and resentment. She even sought refuge in a place she knew Mitch would never return to. But he did. She had no intention of forgiving him, but slowly, patiently, Mitch gave her hope, and God did His work. Here’s a glimpse into their story:

Mitch paused to gather strength. He must risk all for the sake of her soul. “I know Who can heal your heart, my dearest Rachel. Psalm 147 says, ‘He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds. He telleth the number of the stars; he calleth them all by their names’.” He let his words sink in, praying still for guidance. “If He can put the infinite stars into orbit and name them, He can heal your precious heart and help you forgive my blunders. Truly, my sweet lass, I never meant to hurt you. I only meant to … Please entrust your heart to the Lord. And one day, perhaps, your friendship to me?”

She brushed her ear as if a mosquito teased it, a narrow-eyed scowl pricking her features. “I’ve tried. It doesn’t work. I fear it may never.”

Mitch reached out to touch her but backed away. “I cannot comprehend His ways. I’m like a gull trying to discern the workings of a ship.” A sigh escaped his lips. “But we must pave our journeys with hope, else life will be most miserable. I know He can heal your broken heart. If you allow Him.”

Rachel stared at the horizon where thunderheads rose, warning of a coming storm. Her brow furrowed, but she didn’t move. He would wait till the river froze over if he had to. To get through to her. To make her understand.

Is there someone in your life who needs hope to forgive? Hope to be free? Hope for the Lord to heal a broken heart? I pray you’ll have the words to share and can help them on their way.

Find a way to forgive.
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About Rachel’s Reunion

Summer 1904

Rachel Kelly serves the most elite patrons at the famed New Frontenac Hotel on Round Island. She has wondered about her old beau, Mitch, for nearly two years, ever since he toyed with her affections while on Calumet Island, then left for the high seas and took her heart with him. Now he’s back, opening the wound she thought was healed.

Mitch O’Keefe returns to claim his bride but finds it more difficult than he thought. Returning to work at the very place he hated, he becomes captain of a New Frontenac Hotel touring yacht, just to be near Rachel. But his attempts to win her back are thwarted, especially when a wealthy patron seeks her attention. Who will Rachel choose?

 

Susan G Mathis is an international award-winning, multi-published author of stories set in the beautiful Thousand Islands, her childhood stomping ground in upstate NY. Susan has been published more than twenty-five times in full-length novels, novellas, and non-fiction books. She has nine in her fiction line including, The Fabric of Hope: An Irish Family Legacy, Christmas Charity, Katelyn’s Choice, Devyn’s Dilemma, Sara’s Surprise, Reagan’s Reward, Colleen’s Confession, and Peyton’s Promise. Rachel’s Reunion releases October 20, 2022. She just finished writing book ten, Mary’s Moment. Her book awards include two Illumination Book Awards, three American Fiction Awards, two Indie Excellence Book Awards, and two Literary Titan Book Awards. Reagan’s Reward is a Selah Awards finalist.

Susan is also a published author of two premarital books, two children’s picture books, stories in a dozen compilations, and hundreds of published articles. Susan makes her home in Colorado Springs and enjoys traveling around the world but returns each summer to enjoy the Thousand Islands. Visit www.SusanGMathis.com/fiction for more.

Buy links: Amazon | Barnes&Nobles | Walmart

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Just Right or Not Quite

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

Why do we think we should have things that are perfect? Things that always operate correctly and never breakdown or wear out?

Is it a latent memory in our DNA left over from the Garden of Eden where everything really was perfect (except for a single slippery intruder)?

It seems to be human nature to want everything to work out right, work right, or just plain work. Cars. Computers. Kids.

Why is so much maintenance required? Why is so much money required? Why is something somewhere, at some time always going wrong?

If I had the one-size-fits-all-every-time answer for these questions, I’d be famous and independently wealthy. But it’s not like we didn’t know what was coming. Jesus told us we’d have trouble in this world.

The “Why me?” whine doesn’t really pour well when we’re also told the rain falls on the good guys and on the bad guys too, and rain is typically a blessing when mentioned in the Bible.

So if I don’t have any real control over things in my world falling apart, I can at least wield control over myself by not falling apart with them.

I can choose to respond, or I can choose to react. If I choose to respond, then I can also choose my response.

Will I whine or trust?

Will I grump or be grateful?

Will I curse the rain or dance in it?

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

Rejoice in the Lord always.
I will say it again: rejoice!
Let your gentleness be known to all,
The Lord is at hand.
Philippians 4:4-5

~

Decisions, decisions, decisions
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Mary’s feet were tender all right, but she wasn’t about to let Hugh know it. Nor was she about to complain, not after what she’d witnessed today.

While he stopped at the washstand, she went inside, a sense of home engulfing her with the aroma of fresh coffee and a rich stew. The boys sat at the table like ants on a sugar cube, and Helen dished up a small bowl for each one.

“You can sit by me,” Kip offered, suffering kicks from his brothers across the table. He sat board straight, glaring at them. Helen shook her head as if she didn’t have the strength to cuff them.

Mary helped set the bowls around. “Thank you, Kip. I’m so pleased to see all of you waiting like perfect gentlemen.”

Ty and Jay hung their heads, not looking up until their father came in.

Hugh’s hair was wet and slicked back, his sleeves were rolled up, and water spots dotted the front of his blue shirt. The sight of him shamed her for speaking so boldly earlier, for acting so bold, and she hoped the flush she felt in her cheeks would be blamed on the cook stove. It was almost too warm an evening to serve hot food, but Helen had cooked for this family long enough to know what they needed and liked. ~Hope Is Built

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Hope Is the Thing with Feathers

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

October 13 is release day for Book 5 of The Cañon City Chronicles, Hope Is Built. As I wrote this story, continuing into the third generation of the Hutton family, I realized there was so much more going on than a romance.

The second Hutton twin, Hugh, and a fiery gal from Pennsylvania, Mary McCrae, are at odds right from the beginning. Both have suffered great loss and they each want the same land, but for different reasons. One doubts God more than the other, but both feel overlooked.

Hugh lashes out to those around him, spewing the pain that poisons him.

“I begged God not to let my wife die in childbirth, but He wasn’t listening.”

Mary fights against social correctness and the expectations of others:

“I have no family, no home, no money. I’ve lost everything. Where are you, God?”

As an author of inspirational romance, I knew these two people would end up together because that’s the literary definition of a romance—happily ever after. But it’s the struggle and obstacles along the way that make the story something with which readers can relate.

When two people fight to be together, they usually stick. They may be fighting each other’s preconceived notions, outside obstacles such as weather and natural disasters, or objections and interferences from other people.

When they finally do get together at the altar, a phrase from 1 Corinthians 13:13 is often quoted during the ceremony: “faith, hope, and love.” The concepts of faith and love are not difficult to understand, and the apostle Paul refers to them in his letter to the Galatians when he says, “The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love” (5:6).

We express our faith in word, and deed, and ornamentation. We declare our love in acts of service, kindness, and passion.

But how do we understand hope, the hope that God gives us, the hope that God is?

God’s hope is not the wishful thinking of “I hope I can find a parking place,” or “I hope I don’t run into you-know-who at the market.”

Paul makes it clear that hope is a concrete trait of God Himself:

Now may the God of hope
fill you with all joy and peace in believing
as you trust in Him,
so that you may overflow with hope
by the power of the Holy Spirit.
Romans 15:13

Hope often seems ethereal, an idea that lacks physical representation as universal as a cross symbolizing faith or a heart shape implying love. Yet hope is foundational—an all-important ingredient that encourages us and keeps us going.

The 19th century poet, Emily Dickenson (1830-1886), described it beautifully when she penned,

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all …*

Thank God for His brand of hope—strong like faith, tender like love, a priceless attribute of Himself.

Hope is the thing with feathers.
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Mary chided herself for allowing familiar to worm its way in. But it was hard not to feel familiar with a man who was inching his way into her life—especially in her own house with his boys out front, a dog on the porch, and hope for a future.

Her breath cut short. Was that what had oppressed her so on the dairy, a lack of hope?

Her pastor often spoke about the God of hope who filled His people with joy and peace, yet she’d not connected those things to her daily life. They had been mere concepts. But here, in Colorado’s high country, she was beginning to taste it all. ~Hope Is Built

 

 

*Public domain. Hope 

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All Because of a Song

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

Do you ever wonder how book titles are chosen?

I do. All the time. Because as a novelist, I’m always looking for a good one.

So why would I title my upcoming Western romance Hope Is Built?

Isn’t hope given? Or found?

The phrase “hope is built” caught my eye when I was in the throes of writing. Yes, throes—as in throes of childbirth, throes of war, throes of death.

Rather depressing comparisons, aren’t they? Yet there are days when an author believes she may die from the labor of birthing conflicting personalities and challenges into a readable, relatable story.

Let me just say, I’m glad I didn’t abort the baby.

As my characters came to life in my imagination and on the page, I saw them struggling and crying, fighting against circumstances and sorrow, and clutching to threads of hope.

Like real people.

The effort resulted in a personal Bible study on the occurrences of the word “hope” in scripture. There are many, and I encourage you to begin your own quest among those ageless pages.

But it was a song that struck the chord in my heart, with lyrics from 1834 written by Edward Mote. He spent his childhood on the streets of London and had no idea there was a God. When Edward learned of Him at the age of 18, it changed his life.

After a long and successful career as a cabinet maker, Mote became a preacher, and continued as such for more than twenty years.

Hope can do that—give someone strength to keep going, perfect their craft, do their best, and share good news rather than bad.

So from the very first line of Mote’s verses came my title, Hope Is Built. You’ll have to read the story to find out how that happened in the lives of Hugh Hutton and Mary Agan McCrae in 1912 in Cañon City.

My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.*

~

Blessed is the man who trusts in the LORD,
and whose hope is the LORD.
Jeremiah 17:7

All because of a song.
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Coming Soon!

A whimper came from beneath the porch, and Mary raised her head. “Finley?” She looked at Hugh, eyes round with fear and regret. “I forgot all about her. Is she all right?”

Hugh whistled for the pup. She slunk from beneath the front steps and crawled up on the porch, tail tucked.

“Oh, you poor dear.” Mary tilted in her reach for the dog, and Hugh circled her waist. She was soft and warm, not trussed up like she’d been when he’d earlier lifted her out of the pit. In spite of the night’s disaster, his mind raced at future possibilities of holding her in his arms in a different setting.

He shook off the image and focused on the barn and keeping Mary upright while she coddled the dog. He watched until the last timber fell, and by dawn, the barn was a pile of smoldering rubble. The pup slept at his feet and Mary in his arms, her breathing even with an occasional quick intake, as if she saw the fire in her dreams.

He prayed that wasn’t the case. She’d lost nearly everything that mattered to her, but losing hope would be the worst. He knew how that felt, and it made a body not want to live.

Mary had to live. She had to laugh and smile and argue with him again. ~Hope Is Built

*“The Solid Rock” Edward Mote, 1834. Public domain.

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It’s All About Perspective

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

Park rangers may have set the flat stones in a stairstep pattern that curved up the small rise, but whoever it was, I appreciated their efforts.

The path led to a lonely juniper standing boldly against a piercingly blue sky. A picturesque pose just asking to be photographed.

I climbed the stone steps, but when I reached the top, the picture changed dramatically, for the juniper was gnarled and knotted, anything but elegant.

It grew out of the rock formation, leaning sideways, parallel to the ground, and its branches shot skyward from its twisted trunk. Not at all the lovely tree I had perceived from below.

From my higher perspective, the juniper’s curving trunk framed a cluster of golden cottonwoods across the draw, flaming along a mountain creek. Yet as beautiful as they were, the cottonwoods did not inspire me like the old, weathered conifer.

The cottonwoods grew easily by the water, unencumbered and unopposed. The juniper had fought a lengthy battle to survive its location. It showed me that the rock and the hard place could also be fertile ground.

I knew what it felt like to be stuck between a rock and a hard place. The tongue-in-cheek cliché is typically a go-to phrase when times are tough.

When I feel wedged in a difficult situation, pressed upon by immovable obstacles and opposition, I begin to doubt that I can do what I thought I was called to do. Other people are so much better at what I aspire to. Why should I push against the hard place? Why should I try?

But God is not hampered in His purposes by mere surroundings. And sometimes He has to move me to change my perspective. It’s then I see the possibilities in situations I never would have seen otherwise.

Lord, please help me to not underestimate Your ability to use me wherever I am, wherever You have placed me, whether it is lovely or lonely. Thank You for Your provision in whatever my surroundings may be. *Amen.

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.
Philippians 4:13

It's all about perspective.
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*From Day Sixty-Five in Always Before Me – 90 Story-Devotions for Women

Always Before Me – 90 Story Devotions for Women

 

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Morning By Morning

Davalynn Spencer  @davalynnspencer

“The faithful love of the Lord never ends!
His mercies never cease.
Great is his faithfulness,
his mercies begin afresh each morning.”
Lamentations 3:22-23 NLT

These words from the biblical book of Lamentations were written by one who had seen the devastation of his country by enemy invaders. Everything he held dear had been destroyed. People he had known and loved had been killed, relocated, or left behind in weakness.

Jewish tradition suggests the author is Jeremiah. Regardless, the book is so named because it is full of grieving and weeping. Yet what praise!

To praise our God and King in the ashes, the rubble, and the valley is to offer what we will not be able to offer in Heaven. For there, no devastation exists. No tears will fall anew. No regrets will wrench our hearts.

It seems these words of praise beckon us the do the same now in our present days and to remember our great God who has not for one moment forgotten us.

For a beautiful rendition of Lamentations 3:22-23 and an uplifting song of praise, listen to “Morning by Morning,” recorded here by Pat Barrett.

~

These words of praise beckon us the do the same.
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Reflexively, Cale reassured himself by touching the rifle sheathed beneath his right leg. His revolver rested against his thigh. Not that he expected trouble, but neither would he be unprepared.

Doc took to the loose shale like a big horn sheep, Barlow just as sure-footed behind him. The night slid by degree toward the western mountain peaks, stars winking out to gray in its wake.

At the top, he reined in and Ella came up beside him. Doc blew triumphantly and bobbed his head. Barlow pricked her ears to the east as if listening for the sun’s footsteps.

Ella remained silent, her face trained toward the horizon where a russet thread pulled along its edge.

A wren sang out. Its cousins joined, and soon a chorus filled the cedars and pines around them.

A slow, fiery orange split the seam between earth and sky, and Ella’s breathy oh cinched him again. A hot stain burned into his chest, and grateful that she couldn’t see him clearly, he slid his right hand beneath his vest and rubbed the spot.

The fire bled to gold that bled to pink, and light broke through a low band of clouds, throwing spires into the sky.

“‘If I take the wings of the morning . . .’”

Had he not been holding his breath, he would have missed her voice for the bird song.

She saw it. Really saw it.

How could he go forward from this place without her beside him? Without the one so unlike him who fit him so well. A Change of Scenery, Book 4 of The Canon City Chronicles

Inspirational Western Romance – where the hero is heroic.FREE book and Newsletter!

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#lovingthecowboy

(c) 2022 Davalynn Spencer, all rights reserved.

#WesternRomance #ChristianFiction #FreeBook #HistoricalRomance #CowboyRomance

The post Morning By Morning appeared first on Davalynn Spencer.