Scarlet Robe Creations

Who among us believes he is unblemished? Who among us justifies our transgressions? Who among us wears a mask to hide their imperfections? Who among us tastes hate and not love? Who among us is proud of the scriptures we know? Who among us has followed the broad path when the narrow seemed difficult? If we identify with one affliction, we possess all, covered in stains of sin and scars we see as ugly. We hate, we judge, we seek revenge. We are proud peacocks, Pharisees in the midst, standing at the entrance to the narrow road, where the incline is steep and the terrain is rocky, struggling daily to take one more step in the journey. copyright 2017 - Donald P James Jr  

I trespass, stepping over a line drawn in the sand. Some prophets of this day have spread their ideals like wind through the grains and the boundaries are less clear. Do I seek excuses, stepping barefoot into sand I should never feel? Is the experience worth the loss? I trespass into a world seemingly pleasant and then, I long for the simplicity I once held tightly in my heart. Father in heaven, be kind to me when I return, a wanderer, a prodigal. Hold not my debts against me and help my heart to forgive all that scars its flesh. copyright 2017 - Donald P James Jr

You fill the furrows of the field with water      so that their ridges overflow. You soften them with rain showers;      their sprouts you have blessed. Psalm 65:10 (ISV) You drench the earth that life might spring forth from its soil. You fill the furrows and quench the thirst of a land once dry. You till the ground so it might be receptive to Your nourishment. You bless all that comes forth from the pastures of love. copyright 2017 - Donald P James Jr 

Jean-François Millet - The Sower He set out into the fields, a man with a singular purpose, to sow good seed onto the soil. His garden is well prepared, but it is bordered by weeds and the birds of the air are hungry. His clothing is of no status. His gait is hindered by tired limbs and arthritic feet. His life is to plant, to offer his gift to the course of existence, to nourish those who would spring upright from the dirt. With a gentle motion of his hand the seed takes flight into the breeze, scattering like dust. Is the soil of his field receptive, or have briars and weeds rooted in the depths of the ground? Will some of his offering land on hard stone, where there is no dirt to hold it in place? Will some land where the briars have domain, to be corrupted in infancy, before the roots have gained strength? Will some land where the soil has been tended, where life will come to blossom and fruit will be multiplied to feed the hungry? copyrig

One came in his robes, proud of himself and the status he held. He sang praises in the open courtyard.   One would say he was a faithful servant.   He smiled when his title was shared as such. There were beggars. There were those covered with the sores of disease. He steered clear of the harlot and her tattered children. He is the most pious man ever seen.   His garments speak of his devout faith.   His public deeds show his love of fellow man. Look, he drops silver coins in the lap of the poor man. And the diseased one? They would stain him from his religious duties… and the prostitute is an abomination in the city streets. Where are the others who care for the stricken? Why do they not boast? Why do they not embrace those wearing public disdain? They do not beat their chests in places of worship. They do not lift their arms in praise, so others will witness. Their offerings are humble. They do not seek the praise of men.

Love the one who is hardest to love, words we see in scripture, words we recognize in the Gospel of Matthew and Luke. Love the enemy, love the one who hates you. Turn your cheek, offer your strength for service, give them your coat. Are we far from where we have been called? I say I am human, hatred is part of my condition. I forgive, but will never forget. I wish to draw away, but Jesus said draw closer. Care for those who care the least for you, pray in the midst of persecution. Lord, You found me in my weakness. You found me in my sin. You found me as a pauper You found me as a heathen. Lord, You found me because of Your love and I need You because of my hatred. copyright 2017 - Donald P James Jr https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07CKXXYK9

Donald P James Sr - March 5, 1925 - June 21, 2017 Ninety-two years, Normandy, Bronze Star and a Purple Heart, brother, hero, husband and father. A voice for those who were silent. Ninety-two years, most spent in machine shops defending your country as you did when storming beaches. A supporter of the few rights in the world. Ninety-two years, under the gaze of God, knowing the cross, questioning the temples and following faith where it led. Father, dad, someone I could talk of Notre Dame football with and then the challenges of knowing Christ. A man whose faults were human and gifts were sacred. Father, dad, the icon standing taller than I. Ninety-two years, an example of light shining out through the shadows of life. copyright 2017 - Donald P James Jr