Scarlet Robe Creations

Inspired by Our Daily Bread Ministries 'Wounded in Worship' by Tim Gustafson Isn't this basically what He said? "It doesn't matter." He responds to the woman at the well, Who says, "You Jews say we should worship in Jerusalem, Yet my ancestors said we should worship on this mountain." Does it matter? Jesus opens that gate. His sheep follow And we praise Him wherever we stand. Pretty simple. Lord, remind me that You are not bound to a structure Or the rituals of Denomination. Lord, remind me that You love all, But not all will love You. Lord, remind me that Your Spirit envelops  Each mountain top  and every valley. © 2023 - Donald P James Jr

Come, there is a teacher you must hear. He is patient. He gathers his students in fields and speaks to them of profound truths. Come, those who gather a deep kinship. You may stumble with his teachings, but you need not fail. He offers endless chances for you to get it right. Come, He answers any questions you ask. He heals your doubt, and if you turn away because his truth is hard He will accept you when you return. Come, He offers you a place to rest. He brings nourishment, fish and bread, and if you are one who stands beside him in the end You may share his wine. Come, Many have. Many have sat where you consider sitting. Many have listen. Some have heard. Some have even called him by name. © 2023 - Donald P James Jr

  Into the vineyard, the one who prunes, He who strips away every branch that bears no fruit.   Into the vineyard, He who breaks away the dead growth and diseased saplings who have severed themselves from the vine.   Into the vineyard, the one who takes notice of every fiber in every leaf. He who knows His crop, as no other.   Live then, within the vine. Seek your nourishment and remain in the one sitting with you, whose bread and wine are of the same vineyard. © 2023 - Donald P James Jr

  The trail led less than a half mile from the road.   He crossed the gorge over the scenic bridge and followed the path on the far side until he reached Falls Pond.   He sat on the moss covered bench at the water’s edge and placed his backpack on the seat beside him. Abby loved this place. The solitude of a late spring morning surrounded him.   In the summer, vacationing families will claim the trails.   Children will run to the water’s edge, then quickly move on, bored with the reflections of mountains on the water’s surface. ‘You’re alone?” He heard her voice, though she was not present. “A veteran?” She asked.   A soul scarred by tours into hell. He unfastened the clasps on the front of his backpack and removed a wooden container.   He surveyed the trails to his left and right.   He did not want to be interrupted. He closed his eyes and held back a small tear.   She was wounded as he.   She had scarred her arms in the desire to feel pain.   A cutter, few understood her st