Scarlet Robe Creations

He stood at the tombstone, reading the epitaph, the dates of birth and death chiseled into the stone.  The deceased held a secure place in his heart.  He could still feel her embrace and if he dwelled on her breath stealing grip, emotion threatened to engulf him.  He wouldn’t cry.  He’d done enough of that.  His paper thin heart ached, but tears accomplished nothing.  He didn’t believe the pain of loss was going to fade anytime soon. Blessed are they who mourn. He was mourning now.  He didn’t feel blessed. “I remember how soft her hands were when she would touch my face,” the young girl to his right said. “Even when she was sick and her final days were near.  Her hands were still soft.”  He didn’t respond to her or even acknowledge she had spoken.  Instead, he thought of those last days in silence.  The knife in his heart twisted. Blessed are they who mourn. How could this sadness be a blessing?  The old lady whose flesh and bone was in the earth had cradled her Bible t

Oh Isreal, love your Lord. Bind His words to the flesh of your hand. Cast your eyes on them. Seal them in your heart. Proclaim this commandment to your children. When you sit, when you walk, when you lie down, when you rise, take these words to your heart. Love your Lord. And Isreal, do not hate your neighbor in your heart. Treat him, as you would wish him to treat you. Hold no grudge. Seek no vengeance. Love your neighbor as you love yourself. Oh Isreal, do not test the one sent. Do not gather against him as scholars thinking the answers are for you, when in truth they are His. For what you have read points to this day, if you but listen to the prophets and understand the law. copyright 2023 - Donald P James Jr

(Matthew 4.12-22; Mark 1.14-20; Luke 4.14,15; 5.1-11)   I labor with my hands. Hard calloused hands.   I know work and little rest. My night is finished, but you ask me to cast out one more time.   See these hands, teacher, these tired hands. They have mended nets torn by a day’s drudgery.   See these muscles, they are weary and seared. I have nothing to show for my efforts but sweat and ingrained filth.   And you ask me to cast out on the sea again.   My brother hears you speak and he brings you to me, hoping I will listen. Your words excite James and John, but they see life differently than I.   I need to feed my family. My brother and Zebedee’s sons chase prophets and harbor dreams that our world might be different,                 some day.   Your eyes look into my soul. What do you see in me? A body fatigued from its labor. A soul trapped in trial. I do as I say and not as I wish   You preach without words, simply a knowing gaze                 in your eyes, and despite my stubbo

  I knew your father. He was a good man, Joseph the carpenter.   I was there, in his home, the night he died. I listened to your mother weep    softly.   I’ve heard them tell of the things you’ve done, the words you’ve spoken in prophecy.   I placed the Tora in your hands when you stepped forth. You read the words of the holy scriptures, the prophet Isaiah, a man longing for the messiah.   You staked a claim, The words of the prophet are fulfilled, but you are a carpenter’s son, not the leader we are promised.   They call you blasphemer because of the proclamation you’ve made. They raise fists and stones in the air and unscathed you walk through their midst.   And I fear that if the stories of you are true you have not come for the pious children of Israel but for those we, the righteous,    consider retched. copyright 2016 - Donald P James Jr https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MY4T1NH

Where is God's view in all this? Do we listen if he were to speak? I think not. I think we are deaf. We are concerned with our own daily need to stand for views that divide and thus, when a child, when a mother, when the innocent are slaughtered, we take sides. Some will stand with the people of Moses. Some will stand with the people who brought Messiah to the world. Others will stand with terrorism, a pledge to kill in the name of God. They will praise the destruction of a people. They become the bloodied Satan and will receive no reward. I console myself by saying the temple is not rebuilt. But in this awful time the streets of the Holy Land are desecrated. Voices cry out in Ramah, women wail and mourn, Rachel is weeping for her children. She refuses to be comforted, because they are no more. copyright 2023 - Donald P James Jr

The instructions came from one who was simply a guest. He told us to fill the six stone water jars with water. Only water and nothing more.   Who is this man? I asked one of the others. I heard the name Jesus, son of Mary, a cousin of the groom. We are going to drink water at a feast, another whispered.   In my foolishness I laughed softly so none would hear.   A moment after the jars were filled and brought to Mary’s son, He told us to draw some and bring it to the man in charge.   The master tasted wine, the best wine, from this plain water. This son of Mary did nothing but instruct and the fluid obeyed.   Forgive my doubts my foolishness and my laughter when I am instructed to perform tasks I see as impossible. For you are always present, turning my plain water into the most palatable wine. copyright 2016 - Donald P James Jr https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MY4T1NH