Scarlet Robe Creations

He desired to answer the call.   The young man came to sit with one who would guide.   The place of meeting was simple.  The older man sat in a straight backed wooden chair, in a room barren of any other furniture, besides the occupied chair and the bench where the young man sat.  The elder had a white beard and deep brown eyes, which led the younger man to believe that the hair on his face and head had once been a shade as dark as his eyes. "And you believe you have heard a voice," the older man said. "It has called you to be here.  Know that the journey you chose will not be easy.  You will be judged by both your words and your actions." The younger man nodded.  The message, or calling, hadn't come in the form of a voice.  The Lord hadn't come to him, like He had with Samuel.  The dreams and thoughts leading him here were difficult to explain.  He shifted on his seat.  The old man took notice.  The bench beneath him...

"What do I have to be thankful for?" The fourth week of November was creeping up.  On the coming Thursday, families would be gathering around dining room tables.  Some would have a turkey, some a ham.  Some might state what they are thankful for verbally.  Others would be thankful in private.  Some will pray.  Some will think only of eating and watching a football game, or two. So, two men sit in a diner.  Both are in their thirties.  They sip coffee and dip their toast in the yoke of their fried eggs. One repeats himself, "What do I have to be thankful for?  My wife left me.  I haven't seen my two year old son in over a month.  I'm concerned about losing the house... and my job.  My blood pressure is soaring." The other nods his head, and listens. "I know, I know, I should be thankful I'm alive.  I should be thankful I can put food on the table.  I should be thankful for my health... well except for my blood pressure...

You sit with your hands between your knees.  In another time you would have been stoned.  Instead, in this time, they simply stare.  Judgement screams out in their silence.  You don't belong here.  You don't belong among their kind.  They are the ones who have listened and heard.  They are the ones who will be harvested as the wheat. You are a weed. There is singing from the loft behind you.  As a child you would have shifted in your pew, turned and watched the singers.  Your mother would have sternly told you to turn around.  Now, you face the front of the church, if only to avoid the faces of those who knew you when you were trying to run away from God. How foolish.  How do you run away from someone who knows everything about you.  He has watched you enter the vile realms of this world and He has watched you stumble out.  He knows you have failed at love and succeeded at lust.  He knows you have sold priceless parts...

  Inspired by Brennan Manning's Ragamuffin Gospel (Paste Jewelry and Sawdust Hotdogs) She walked beside her pastor through the gardens outside her church.  A late spring Sunday, and the roses were in bloom.  There were red and pink blossoms to their right.  Tiny yellow roses, and a few whites to their left.  Had she been alone she would have taken a sniff.  After all, Mac Davis did say we should 'Stop and Smell the Roses'. "I am troubled," she said.  She wasn't sure if she wanted to speak to the pastor, or the deacon.  But her pastor was here and the moment seemed right. "I desire to move closer to God in my prayer life, but I find it difficult.  Sometimes... just reciting a formulated prayer leaves me feeling empty.  I need to know how to pray... I guess." "Formulated prayer leaves you empty?" His question bit into the cool air of the morning. "Sometimes." "Prayer is not about OUR feelings," he said, before adding, ...