Christ Animated

Random thoughts: My sinus cavities in my face are full. How can that much stuff be inside my face? When you want hot pizza (or anything else very specific), nothing else is as good. Venison chili made by my wife is amazing. And her homemade cornbread? Yass! I collect too much stuff. Is it an addiction or problem when I read several books "at the same time"? I'm currently enjoying a spy novel, a historical account of privateering, The Chronicles of Narnia (yet again) and a book about C.S. Lewis and JRR Tolkien and the influence of World War I on their lives and writings. And that's just the ones I can think of at the moment. I need to stop starting so many new writing projects and just finish several of the ones I've already begun. I need to get paid for this kind of wisdom. I mean, people give their opinions on all kinds of stuff on YouTube and become millionaires. Millionaires! Should I go back to school and get my doctorate? Why or why not? I'

The creature sleeps. Dormant for days,  I can hear its rumbling snores, Smell its putrid breath Wafting outward from the rear of its cave. But today it creeps. I didn't hear the change in breathing, Didn't notice the scrape of its claws Or the dragging of its belly across cold shale Until it was upon me and I was too far gone to save. But it leeches itself to me. Teeth into my throat, Forked tongue licking my eyeball to taste my tears, If they dare come, Tail wrapped so my legs barely move to shuffle. Its weight is heavy but no one else feels it. Its shape is grotesque but no one shies away. My eyes are vacant yet people still engage me. Blood trickles from my mouth but no one comes to my aid. Do they bear invisible monsters, too? (C) abc, 10.05.17

Just like yours, each of my scars tells a story.  The one I notice most often is on the index finger of my left hand, a line running diagonally across the knuckle, with a lighter oddly-shaped scar behind it. The line came from the first pocket knife I bought with my own money. I bought it at Boy Scout camp along with a beginner woodcarving kit.  As I worked on the kit, my blade hit a knot in the wood and I didn’t even feel it cut my finger to the bone. But it healed quickly, and I never did finish that little wooden owl.  Several years later I face-planted in gravel and asphalt when I wrecked my bicycle going downhill. One of the many scars I bear from that wreck is the odd one on my finger near that slash mark.  Those scars are faded now, and I don’t notice them all the time. But when I do see them they remind me of what happened and that although I experienced a bit of pain and recovery, I survived.  I have other scars from a couple of life-threatening incidents, but those are t

I enjoy horror movies. Okay, I should clarify that. I enjoy  certain  horror movies — not all of them. I don’t like movies that focus on gore, grossing out the audience, torture, etc. I love the old horror movies like “White Zombie” with Bela Lugosi, or “Horror Express” with Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing, and the 1962 film “Carnival of Souls.” “Carnival of Souls” focuses on a young woman who is the sole survivor of a car accident that claims the lives of her friends. She is haunted by the experience, and nothing seems quite real to her after. I know after 55 years I shouldn’t be concerned about spoilers, but if you’re into old black-and-white movies that focus on suspense and mystery over jump scares and such, and you somehow haven’t seen this one — I don’t want to spoil it for you. One thing I like about “Horror Express” is its focus on the triumph of good over evil, God over Satan. Most of the story takes place on the titular train and has kept me interested every time I

Padre Dios, Hablame Sus palabras, Ensename tus leyes, Haga que mira, vivo, y ama como Si. Make me look, live, and love like You. Teach me Your laws, Speak to me Your words, Father God.

How much of my life have I lived Not caring that You care about me How much of Your love have I spilled Not living like You died for me How much of the guilt do I carry Wrapped up in the folds of my rage Thinking You think me unworthy I march back to my guilded cage Open the door Enslave me in freedom Step out of my corpse You call me to life You wipe all my tears I beg You to wash me You calm all my fears And say, No, only your feet How much have I cost You, my Master How much have I tried You, my Lord After You became my Saviour Was I really worth You dying for? How many more times can I hurt You Surely there will come an end I bow down and beg Your forgiveness You hold me and call me Your friend Break open my chains Enslave me in freedom Step out of my corpse You've given me life You hear me cry loudly I beg You to wash me You listen in silence And say, No, only your feet Wash my head and my hands again, Lord (Only your feet need washing) My God

When Dad texted me not long ago to let me know Mrs.Marie Gilbert, of Chunky, had died, I expressed my thanks and promised to pray for her family, and for Dad as he preached her funeral. Then I sat there in my car in Walmart's parking lot as I cried. Mrs. Marie meant a lot to me over the years, and she always sent encouragement to me via notes or my parents if it'd been awhile since I'd seen her. Sweet lady. A couple of days ago, I attended the funeral of a man I did not know. But his sister had been my friend for nearly 30 years. My heart was broken because she, her husband, and their children were mourning. Two days back would have been the 24th birthday of a young man who had been a friend to my son. His mom released 24 blue balloons, and shared a tailgate picnic with a friend. They ate Connor's favorite pork sandwiches and shared birthday cake. His mom has wept for him every day since he died in an accident four years ago. Yesterday, I sat at my desk typing o

Recently, a portion of King Solomon’s palace was found in Jerusalem. Critical scholars had long believed this biblical king to be a myth, until a portion of the guards’ quarters were unearthed and identified.  One archaeological journal called the find “remarkably intact”. I guess the critical scholars once again myth-ed out. Literally hundreds of archaeological finds over the years have verified over and over that the accounts found in the pages of the Bible are real. Not even a single find has ever disproved any word of Scripture. Not one.  Many scholars were convinced the accounts of Jesus’ crucifixion involving Pontius Pilate (Pilatus in Greek) were fantasy because there were no extra-biblical extant records of a ruler by that name. Then an entryway stone was unearthed in Jerusalem for the home of a wealthy Roman named — you guessed it — Pilatus.  Some people say that religions of any sort are based on faith apart from reason. Not so, my friends. True belief is based on re

I've been online searching for FONTS for free personal and/or commercial use. Just thought I'd share some of the interesting finds I have founded or finded or found. Ed. Behance.net DaFont.com FontSquirrel.com

Trump is not the solution. Trump is not the problem. Obama is not the solution. Obama is not the problem. Neither liberals nor conservatives, straight nor gay, Feminist, chauvinist ; nothing goes away. Opinions are a'plenty, 'tween the two of us there's three. You are not the problem . The solution is not me. But Jesus is the answer. The only one that counts. Sin is humanity's problem - the one that holds us down. Humility and submission to a God who loves us most, It's the only way to win this day, Father Son Holy Ghost. I don't expect a simple poem to change your heart or mind. But maybe it will make you think , all by His design.

Just a very quick note here. I have changed jobs. I no longer work for the home improvement company of Lowe's. I have accepted the position of News Editor at The Daily Leader, Brookhaven, MS's daily newspaper. As soon as possible, I'll get some more posts up. Thanks!