Monday, September 26, 2016

Re Pete

The man sits alone, on shore, near the fire he just built. 
Orange and gold waves waltz with the morning sun. 
The men in the boat are too tired and hungry to argue with the man’s request, so they toss the net. It slaps the water and starts to sink, just as it had done—to no avail—all night long. 
One man yawns, another closes his eyes and rests his head on the side of the boat. The others sit and stare. All listen to waves slap a lullaby against the bow.
No one expects—
The boat pitches and lists as if hit by Jonah's whale. 
Seasoned fishermen scramble for the net. 
“My God the net’s going to break!”
My God?’s Him
“It’s Him—my God!"
He jumps.
Usually, folks take off clothes before jumping in the water, but not this man, he puts them back on, and plunges into the sea. 
The man on shore stands, crosses his arms, and laughs right out loud. You needn’t put your cloak on, to come to me. But, it shows evidence of another cloak you needed to wear—humility. It suits you well, my friend. Well done.
“Pull!” The weight of the men, the weight of the fish, the boat nearly flips, the net nearly rips…but the boat holds steady and the net holds fast.
Splash after splash, the swimmer kicks his way toward shore.
It’s Him. I know it’s Him.
I’ve got to reach Him.
I’ve got to repent.
Tell Him I’m sorry.
A wave hits his face—he gulps water instead of air.
Cough. Splash.         
It’s not him
It is.
            It’s not. Turn back.
The men in the boat groan with the load. One yells, “Hey, come back! Help us lift!”
            Go back. Don’t abandon your friends.
He shakes his head, clinches his jaw and continues to stroke arm over arm toward shore.
            He won’t forgive you. It’s too late. You abandoned Him. You loser.  
The swimmer slows his pace. Why’d I jump? I always do that—jump first, think later. I should’ve stayed in the boat. That’s where I belong. I’m a fisherman—for fish, not men. Now, He’ll think I’m still the same old impetuous, loud mouth traitor…maybe I am. After all, I turned my back on my Friend…not just my friend, but the Son of God.  I denied Him; not once, but thrice. Three times…I’m doomed. I should just quit…sink—let the sea have me. I’m not worthy. 
He stops kicking, his arms go limp. He releases air from his lungs, and slowly descends.
The men in the boat are busy holding the net and rowing toward shore.
The Man by the fire walks to the edge of the water. Remember when I called you to become a fisher of men? It was a great catch that day… remember? I heard what you said: “At your word, I’ll let down the net.” I also heard what you were thinking: “This is dumb…why should I let some preacher tell me how to fish? I know what I’m doing.” …and then, the net broke. This time Peter, the net won’t break—and neither will you.
His lungs burn.
The light fades as darkness pulls him deep.
Death squeezes. Yes, this is where you belong—this is your new home.
Life bubbles from his lips.
All goes black.
All goes still.
But for the beating of his heart.
Thump. Thump.
Thump. Thump.
But then, this still, small, voice…Remember when I called you to become a fisher of men? It was a great catch that day…
That was a good day—that’s when I started to see Him for who He is—The Christ. It was before I blew it…before I denied Him…before I sank. But that was then. It’s too late…
Jesus takes one step into the water and stretches out His hand. Peter bar Jonah, I once prepared a fish to swallow a man named Jonah. Something I don’t want to repeat. I want to restore, but the choice is yours… “Come.”
It’s so cold, so dark—so familiar. I remember this place. I’ve been here before… I remember the day, Jesus told me, “Come” and I got out of the boat and walked on water. I actually walked on water. Me. But, like me, like always, I failed. I looked away. I turned from Him. I sank. So, here I am again, in this cold, darkness. It’s my destiny, my fate. I should have drowned that day…but His hand. He reached out His hand...
A brilliant Light penetrates the darkness and Peter catches a glimpse of His hand—only it’s different, wounded—pierced. Alive.
That same voice echoes through the watery grave, “Come.” 
Hope becomes a buoy.
Peter claws toward the Light, and finally staggers to shore, toward the Man by the fire.
But then, he remembers…it was by a fire, I denied Him. 
He stops. His eyes drop from the Man to the fire, to the sand. Tears can’t be seen for the water from the sea, but they’re there, just the same. How arrogantly I declared my allegiance above the others. How gently Jesus warned; “Three times, you will deny you even know Me.”
And now, He repeats three times—three times—the question and the call; one for each denial. “Peter, do you love Me, more than these?” 
Peter can’t repeat the words, more than these. He can only drop to his knees. Not trusting his own heart, he whispers; “Yes, Lord, you know all things, you know I love you.”
Jesus smiles. He doesn’t see the mistakes, the denials, the loser, the quitter, the sin. He sees a man, a friend, a brother, a winner; baptized, fresh, clean and born again.
He helps Peter to his feet. Together they sit by the fire…and feast.

Story inspired from John 21
Dear friend, He still knows...still matter how deep, no matter how far—He reaches out a nail scarred hand and whispers “Do you love me?”

Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me. Revelation 3:20

Sunday, July 24, 2016

How to have a lot of happy anniversaries

First anniversary: Roxy and I were living on the road at Storm Site, Somewhere USA. I didn’t take time for a real sit down dinner—but pulled through the drive through at a KFC.  As we ate our first anniversary dinner, I worked on insurance claims; she just watched me work, smiled, said "Happy anniversary" and took a bite of chicken.   
In the blink of an eye a year went by and anniversary number two rolled in. Amazingly enough, she was still there, by my side, out in the field, in another hotel, at Somewhere Else, USA. As we wrapped up another long day, she smiled and said, “So…KFC?”
And so began our anniversary tradition.
Year after year, most of them on the road, working here or there—but we’d always find a way to swing through and pick up a bucket of the Colonel…until this year.
These days, we’ve settled down, not chasing storms like we used to do, but still remember those days, and try to honor that old tradition. This morning, we left for church, picked up mom, brought her to lunch, helped sister move and install her air conditioner.
We picked up a few groceries at Erickson’s (well, about ten years ago the name changed to Family Fresh but I never remember that). A gallon of Kemps ice cream was on sale for $4.99. I wish our freezer could hold about ten gallons. We ran into our daughter Kayla, standing at the meat counter. She and Roxy talked about the best way to fry chicken, they wandered about the store, mostly standing in one place or another.
My feet ached in my Sunday-go-to-meetin’ cowboy boots. I made my way to a leather sofa over by the pharmacy pick-up counter. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through facebook, checked my emails and all the time I wondered where we’d get our KFC. 
I noticed Kayla and Roxy standing next to the peanut butter. I figure Roxy must’ve been telling her about some kind of coupon deal.  I wondered if the ice cream had been melted to liquid.
Our daughter, Shyloh, called, she just made homemade cookies, they were still warm and she only lived a few blocks from the store. I knew the ice cream would melt—but we had to go.
After four or five hours (not really, but it felt like it) Roxy said, “Ready?”
I grabbed the bucket of liquid Kemps and walked back to the freezer. I put it back and pretended to be exchanging it for another flavor and grabbed another, fresh, frozen vanilla. I wish I’d have thought to put it in the back. Ummm...if you grabbed a bucket of ice cream, got home and found out it wasn’t frozen—sorry ‘bout that.
We stood outside our daughter’s, eating a handful of still-warm chocolate chip cookies and accepting a plate full of more. I had left the truck running with the a/c on high to try and keep the ice cream cold. I shoved a third cookie in my mouth and noticed the building across from where she lived. An old, faded, deteriorated red and white block building. And I remembered. Once upon a time, when I was still a kid, and they were still open, that was where we used to get Kentucky Fried Chicken. I sighed, ‘cuz I know, no place in town, sells Kentucky Fried Chicken.
We made our way back to our little summer home—a fifth wheel camper.
We unpacked the groceries, a few boxes were warm. They weren’t from KFC, they didn’t fulfill our tradition. But, Roxy just smiled and said, “Happy Anniversary” and took a bite of chicken.

Maybe that’s why we’ve made it. It’s nothing big. Not fireworks. Not perfection.  It’s allowing simple moments to grow into special memories and create ties that bind.
Making this moment that moment every moment.

...and don't forget the ice cream.

Thanks honey, I love you, happy anniversary.
Oh, and I turned it into KFC

Godliness with contentment is great gain (1 Timothy 6:6)

Sunday, June 19, 2016

The Father's Manifesto

I am your dad. 
You can count on me to love you, pray for you, stand with you, through thick and thin.
You have me to fight for you, protect you, care for you, carry you…cover you.
I am your dad and there’s nothing you can do about it. I am here for you. As long as there is breath in this body you can count on me.
But, I am not the strongest or smartest, fastest or handsomest. I make mistakes, I fall, I run, I cry, I bleed.
Nevertheless, I am the best, at being me. A part of being me, is being your dad. In that, I promise to do my best.
I have faith that together we can weather any storm, because even in my weakness—especially in my weakness—I’ve learned where I can go. I have a Source of strength and wisdom and protection and love that never fails.
You see, I too, have a Father who covers me. He is really the One who has commissioned me with the honor of being your dad; to pray for you, to cover you. As He covers me—I cover you.
And so, no matter how dark the night or how long the road, I have hope. Even if there comes a day when I’ll no longer be just a phone call away…I do not fear, because I’ve given you back to the Father. 
You see, He gave us to each other for just a little while; me to help you and you to help me. So, my prayer and His will be fulfilled. That one Father’s Day, we’ll stand united and call Him Dad, and He will smile and say…

 “Well done my good and faithful son, and daughter...I AM, your Dad.”

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

A letter to Franklin Graham: Saying hard stuff...with love

Dear Franklin,
Tomorrow June 16, 2016 at 12:00 p.m. we plan to join you at:
Decision America Tour 2016
Capitol Lower Mall,
75 Rev Dr. Martin Luther King Jr Blvd.
St Paul, MN 55155

I appreciate your recent facebook post to the president that went something like this:

"Mr. President, I read in the The New York Times today where you reportedly blasted Donald J. Trump for wanting to tighten the borders and accused him of painting a whole religion as violent.
A Muslim can murder 49 innocent people in a gay club, and you still defend the religion of Islam.
But a Christian who refuses to bake a homosexual’s wedding cake endures prosecution, financial ruin, and nation-wide shaming because of their faith, and you stay silent!
What Omar Mateen did was following the teachings of the Koran.
It is incomprehensible that you will not acknowledge the dangers of Islam’s teachings in order to protect the American people under your watch."
Thank you for your frankness, Frank. Sorry…frankly, I couldn't help myself. 
Okay, seriously, thank you for not hiding behind political correctness or fearing the critic’s slander. 
When it comes to speaking the Truth and doing right, considering consequences causes confusion.
You speak the Truth in love. Period. For that, thank you.
Trouble is: he doesn't have any ears—as in Jesus' words "to him who has ears let him hear." He's as deaf as you'd be if the KKK started burning crosses on the white house lawn and you were told to denounce Christianity because of it.
He and muslims are deceived and ignorant about what their religion stands for—like Ali trying to box his way into heaven—like the multitude that calls themselves Christians but live any old way they please, have no relationship with Christ and couldn’t care less about His Word or what it says.  
In our zeal we mustn’t compare Christianity to Islam as if apples to apples. Islam is religion; a demonically inspired antichrist religion. This is obvious to those who’ve been in and out of the religion. God hates religion. Christianity is not a religion it is a relationship, as you well know.
So, keeping that in mind, let’s continue to call an ace an ace and a spade a spade and if you want, even say things like Jesus:  Serpents, brood of vipers! How can you escape the condemnation of hell? Therefore, indeed, I send you prophets, wise men, and scribes: some of them you will kill and crucify, and some of them you will scourge in your synagogues and persecute from city to city, that on you may come all the righteous blood shed on the earth, from the blood of righteous Abel to the blood of Zechariah, son of Berechiah, whom you murdered between the temple and the altar. Assuredly, I say to you, all these things will come upon this generation.”
But we can’t stop there. We must include the words that followed His scathing rebuke…
“O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the one who kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to her. How often I wanted to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings…”
Jesus wraps up His remarks with a heartfelt plea like a mother gathering her children in a big warm downy feathered hug. 
I think He must’ve paused, I think He scanned the crowd to see if they’d take a step toward Him; if anyone bowed their head to wipe away a tear. Perhaps He waited, searching, for. just. one. to look His way and nod.
Alas, He saw no one.
(I think He’s still looking…will He see any?)
Can’t you just hear the quiver in His voice, see the tremble in His outstretched hand and the sorrow pooling in His eyes, as He continues in a whisper, “…but you were not willing. See, your house is left to you desolate; for I say to you, you shall see Me no more till you say, ‘Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!’ ” (Matthew 23)
For every rebuke, let’s not forget His example, and extend our hearts and hands to offer a blessing in love. Because, His love, never fails.
You are correct; it is incomprehensible that the president will not acknowledge the dangers of Islam’s teachings…but he can’t because he doesn’t know.  Even if he did, that alone would not protect the American people as you and your father have said so well, our only hope is in Christ. 
Someday every jot and tittle will be fulfilled. Perhaps those in power are there for such a time as this, to usher in The Day of the Lord, when we can say, “Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord.”
One of Jesus’ final prayers as He walked this earth remains to be fulfilled.  In John 17, He prayed for believers “…that they all may be one, as You, Father, are in Me, and I in You; that they also may be one in Us…that the world may know that You have sent Me, and have loved them as You have loved Me.”
We (Christians) are sick, disjointed; like sheep without a shepherd. The proof spreads from our inability to choose a Godly leader in the white house to our own house where divorce and abortion rates mirrors that of the world. It’s time for His prayer to be answered. We need this prayer fulfilled.
You, son of Billy Graham, carry the mantel of your father. You can unite. I lift your hands in prayer as you carry the torch…lead the way.
Prayerfully yours,

Sunday, May 29, 2016

When it rains on the grave

The last time I flew to Minnesota the sky was grey—just like today.
It was the last time, too, that I’d written.
It was December then and as cold a day as I’d ever known.
Today, the end of May, it’s not so cold, but the sky is just the same. Dark, ready to cry.
I grabbed our bag off carousel number eight while my wife waited outside to catch our ride.
We drove straight out of Hubert H. Humphrey Terminal B and crossed the street into Fort Snelling—a terminal of another kind. 
We made our way to where we'd been. I remembered how the guns rang, the bugle played, the flag was laid, how we shook from the cold and how the tears fell like rain...
But not today.
As we drove to the other side of the hill the grey sky shook as it remembered and returned our tears. We turned on the wipers as fast as they could go.
But my eyes were dry. 
We walked from one weeping stone to the next. Finally on the edge of the hill, overlooking the little pond, we found his name, etched in stone.
Grass had started to grow over the muddy hole. As if on cue the sky bit back its’ tears and for a solemn moment we snapped pictures with wet phones.
When we were through, the sky opened up again and soaked us to the skin. A cold wind whipped the rain across our face. I shivered and thought, ‘how fitting, for the start of this Memorial Day weekend. Here we stand among the graves and all the heavens are weeping.
But something was missing. The whole world was weeping—but where were my tears? Where was my mourning? Had my heart grown as cold as the stones lined up in rows for as far as I could see?
We made our way back to the car and I took one last look across the yard. I couldn’t get any wetter so what difference would another moment make? And that’s when it hit me.
It was almost as if I could hear the echoes of heroes who wouldn’t retreat from hell’s thunder or raining fire, with each pelt of rain slapping the stones...

“Oorah!” from the Marines.
“Hooyah!” from the Navy & Coast Guard.

“Hooah!” from the Army
"HUA!" from the Air Force...

Those stones weren’t weeping. They were shining. The sky wasn’t mourning, but honoring every soldier that had fallen, a baptism of sorts, a cleansing with a promise of a new beginning.
No the stones weren't weeping, but getting a spit-n-shine to look good for the parade.

Remember while you’re remembering…to make some memories, today.

God’s best to you and yours,
Happy Memorial Day

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

He's run out of second chances

He’s run out of second chances.
Today he’d be 82.
But 26 days ago he took his last breath on earth…and his first in eternity.
Twenty-two days ago an icy wind cut to the bone as the bugler touched shivering lips to the horn and blew out “Taps—the saddest sound on earth,” as dad would say.
The flag was folded by white gloved heroes standing strong and proud as if they didn’t notice the sub-zero, biting wind.
The salute of the rifles silenced the whipping wind.
The melodic voice of Vince Gill warmed the atmosphere with…
Go rest high on that mountain
Son your work on earth is done
Go to Heaven a shoutin'
Love for the Father and the Son

The preacher read and spoke and prayed.
And a marker was placed up on the ridge next to a pond—dad would want to know if it was a place he could fish.

He taught me to swing a bat and throw a ball. He taught me to drive a boat, water ski, tie a fishing knot, land a Pike and never say can’t.
He worked hard.
If he knew a need—he met it.
If he saw a flaw—he’d fix it.
If someone stretched out a hand—he shook it.
And when I blew it—which was often—he always gave me a second chance.
He was loud in so many ways, except his religion. Some might even wonder where he stood as far as all that goes.
But if you’d watch, you’d see where he stood, more than hear.
He’d close his eyes and bow his head before every meal. It was brief and quiet and easy to miss—but I saw him do it a hundred times or more. He’d do the same before every take-off and landing when on a plane.
He’d give anonymously. Kind of like how he prayed.
Was he was too embarrassed to say, “Let’s pray”? Or maybe he figured—
relationships are best shown, to be known.
When I was boy, maybe around eight or ten, he took a stand. He sat us kids around the dining room table and said he’d committed his life to Christ. He read from the Bible, prayed out loud and I learned a new word that day—devotions.  
It didn’t last. I don’t remember when the thing dad called, family devotions, stopped. But the impact never did—it changed my life, forever.
He made mistakes to be sure. Some might even say in terrible ways. I still remember the day I discovered he wasn’t Superman, and couldn’t walk on water.
But, he was my dad, good and bad, for better or worse, and through it all he taught me, God is greater and He gives us all a second chance.
It didn’t take me long to figure out all on my own that…
Maybe God only counts to two, ‘cuz I’ve had more than my fair share of second chances.
And isn’t that the point of it all? No matter the life, how terrible or great, God’s grace is sufficient to forgive, if only we’ll repent and turn from our sin.  
Twenty six days ago Dad crossed the final threshold to his eternal destination. He didn’t wear his religion out loud but walked like a man who knew his sin…and prayed every day to be forgiven.  
He’s run out of second chances—because he’ll never need another.
He’d be 82 years old today, but instead, I believe, he’s twenty six days young and celebrating his best birthday ever, knowing he’s forgiven and forever with The Son.

Monday, January 4, 2016


August 15th 1961
We were in Kenya, carrying on our missionary work–handing out bread with a message, Bread Of Life.
Sarah’s water broke the fourth of August. She was two weeks early!
The babies came! Two beautiful, handsome boys! I know, I was there, I saw them. I held them, I kissed them. Loved them…still do.
As I watched my wife cradling our boys I was in awe. My mind was spinning. From the two of us—two new creations have come.
They're people, real live tiny people. I have never felt closer to The Creator.
My precious Sarah, never looked so beautiful! She glowed.
And then...they were no more.
Through sweat and tears of joy and pain she eyed our sons. “Your father and I–two worlds united, and you—” She hesitated, bit her quivering lip and drew a deep breath—“Isaac and Ishmael, two worlds divided.”
I was confused, we planned to name them Peter (after her father) and David (after King David, the man after God's own heart).
She touched my hand, “I love you–see you soon.”
She was gone.
All went black.
The expanse of the universe cannot contain the breadth of emotion I traveled that day.
I woke to thunder–in my head, and a nurse about to stick a needle in my arm.
"Sarah! Where's my wife!"
“She didn't make it” hissed the nurse.
“Where's my boys—I want to see my boys! I want to see my wife!”
I yanked a bandage off my head and felt dried blood.
“You bumped your head when you fainted.”
“Fine” hissed the snake as she jerked a curtain back that divided the room.
One baby, not ours, lay...

From Conspiracy Theory...or not

.99 cents @ Amazon

Although, the story lands on the fiction shelf, a little research will expose that many of the events and dates are historically accurate, making the storyline plausible.

The golden thread that weaves the plot together comes from a belief in the strength of family, the power of prayer and the battles that rage against that the story holds true.

Is it fact or decide. 

Just beyond our natural senses there's a battle going on for you...for me. The turmoil we see on the nightly news is a reflection of this battle. 

Be forewarned: This is not a politically correct story...but that doesn't mean it is not correct. 

Thank you for continuing to send your prayer requests. ipray4u.

Thank you for sharing: 

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

How to never get bored…

For five weeks Mac scrubbed every inch of the pier and the bottoms of several boats until not a trace of the diesel spill could be found.
Mac made one last trip up and down the pier to make sure he didn’t miss anything. And then he put away all his tools and made his way into the marina store to tell Sean he was through.
“Whaddya talkin’ about Mac? You’re not through ‘til I say you’re through. I can’t believe my ears. The son of such a fine sailor as RJ MacArthur quitting a job before it’s through.”
Mac cleared his throat. “Well sir, I can’t find a lick of that spill anywhere…there’s nothing left for me to do.”
“Nothing left to do?” Sean narrowed his eyes and made a noise that sounded like a growl. “Don’t ever let me hear you say those words again. Got it?”
“Okay but—”
“You’ll always have something to do if you just do the next thing.”
“The next thing…what next thing?”
“Don’t matter. Just find one thing that needs doin’ and that’ll lead you to another. You won’t ever get done and you won’t ever get bored. Do you understand?”
Mac nodded.
“Okay then. What’re you gonna do next?”
Mac shifted his feet and lifted his shoulders up and down. “I have no idea.”
Sean pulled in a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll help you get started. But the next thing is up to you. Understood?”

From The Voice

More than just a book, it's a message about the strength of family, the power of prayer and the battles that rage against them.

What folks are saying about The Voice…READ MORE

Let me know if you’d like a signed and prayed over copy for you or a friend.

Prayerfully yours,

Monday, December 28, 2015

What gets a prayer warrior out of bed...

 “It’s time.”

Burt heard, but didn’t open his eyes. He just listened, to be sure.

“It’s time.”

This time he opened his eyes and pulled in a deep breath.

His wife shifted her head from his shoulder to her pillow. She knew the drill.

He watched her breathe. He felt the warmth of her hand on his chest and closed his eyes.  Just a little longer.

His ears started ringing again. He figured it was from too many years in the factory without wearing ear plugs. But it sounded just like the vibrating ring of a sword, being knocked from a warrior’s hand—at least the way it sounded in the movies. And then the dream returned all at once in a flash.

He lifted her hand from his chest, slid to the side of the bed and sat on the edge.

Mighty warrior? It’s just a dream. I can’t even help my own kids, let alone…forget it. 

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. How’d his life get so messed up? Even worse…so ordinary?

What happened to all the big plans?

Four kids from his first marriage and two through his third. The middle marriage was still kind of a blur. He entered it to try and kill the pain of the first. It didn’t work.  

His life was spent in stages. The first half he set out to be…well, to be a mighty warrior for God. He had big dreams of going into the highways and bi-ways and changing the world for Jesus. But, something happened. About the time he was getting settled in as a dad, a husband, a provider and moving toward his calling. It all came undone.

No sense going back to rehash. He’d done that a thousand times. Cried a million tears, too. But, what was done was done.

The worst of it was the pain it’d caused the kids. They went from a Godly Christian home and a loving church family to being raised by an angry single mom and a wounded, weary, every-other-weekend dad. The kids were the casualties of this war.   

Burt spent the second half of his life playing it safe. He got a job in a glass factory making bottles. He let his world changing dreams die. And other than taking one more chance on love after a decade of mourning, he pretty much lived the description of ordinary.

The only thing he had to show for it all was an ordinary house just outside, Ordinary Oklahoma. He had a pretty decent assortment of homemade fly fishing jigs—but they were nothing special, just plumb ordinary, too. He figured they could’ve named the town after him. 

That’s how he lived. That’s how he retired and that’s how planned to die. Ordinary. It rubbed him the wrong way if he thought about it too much, but for the most part, he’d surrendered to it. His youthful dreams were just that—dreams. He was never meant to do anything great, when he had tried all it did was put him in a spiritual battle that cost him his wife and precious time with his children. He’d not make that mistake again. No, he was ordinary—and that’s how he’d stay.

Except for one thing, but truth be told, he thought, The Voice, was ordinary, too.

He knew The Voice that woke him in the night or arrested him by day was God. But doesn’t that happen to everyone? Just like back in the Garden of Eden, when God walked with Adam and Eve, in the cool of the day just to chat. God doesn’t change. He still likes to do that today. Everybody knows that—it’s just normal, right?

“It’s time.” 

It’s the same thing every night and nothing changes. What difference does it make? Go back to bed. 

The words that never failed to push him off the bed echoed in the silence of the night.

“It’s not about you.”

His knees cracked as he stood and his ankles did as he shuffled toward the door.

 Let me know if you’d like a signed and prayed over copy for you or a friend.

Battles are won or lost in the midnight hour
 By those who dare to wear
The Mantle of

The Silent Knight

The question is...

Will you be one of them?

Prayerfully yours,


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