By the Book

Life should fit the book. Living should be the conformed thing, molded and shaped by every word within pages of truth. It should not happen the other way around, with the bound up words fashioned to fit the lifestyle.

But convenience leaves so little room for what should be. Some days uprightness and justice seem the better options. Other days mercy better fits. Grace most always makes its own case, and forgiveness comes and goes as the clever soul chooses.

So it seems, anyway. The lesson will not be ultimately lost, that eventually truth will declare itself truth. Justice will take its place, as will mercy and grace. And the fooled soul so otherwise assured of its rightful place will be shown for what it is--as lost as it can be. Pray, that soul, the time will not be too late.

Beautiful Feet

My feet are as ugly as feet come. Given the chance, I would gladly trade them for just about any other set. The biggest toes barely work. The bones creak and pop in no particular order save that they always do. All but bent and broken completely, my feet accomplish little more than holding me mostly upright--sometimes.

So the idea that these two platforms of dysfunction might be beautiful seems laughable at best, until God says otherwise. Because the Bible states that feet bringing good news are in fact beautiful. Yes, even these wayward walkers can be so much more than what they seem.

Evidently, the aching sounds of age prove little compared to standing firm. And even standing firm only gets a person so far. Beauty lies in the boldness of placing one foot in front of the other and going. Moving ever-forward with the best news ever published upon human hearts, those feet become glorious indeed.

And those feet can be even these feet, or any others that choose their steps well.

Spheres

Two spheres illuminate the broad-backed sky. One shines just enough to reveal the darkness surrounding it. The other shines too brilliantly to know darkness. All creation owes itself to the guidance offered by them, the two great lights among shadows.

Yet even these two orbs, bright enough to point out the heavens between them, know that one is but a poor reflection of the other. More mirror than majestic light, the sphere that names the night would itself be humbled in darkness if not for the bearer of daylight. Otherwise lost and left no better nor worse than the spaces between stars, the night sphere looks toward the radiance of the light maker. In doing so, all of space may see itself through the black—if it chooses.

Firm and fixed through all time, the spheres keep their perfect place. Nothing lifts itself so high as the creator of light. Just a little lower, among the hidden darkness yet still not part of it, the reflector holds firm. To the true and blinding light, it only proves a redirection of something much, much greater. To eyes that may never look directly upon its source, though, it spans the gap between shuttering still in darkness and seeing any light at all.