Im questionning today...

Do you know you have done enough when every bone is sore?
Do you know you have prayed enough
when you don't ask any more?
Do you know you are coming to some kind of understanding
when every dream you've dreamed
has passed and you are still standing?

We are sewing a brand new dress Gomar and you are wearing the one that is torn...maybe I am asking the wrong questions?

Matt21v28"Tell me what you think of this story: A man had two sons. He went up to the first and said, 'Son, go out for the day and work in the vineyard.'
29"The son answered, 'I don't want to.' Later on he thought better of it and went.
30"The father gave the same command to the second son. He answered, 'Sure, glad to.' But he never went.
31-32"Which of the two sons did what the father asked?"
They said, "The first."
Jesus said, "Yes, and I tell you that crooks and whores are going to precede you into God's kingdom. John came to you showing you the right road. You turned up your noses at him, but the crooks and whores believed him. Even when you saw their changed lives, you didn't care enough to change and believe him.

Raining...

Rain
It's hard to listen to a hard hard heart
Beating close to mine
Pounding up against the stone and steel
Walls that I won't climb
Sometimes a hurt is so deep deep deep
You think that you're gonna drown
Sometimes all I can do is weep weep weep
With all this rain falling down
Strange how hard it rains now
Rows and rows of big dark clouds
When I'm holding on underneath this shroud
Rain
Its hard to know when to give up the fight
The things you wanted that will never be right
It's never rained like it has tonight before
I don't want to beg you
For something maybe you will never want
I'm not looking for the rest of your life
I just want to give you another chance to live
Strange how hard it rains now
Rows and rows of big dark clouds
When I'm still alive underneath this shroud
Rain
Strange how hard it rains now
Rows and rows of big dark clouds
When I'm still alive underneath this shroud
Rain

patty griffin

Time to go home...

I have to leave the city now, she said,
Or dash my soul against my will instead.
I do not wish to have the quiet part of me
That once could rest (the part
That could just be) tossed
Aside and left somewhere
For dead.

Please, take me far from here, she said,
The buildings sting and echo
With the fumy cries of these familar cars.
I took her hand in mine and said,
I'm thinking of a place now
Where I used to have to tell myself
Aloud,
Those are not clouds,
They're stars.

that all who love Your name may be filled with joy

"Who told you that you were naked? he asked, "Have you been eating from the tree I forbade you to eat?"
Ricky, your helping me think today...

Thursday night...surprised by joy.

R, told me to sit inbetween her legs, she wanted to french plait my hair...I felt like I was five again, just out of a bath, sitting by the fire with my mum holding me, drying each of my curls, one at a time...

She left my hair soft, she left me malleable...

B, on my other side...she was nursing anger...in many ways righteous, in many ways in pain...her stare was cold, her eyes frozen...

The police came and went, men came and went....T came and went...
The four of us lingered, we lingered in a air where we found breathe...

Emma and I read Psalm 5 to B...her anger no longer a dead end.
The four of us being touched by a love that was indeed ineffable.

Thanks Maura

'The sun dipped out of the valley at the end of the long autumnal day, burnishing one of the furthest peaks so brilliantly a passing angel might have dropped its halo right there. there was the luxuriant sound of Tchaikovsky on the radio in my allotment shed and, after an hour of light weeding, I went and stood by the fence looking out at that dropped halo of light.
A stray sheep cried out in the thickening darkness and my nose picked up the wafting smell of woodsmoke. My hands were dirty as I placed them on the hard creosoted fence and, if anything, that dropped halo became larger and more luminously brilliant. Im the beauty of this given moment I saw the whole of my valley as one vast cathedral with the lights of the nearby houses looking like stained glass windows. The river running the length of the valley floor was the cathedral's nave and that place where the dying sun was washing over that peak was the high altar. The ceiling was a vast valut of sky nailed up there by many stars.
And there was old Caradoc, a long pilgrim with drity hands, standing at a creosoted communion rail patiently waiting to be fed. Here was an old worker of the soil, with trouble in legs, needing at that moment to be fed with the body of Christ. So I found a bit of old bread in the snap tin in my allotment shed and there was an inch of wine left in a bottle too. The bread was stale and the wine was sour but I only needed a taste as I fed myself, reciting aloud those words which are engraved on my heart: 'Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for you'.
Then, with Tchaikovsky still playing in my shed, I raised my arms in prayer on behalf of these ancient hills of coal, calling on God to be gentle with all of us and cleanse us of our sins. This was my moment here at the communion rail of the world; a time of personal worship and celebration. The sun had nearly gone by now, leaving just a thin sliver of light as a haunting bat flitted overhead. There was the sound of a woman's laughter and someone was trying, but failing, to start a car. You could already feel the start of a big rush of night cold charging down the valley slopes.
It is easy for us to look around the valleys and believe that God has forsaken us. But he is always here and, at certain given moments, you can actually feel him all around you. At these moments we should all take the time for some personal worship and celebration. There is a whole generation of a tribe here in my body. I am them just as surely as they are me and that was the way I joined my people with God at the end of that long autumnal afternoon. Everyone fed one another with the body and blood. We were all blessed and became as one in front of the high altar of a valley home. Theirs was the kingdom, the power and the glory as an old man, who keeps struggling to maintain his faith, stood crying with tribal poetry at a sun which, sending up a new explosion of gold, seemed reluctant to leave the valley.'