This isn't a rehearsal and waiting for a mythological-tomorrow is fraught with deception. Sure, there’s timing and preparation but truly-truly sense, m'time a cometh. The call is clear, with the developing times worldwide come the UK, all confirmed with jumbo signs.
Must be no more 'maybe tomorrow' now . . .
Love is the evidence of God. Seen live and direct in being able to particularly thrive among the difficult. To know help that comes, part believing on... while on the other; a deep imparting and outworking from the present here/now Holy Spirit.
Write these posts to give myself a burst of fuel for the day. Reminders, . . .
The refining fire of opposition. Independent trouble, God knows, generally offers a right turning to bring good from. A defiance in declaring, God himself all we need. "And God says..."
With this, the struggle to dig about and try find something. Desire to and time in. Ask for so little. An obvious failing. May . . .
The 'Message' has it; we can now—without hesitation—walk right up to God. Sure I don't know what this means. Oh can spout theory, thankfully testify to experiences but really... the evidence is manifest in word and deed.
Believing and truly so, takes a lot more boldness than my normal shabby state. Lot more . . .
Half the time, the desire to type, is to God and make prayer. Cringe at being read-otherwise, as if and when, care that is. As advertised; 'indulgent'. Somehow though relieves, or better said, release through expression. Granted, this public dimension-ing is somewhat kooky. And more inter-net...
At least not more . . .
Eventually the facade gets you. A normal reaction, and if healthy, a disturbance. The other option is to look away. Fully fast off and avoid. A compromise, is an extremely lean diet.
Here tapping isn't so-so wasteful as. Thankfully, increasingly little to distract me and seemingly receive good from anything online.. . .
Don't want to be a hypocrite weighs heavy. Need to get off the web. Out from under its sticky compelling clutches. Lacking fellowship, becomes a window to stare out from. A rampart and seeming newswire announcing the turmoil.
Increasingly all rings hollow. The sound of idle speculation or ear tickling and always . . .