The winter is whispering, “green and gold,” And the heart is whispering, too – It’s a story the Maker has always told And the story, my child, is true.
Fear is a mighty wind, and some of us merely have a creative spark.
No one spoke. None of the children even breathed. Their hearts thrummed with the truth of what had been spoken. The air around Peet’s words would have shimmered if it were possible to see such a thing, and the children knew it to be true.
Sometimes you have to do the work even if you don’t feel like it. Sometimes you have to put away your wants and do what needs to be done, which really means dying to self in order to find life. This is a way of practicing resurrection.
Something as real as a tectonic shift might be happening in their magnificent soul, like the mechanism of a primal clock ticking closer and closer to the triumphant sounding of the bell tower, a revelation, a scattering of birds that gives them an apocalyptic glimpse of something more something lofty, and grand that reminds them how small they are, or perhaps something minuscule and profoundly intricate that reminds them of the grand mystery of their selfhood.
But my feet are still restless, Sara. I’m tired of moving yet I can’t wait to leave. I’m homesick – I’ve always been so. I can’t rest until I finally learn what that means.
As surely as you dedicate your heart to him, dedicate your front porch.
Lad, it’s one thing to be poor in pocket – nothing wrong with that. But poor in heart – that’s no good. Look at them. They’re sad in the eyes, and it’s a sadness no amount of money could repair. Why, they hardly remember what it’s like to laugh from the belly anymore.
The best thing you can do is to keep your nose to the grindstone, to remember that it takes a lot of work to hone your gift into something useful, and that you have to learn to enjoy the work – especially the parts you don’t enjoy.
A book is made up of sentences and paragraphs, and one look at the bookstore shelves should be enough to tell anyone that quality of writing is no prerequisite for being published.
His heart skipped a beat at the look of worry that flashed over Nia’s face. She was serene in the worst of circumstances, able to grow icy cold even as the heat of danger rose. But when the troll’s growl-moan sounded again, closer than before, her face wrinkled in a way that made her look old and.
Over and over again he said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” And over and over again, Nia said, “We love you, we love you.
If you’ve never read Madeline L’Engle’s Walking on Water, put down this book and don’t come back to it until you have. This is a courageous thing for me to say, because once you’ve read her book there’s not much point in reading this one.
The rain beat on the windows and sides of the house, but Peet had sealed the structure well. Not a drop of water leaked in. The tree house swayed and creaked in its perch, and the smell of stew filled their noses. Janner, like the other Igibys, drifted off to sleep, thanking the Maker they were safe and dry in Peet’s castle. Even Podo.
It’s been more than ten years now, and I like to think our little ministry has done some good work. People have discovered new songwriters, new authors, new artists. But perhaps more important, they’ve also discovered new friends. Art just seems to draw people together. C. S. Lewis famously said that friendship is born in that moment when one person says to another, “You too? I thought I was the only one.
But even in Christ, the grief goes on, and anyone who tells you otherwise is in denial. That’s not to say deep joy doesn’t perpetually encroach, because like a waxing moon, the very fullness of joy is destined to one day wholly illuminate our faces.
Janner rested his head on his mother’s shoulder, surprised he could find any amount of comfort when their situation was so bleak, all because he was near those he loved and who loved him.
We’re not invited into this because God needs us, but because he wants us.
Janner noticed that Peet was wearing new knit socks on his arms.
As spring came to the Green Hollows and white blossoms shone on the trees, red blood stained the ground of Ban Rona.
We may want something harmless, but if it’s out of place, if it comes before the right thing, then what’s benign becomes malignant. We want the wrong thing.