Promised
To last the winter requires
desire. Your ancestors knew this.
They sailed in wagons from Tennessee
to the New World (Texas),
settling there in a crevice of
mediocrity, their vision daily
whipped by an ever chilling wind.
They look on you now calm-eyed
from the fair banks of Canaan,
your own cloud-burst of witnesses.
They claim you. But they’re worried
about your core: you’re wobbly.
You’ve put too much stock in who’s
following rather than where you’re bound.
Your ancestors knew above all else
you must have a center.
The winter can be long.
Yes, it can be.
This is wonderful (and my own cloud-burst of Texas witnesses is nodding in agreement).
This is a stunningly beautiful reminder, John. Thank you.
Thank you, John. I needed this today! I’m marketing my first novel, and it’s a constant temptation to keep my eyes on who is following rather than where I’m bound. My cloud of witnesses sailed from Tennessee to Oklahoma. They are watching me, cheering me on from the other side, urging me to keep my eyes on the Savior. I am comforted.
My witness cloud peers over the edge of heaven shaking their heads at how a Missouri girl got flash frozen into Canada. Grateful for the woolen blanket of these words.
I often wonder what my cloud thinks about me, my choices, my character. I usually get positive vibes. One grandmother gave me those in person, just before she died at 101. The other? Hmmm. Southern bred, prejudiced, but intelligent and funny. . . her I’m not so sure about.
[…] rather than where you’re bound. Your ancestors knew above all else you must have a center. The winter can be long. * * * * * I’ve come to love the doubters hard. God is getting bigger. No He doesn’t grow. […]