Oceans. Mountains. Trees. Birds. Creatures that move on the ground and in the sea. Newborn babies. The sun rises and the sun sets. The evidence is all around.
What comes to mind when you hear the word Heaven? Does it evoke thoughts of an eternal worship-service-in-the-sky, which frankly sounds like eons of boredom if compared to the lot of church services offered us today.
Or does it paint images of all your dreams coming true? Everything you have held near and dear to your heart, every talent you have (or wish you had) and all of your desires coming to fruition, perfected. All of the things and people you have loved and lost being returned to you. Restored to you?
And does it even matter for us, today, here on this earth?
I had the privilege to speak on this topic this past Sunday at Beyond the Veil Fellowship Church in Evansville, Indiana. If you can’t listen using the player window below, you can also click here to listen. (Part two, 7 Daily Affirmations for Finishing Well, is also available by clicking here.)
Not all cowboys are born in the West, but its wildness whirls as deep in his soul as the great eddies of the Colorado. Dreams as wide as the high prairies. Ideas grand as the Rockies. His common sense, like a crystal stream, cuts through life’s cumbersome valleys and ravines.
Dusty, dirty, weathered and leathered, the cowboy is not perfect. He is, however, a good man.
Revered by the music industry and loved by millions of fans, and despite the controversies over his lyrical styles that some found offensive, Prince was a revolutionary artist none the less.
A prolific singer and songwriter. An unbelievably talented musician, skilled at devising new sounds across a multitude of instruments, all of which he could play. His vocal range could drop to the bottom floor and float effortlessly through a falsetto, peaking at a shriek-like scream that didn’t need a trademark because nobody else could do it quite like Prince. (And all of us who grew up listening to his music have strained our voices numerous times behind the wheel of a car, purporting to sing along at the level of his unmatched prowess. Don’t deny it!)
Writing about zombies on Easter Sunday may be sacrilegious, but soul-less, reeking, walking dead things aren’t the point. Soul-hurting, desperate, walking living things are.
Daisy used to climb the high back chair in my office to lay across the top, that is, until the veterinarian declawed her. And that brings up another interesting point. Daisy was neutered that same day, which is why Daisy, you see, isn’t a she. She’s a he. And he’s a cat.
Chester. Tucker. Tyrone. Or stick with Daisy. These are a few names, among others, our family can’t decide on since my oldest son’s girlfriend enlightened us of Daisy’s genital make-up, though I’d known for a while something looked odd. And I apologize. That might sound sexist.
But as best as I can tell, Daisy doesn’t care about sexism.