Whispers of Truth

  Maybe it is the rain, but I doubt it. More than likely, it is the umbrella that makes the difference. If you’ve read my blog, over time you’ve learned that as a child I loved rain, but I loved rain not so much because of the rain itself (I’ve learned most grown-ups don’t love it, you know). I loved rain because when I was with my grandmother (who faithfully watched Lawrence Welk on his TV show that ran from the 50s to the 80s), the rain caused the music came out in me all the time (piano in the house, too) but especially when it rained.  I had also seen at some point (no idea where, but maybe with her when it came on TV or with my mom—definitely not Daddy) Gene Kelly in Singin’ in the Rain . There were no black lampposts in the yard to hop on and dance, but there were plenty of puddles on the farm, and when she let me—and Grandmother did let me—probably to get me out of her hair for a moment of peace and quiet—go outside and play in it, I did and loved every second of it. Singing

Gardens In a beautifully prepared place for His creation God walked with them in the cool of the day. A subtle serpent’s hiss intruded, words whispered into listening ears  That used willing hands created by God to pluck and eat fruit from the one forbidden tree, And God removed them from access to His presence in His garden. Cast out, they walked eastward into the dust of an earth now Burdened by their sin, weary man’s existence now scrabbled from dirt made for more; Displaced, they walked and waked and worked separate from God, sinful creatures, ruined;  Thus Emmanuel came and walked and waked and worked in the dust with His creation. ’Til one day in another garden precious sweat drops fell, blood red on the ground  That drank its promise and cried out to God for relief as Jesus, awake, watching, cried out to God for His will to be done while mankind slept. Satan slithered into that garden, too, kissing Jesus in the crowded darkness, whispering “friend.” Jesus left t