Friday

Sunset

Eat food from farmers markets.
Drink good tea each morning.
Read books that make you feel.
Paint, even if you’re awful.
Write, even when you have nothing to say.
Sit in the fresh air outside.
Go on hikes.
Swim in lakes and wade in streams.
Sleep as long as you need.
Work hard at what you love.
Work hard at what you hate.

Love unconditionally and wholeheartedly.

Happy Friday!

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Perspective

Palm in the Sky

It was spring but it was summer I wanted; the warm days and the great outdoors.
It was summer but it was fall I wanted: the colorful leaves and the cool dry air.
It was fall but it was winter I wanted; the beautiful snow and the joy of the Christmas season.
It was now winter but it was spring I wanted; the warmth and the blossoming of nature.
I was a child but it was adulthood I wanted; the freedom and respect.
I was twenty but it was thirty I wanted; to be mature and sophisticated.
I was middle -aged but it was twenty I wanted; the youth and the free spirit.
I was retired but it was middle-aged that I wanted; the presence of mind without limitations.
My life was over but I never got what I wanted.

-Written by a fourteen year old boy (yes, fourteen!)

The Old Violin

The Old Violin
I was moved, motivated and touched by the devotion this morning at Cross International (the ministry I work for) led by our board member, Joe White. Joe has a friend that does pencil drawings, which is what you see above. It is truly beautiful. The devotion was based on The Old Violin – The Touch of the Masters Hand poem. The question is, what is one soul really worth? Read the poem below. I hope you are blessed and inspired.

‘Twas battered and scarred,
And the auctioneer thought it
hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
but he held it up with a smile.

“What am I bid, good people”, he cried,
“Who starts the bidding for me?”
“One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?”
“Two dollars, who makes it three?”
“Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,”

But, No,
From the room far back a gray bearded man
Came forward and picked up the bow,
Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet
As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said “What now am I bid for this old violin?”
As he held it aloft with its’ bow.

“One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?”
“Two thousand, Who makes it three?”
“Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone”, said he.

The audience cheered,
But some of them cried,
“We just don’t understand.”
“What changed its’ worth?”
Swift came the reply.
“The Touch of the Masters Hand.”

“And many a man with life out of tune
All battered and bruised with hardship
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like that old violin

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He is going once, he is going twice,
He is going and almost gone.

But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the Touch of the Masters’ Hand.

– by Myra Brooks Welch