Fool's Gold

Fears fill
Empty thrill
Ruptured by a broken will
Tears trill
Moving still
Hovering o'er my window sill.

Living die
Firefly
Haunted by its joyful cry
Breathless sigh
Truthful lie
Underneath where stars are nigh.

Small the vast
Undercast
Disillusioned by contrast.
Future's past
Drifting fast
Interchanging first for last.

Upward fall
Solemn ball
Choreographed with cheetah's crawl
Dingy hall
Lonely brawl
Savouring the sweetest gall.

Right or wrong
Run along
Perfect judgement from the throng
Grinding gong
Distance strong
Dragging out the sorrowing song.

Float aground
Air bedrowned
Tide is out - inbound
Lost unfound
Upside-downed
Echoing the silent sound.

Forceful slight
Darkening light
Guided by a tailless kite
Temper might
Lessen height
Too polite for fight or flight.

Fire's cold
Spring's old
Timid faces bluffing bold
Tales untold
Blind behold
Memories of Fool's Gold.

A Different Christmas Story

I have a Christmas story to share: my Christmas story. Or rather, God's Christmas story in me. This story didn't start this way. Only afterwards did I realize its meaning, deep, deep down.

Growing up in a Mennonite Christian home, God was a household name. He was everywhere: at school, at church, at home, and at my friends’ homes. However, at thirteen years old, I didn’t understand Him or His call to become a Christian. In fact, I refused His call because I didn’t recognize it. But something quite indescribable nagged and festered in the back of my brain. I could almost imagine it away. Almost. Except when I couldn’t.

Sunday sermons and kindly parents mentioned the call of God. He calls for entrance to your heart. He calls everyone. It isn’t an audible call, but a call of the soul. In a sense, it’s a terrible call because it is far from peaceful. Why, that’s exactly the way I felt. But surely not. I had heard how to accept the call many times. Pray to God. Tell Him you’re sorry for your sins. Ask Him to forgive you. Ah, but that didn’t really make sense. I didn’t think about my sins much. I wasn't that bad. Besides, who said God was calling me?

Something was wrong. I was unhappy and didn't know why. Falling asleep betimes was more of a nightmare than sleep itself. I was depressed and horribly hollow. So I gave in. I couldn't rid my soul of its turmoil, so I asked Mum to help me. With her, I prayed to God for mercy and peace. It wasn’t a “correct” prayer. It was a crude and confused prayer. Somehow, I accepted God's call. Somehow, He entered my heart and soothed my soul.

It was a miracle. Even retrospect can't figure it out. However, morning came, and with it, the real world. What sort of dream had I had? What figment of my imagination had conjured peace? It must have been a farce. My heart seemed a fountain of confusion. Weren't my troubles supposed to melt like mist in the morning sun?

What I thought was a once-and-for-all transformation turned out to be the first step of a life-long sanctification. Through His church and the Holy Spirit, God started teaching. He showed me salvation is simple: just believe. He showed me His presence isn’t an emotional high but a sustaining strength suited for real, everyday life. He showed me that it isn't His plan for my troubles to disappear. Rather they remain so He can reveal the Solution. Most importantly, He showed me what grace really is. He showed me the stark truth: I am a sinner. He showed me that I deserve to be shot dead; only His grace has freely given me life. He showed me and keeps showing me that it’s not about what I have done, but what’s been done for me.

And that is God's Christmas story in me.

Bits of This and That

I have no grand/confusing ideas to discuss. I only have a couple of unconnected details about my current life.

I've been channeling my literary endeavours into my English course, which leaves few moments or meditations for my neglected blog. However, studying poetry has been highly enriching. In the process, I fell in love with E. Pauline Johnson's poems all over again. Forgive me for mentioning her once more, but she's a genius. Here's a link to my current favourite of hers, called "The Trail to Lillooet." Does anyone else want to travel to Lillooet?

Of historical note, did you know that William Shakespeare wrote his plays around the time of Henry Hudson's expeditions and Samuel de Champlain's establishment of Quebec? Which is exactly why I love history; I love discovering fascinating connections. And yes, I am studying a play of Shakespeare's. Hamlet to be precise. Perhaps I am more accustomed to his writing style, but I can actually make heads or tails out of this play.

Besides normal life, I've lived a bit of abnormal life. I was treated to a fantastic vacation in Alberta involving my cousins' weddings (as in there were two weddings, both involving cousins of mine ;). I got to fly! On an aeroplane! Flying shrinks my age 'til I feel like a little kid, except it lacks some of the thrill it once held. However, observing and learning new details nearly makes up for it. By now I have enough nerve to speak with the pilots as we disembark. One copilot's dazed reaction to a question left me wondering whether the question was surprisingly intelligent or especially stupid. Or perhaps he was simply distracted by his girlfriend's messages, for he had been using his cell phone. One can never be completely sure...

Of Age and Time

I thought I enjoyed aging. My impressions have told me that, for some people, aging is a fearful thing. I  never really understood and felt slightly alienated by the difference. 

For some people, childhood was a utopia; one long, carefree summer vacation. Life sprouted complexities during teenage years, but energy eloped with beauty, providing plenty of excitement. However, between young adulthood and seniorhood, something changes. Perhaps it's the mortgages and minivans. Whatever the case, old age appears as Hitler himself. Once again physical beauty has eloped. Even the eyes of the beholder struggle for a glimpse. Glasses are mistaken for protective, bullet-proof devices. Hair and hearing become endangered species, while original joints are altogether extinct. Teeth have attained the status of the stars: they come out at night. 

I don't anticipate diapers and denture glue; I simply view aging differently. Age is beautiful, for age brings wisdom. While physical beauty declines with age, wisdom only grows stronger and more beautiful each day.  Age provides wisdom to appreciate small things. Age provides wisdom to extract every ounce out of life. Age provides wisdom to live more fully.

Or so I thought. I'm not so certain now. You see, age also brings change. Sometimes change is fun; sometimes... it's not. Whether good or bad, life can never be the way it was.

I recently experienced a most curious encounter with time. I was wandering outside at night, under a beautifully clear sky. I raised my hand to obscure the rising moon, when I heard it: a steady tick... tick... tick. Irony of ironies, I thought. Lost in the unchanging timelessness of the heavens, I listened to single seconds silently slipping away - never to return.

"What day is it?" asked Pooh.

"It's Today," squeaked Piglet.

"My favourite day," said Pooh.

Destination: Nostalgia

Beware of the rampage. Consider yourself warned.

I recently visited the drainage ditch behind our place, officially called The Creek. I was awed by the incredible biodiversity. All types of plants, bushes, flowers, rushes, and grasses grow in or along The Creek.  Plus, there are singing insects and their less musical relations; the frogs and their slimy, bubbly noises; and all sorts of watery creatures that I didn't see, but knew were there anyway.

The orderly randomness of nature fascinates me - but it's exceedingly difficult to describe. Essentially, whatever grows best, lives. How can beauty arise from mere competition? 

Parts of The Creek were completely overgrown with flowering bushes. Hidden were the steep banks, hidden were the flowing contours, hidden was the very water. Partially hidden were some sort of red berries that I would have killed for as a kid. And so the journey to nostalgia begins.

Large bushes are a monument to passing time. They never had a chance to grow while certain young boys were on the move. Mighty waterworks we built: large-scale dams, locks, reservoirs, islands, and dredging projects. These grand constructions, however, were products of cognitive maturity. The history of The Creek began years before our brains bloated. The history of The Creek began with a curiously endless succession of muddy pants.

The Creek's entertainment started with its wildlife: both human friends and animals. We were captivated by trying to capturing everything we could: frogs, tadpoles, minnows, crayfish, and even a snake or two. On bold and blood-thirsty days, we armed ourselves with sling-shots and obscure plant bulbs (don't ask me to explain) and set out frog hunting. Luckily for the frogs, our aim was atrocious.

Depending on who you ask, age brought compassion. In this case, it meant tormenting frogs instead of attempting to murder them. We were geeks from the get-go. Cutting-edge technology in the form of odd bits of PVC pipe revolutionized our fun. Bopping frogs on the head grew boring swiftly. A new method involved carefully sucking the pipe full of water and blasting a frog with a tremendous water canon salute. Another favourite was placing the end of the pipe directly beneath a frog and levitating it by blowing bubbles like mad. Fortunately for us, the frogs were too stupid to find a new location along The Creek.

Although summer brought the highlights, winter could be great fun. Well, except for a singular sledding incident. My older siblings constructed a great snow jump on the steep bank - and were too chicken to try it themselves. So yours truly was stuffed squalling into a small sled and shoved heartily down the slope. They thought it was fantastic. My tongue, on the other hand, suffered from a close encounter with my teeth. As you can see, the term "compassion" is rather ambiguous.

The past wasn't without terror - maybe the rustling in the grass was something more than a muskrat! But as I wandered and remembered and relived, I smiled. The memories I have forgotten remain forgotten, for I can't remember that I have forgotten them. My journey ended as I considered nostalgia of itself.

As we know, events happen before nostalgia happens. What would happen if we would switch the two around; have nostalgia before the event happened? What are those feelings of "having been here before" or "having experienced this previously," even though you can't remember when or how?

I have heard the thought that heaven is like earth, only far more real. (And perfect, obviously.) How can something be more real than the reality we live in? But maybe it's this way: maybe the reality we live in now is just the nostalgia. Maybe the love, joy, and peace we experience here feels faded by time in comparison to heaven's reality. Maybe the real event is yet to come.

Am I crazy? Quite likely. But whatever you do, don't hold me responsible for ideas encountered through nostalgia.

Genius

I recently read a compilation of articles by Albert Einstein, titled The World As I See It. Remarkably, this book excludes all mathematical and scientific writings, simply because we're too dumb to catch on. In fact, most people are too ignorant to realize they're too ignorant to understand his theory. 

Years of study are required to understand all the technical terms, much less the concepts they represent. Comprehension of his theory of general relativity won't fully reveal his genius. Only after one digs through science history to discover what knowledge he had to begin his journey; only after one walks in his mental footsteps; only after one comprehends the "before" and "after" pictures; only after one views and understands the progress his theory made - only then can one more fully grasp his intelligence.

However, this book reveals a more personal side. His sense of responsibility towards his fellow humans amazes me. In his perspective, all that he had - including knowledge and relative ease of lifestyle - was a gift from previous generations. Therefore his responsibility with these gifts was to improve them for the proceeding generations. He writes, "The life of the individual has meaning only in so far as it aids in making the life of every living thing nobler and more beautiful." His foremost desire was to make the world a better place.

At least, that's what I understood from the book. I haven't encountered so many new, big words since Wordly Wise in my school days. (Doesn't that make me sound old?) Never underestimate the effect a single word has on a paragraph. Apparently "anthropomorphic" - er - didn't mean quite what I thought it did.

No need to idolize the man, but the mysteriousness of his theory only increases my awe. However, I must admit I admire genius. I see its streaks in the people I encounter every day. And I marvel at it, wondering if they know it too. For I think when God creates people, he only makes geniuses.

I guess I'm pretty stupid - not in a derogatory way, but simply facing the facts. I think it's okay to be stupid, for God doesn't mind so much. Rather, I think He prefers me - us - that way. Cause when we lose our knowledge, then He becomes Wisdom. 

Swiss Cheese

...vowing that this one would be different. This blog wouldn't fizzle out like so many others. I would stick to it and continue posting. Only I didn't, as you can see. Hark! The sound of crunching as I eat my hollow words.

It hasn't been from lack on ideas. No, they have perpetually bubbled from the great artesian aquifer of Thought. Perhaps the abundance of ideas has churned into a marsh I dare not trust. Other things fill my days. Books to read, routes to ride, obligations to fill, and, of course, work. What would we do without work?

Not work, perhaps?

Ho, ho, so silly. Thank you, smarty pants.

Please excuse us for a moment.

Wouldn't it be wonderful to write full time? Devote every day to the craft, instead of only the spare moments. Forget about work. Hide away from annoying interruptions. Find a houseboat home. Enjoy writer's high - and writer's perspective - every day.

Writing is shockingly similar to painting. I prefer realism when it comes to painting, although I admire all styles (excepting cubism, of course). My limited experience has taught me that everything is never as it seems. Let's pretend we are painting a picture that contains a door. Everyone knows that doors have square corners. Okay, so let's ensure the door we are painting has square corners.

Except not so fast. Depending on the perspective, the door we are painting might have very un-square corners. Therefore, to create a realistic reproduction, we must paint exactly what we see - not what we think we see.

In writing, the picture becomes an idea and the paints become the words. The difficulty lies in "painting" the idea how it actually is, not how one thinks it is. The difficulty lies in choosing concise words that portray no more, no less, than the original. How often do figurative doors contain square corners, simply because I have
mis-chosen words.

Differences of perceptions always form; misperceptions always form. This is simply a product of perspective. Ironically - there is always a flip side - these differences and errors produce refreshing individual style, both in painting and writing. The artist's signature appears through the very inconsistencies of which they are unconscious. Yet the term "inconsistencies" is purely subjective. Who can rightly judge one perception as more nearly correct than another? However, when striving for excellence and all realism flees, humour covers a multitude of sins.

Back to the writing dream, I'm afraid it is an illusion. After all, a dream is purely a vacation from reality. To spend time in recluse is to cut oneself off from reality. And how could one portray - and discover - reality when they are isolated in an artificial world?

Dreams are fantastic, but I'm afraid this one is Swiss cheese - full of holes. Yet very well aged.

Introvert's Hour

There should be a law! A law against driving fast during introvert's hour. Punishable with death. Well, maybe not that last part.

Some people refer to it simply as evening. Others call it twilight, or dusk, or even "the dim." One song I know calls it sunset hour. But I've named it Introvert's Hour.

Some days, quite a few actually, just whistle past. A flash, a gust of wind, and then bye bye.  And I get tired of trying to keep up. (No I'm not a senior - yet ;) I wish people and things and places would slow down to a half reasonable pace for once. But other people thrive on seemingly break-necked-ness, so I suspect I'm out of luck. 

In the midst of this hypersonic hubble double bubble appears introvert's hour. The rushing and jostling slows. The pounding and screeching softens. The spinning stops. My highlight is the day's lowlight.

Each one is a masterpiece. Each one is original. Miss one and you've missed it forever. Colourful is an understatement. Bold streaks; tiny blushes; intricate details. No harsh, glaring colours of midday, but soft colours, pastel colours, and married colours. They dance on the clouds, float through the very air you breath, rest in the shadows, and radiate out, out, out - 'til they die the east. Mind you, this is only the backdrop.

Enter the sanctuary of splendor. Silent, except for the earth's ethereal lullaby. Still, except for a slow slide to the east. Here you are free. Free from the interruptions of companions. Free to be alone. To be    s   l   o   w   . To be quiet. To ponder deeply. To recount sadness. To clutch goodness for fear it won't return. To revel in cool winds and warm clothes. To listen to the beating of your heart. To weave dreams into reality. To whisper with Him who loves you. To marvel at mercy. To drowse. To savour the extravagance of life. To delight in small pleasures. To do things, just for old times sake. To cackle over particularly corny jokes. To do sweet nothing - simply because you can. And, of course to drive slowly.

And then it's gone. A vehicle whizzes by, far too rapidly. Natural light fades. Fake light flares. The world throttles up.

Introvert's Hour - cause it's typical introversion; typical introverted recharging. For the through-and-through's, for the half-and-half's, for the mostly-extroverted-with-a-wee-corner-of-introversion. Give it your own name. Call it what you will. But if it happens while I'm driving, just smile as I putter past.

Good Day - Bad Day

Have you ever wished someone a bad week? No, I don’t mean to one of those people who make life difficult. I mean to a good friend. I haven’t either. But sometime, I just might.

Recently, one of my friends wished me a good week. I feel special that they cared enough to tell me. But it set my mind to turning. Suppose, just for once, we’d have a perfect week. Everything would run smoothly. We wouldn’t feel overwhelmed or overstressed. We’d get along with everyone perfectly. What a smashing week! Let’s have another one!  And so we would. And another and another and another. Some people might love it, some people might become bored, I’d say, “Where’s God?”

Cause I’m not perfect and I doubt you are (yet), so perfect weeks are beyond our realm. We may as well accept it: we’re going to face days that don’t run smoothly. We’re going to feel overwhelmed and overstressed. We won’t get along with everyone perfectly. What a smashing week – not in a good way.

So where is God in our lives? When tempers flare and words burn; when stress towers above us; when time denies us a slightly sane pace; when we jerk at the end of our rope. Is He standing off on the sidelines? Or is He in the thick of things, helping us, holding us? It’s our choice. Jesus says “My grace is sufficient for you: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)

Perhaps those dreadful days have a purpose. Perhaps stress is an invitation directly from Christ. Instead of trying to plow through on our own limited strength, God wants us to tap into His unlimited, unfathomable power. That is not to say the bad day will magically disappear. That is not to say the bad day will become a walk in the park. That is to say we will endure, for God will never stop helping and holding us. To the Almighty One, more stress for us means more strength from Him.

So do I dare? Yes! I think I do. I won’t go so far as to wish you a bad week. Instead, I hope you have a good week with a one or two bad days – so God can reveal Himself and His power to you and those around you.

How Long?

I was wandering through the moonlight a couple nights ago. You know those power poles with the cross bar on top? It's shadow stretched across my path and caught my eye. There, in the silvery light, I saw a cross as I'd never seen one before. I wish you could have seen it too. It was ugly. It was menacing. Yet beautiful, all at the same time. Sometimes I wonder if I even begin grasp the slightest idea of the greatness of God's love.

I keep coming back to this poem ever year. :') It's so poignant.

“How long must I put up with you?” 

Jesus’ actions answered his own question . . . 

Until the rooster sings 

and the sweat stings 

and the mallet rings 

And a hillside of demons smirk at a dying God. 

How long? 

Long enough for every sin 

to soak my sinless soul 

That heaven will turn in horror 

Until my swollen lips pronounce the final transaction: 

“It is finished.” 

How long? 

Until it kills me. 

Max Lucado 

from A Love Worth Giving

Deep Riches

I was shutting down for the night, resting with my Bible in my hand, when a thought struck me: there's nothing like the Bible to put me to sleep. I reflected on this statement; comforted. Then the irony washed over me. As if! 

As if the Bible was light, superficial reading. As if the words of the Majestic One could bore my little mind. As if God's Book is the type that drones on and on until I drift into la la land. As if the Maker of the unimaginable could fail to tickle my finite imagination. As if! 

When I consider God's glory and unlimited power, I wonder how His Word could fail to inspire. Then I look at my weakness, and, well, you know how it goes. For if you are like me, not every verse is a rocket-ride revelation. If you are like me, the Bible lies within reach - and too often, stays there. Exciting things fill my mind. My computer keyboard becomes shiny and polished from use, while my Bible remains shiny and polished from lack of use. Maybe, maybe it is time for a new perspective of God's Word. Perhaps I could fill my mind with a different, singular Exciting Thing. 

I have a quick exercise for you. It will take but a second. Find your Bible and pick it up. Hold it for a moment. Just cradle it in your hands. Please be careful, for you are holding part of God. That binding, those thin pages, most importantly, the words - contain part of God! And since your Bible is in your hands anyway, I'll let you find the origin of this thought: the very first verse of John. Isn't it a miracle that God would trust us with something so precious? 

So, what about those times when God's Word seems rather, I don't know, stale? What do you do when God's love letter stops communicating His love? I'm afraid I haven't found a definite answer either. However, there seems to be a certain mystery about the Bible. After all, aren't God's ways higher than our ways; His thoughts higher than our thoughts? Yet "thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy; I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones." (Isaiah 57:15) For "an highway shall be there...  for wayfaring men, though fools, shall not err therein." (Isaiah 35:8) 

God's Word doesn't have to be complicated. He made it for people like you and me. Read God's Word, because I think He wants and waits to talk to you. In fact, I think that He wants to talk to you so much, He can hardly wait for you to give Him some time. I also believe that in waiting - quietly - for Him, He will speak. Perhaps just a little is enough. For I've begun to view God's Word as the Israelite's manna in the desert: enough sustenance for one day. After that, we get to - get to - have some more. 

Jesus encourages us: "Ask and it shall be given you, seek and ye shall find. Knock and it shall be opened unto you." (Matthew 7:7) Read your Bible. Just start wherever. On second thought, I wouldn't recommend the lists of names in 1 & 2 Chronicles. Then again, knowing God and His surprises... So go, search out His ways. Hang on tightly! It's quite a ride as He reveals "the depth of the riches both of the knowledge and wisdom of God! [for] unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways past finding out!” (Romans 11:30) 

Irony of ironies, as God’s presence fills you, His Word just might lull you to sleep. Whether faith or doubt fill your mind, God's power does not change. Whether a storm is beating against your house or your heart, God’s promises remain the same. Rest in His loving words: “Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.” (Isaiah 41:10)

Camaraderie of Literature

I have a delightful, insightful passage to share with you. It comes from the book titled The Master's Violin by Myrtle Reed. An excellent read if there ever was one.

I'm fascinated by the physical book itself. Copyright in 1904, it is over one hundred years old! My mind wanders through the history of this span of time. The paper and binding that I hold in my hand has survived the mistaken glory of World War I. It escaped the perilous, penny-pinching poverty of the Great Depression. Then it soldiered on through the next global conflict: World War II. In fact, it was forty years old by the time the atom publicly unleashed its astronomical power. Danger wasn't past. Its next foe was subtle: consumerism. The post-war economic success ruled: if it's old, junk it and buy a new one. And still it lived on. Today it combats the digital revolution. Liquid crystal is the new paper and binding. And just this morning, it was bombed by cinnamon roll icing. A certain careful reader wasn't quite careful enough.

I love to wonder where this book has been. Whose bookshelf has it sat in? Whose hands have held it? Whose mind delighted in its semi-philosophical lapses? Perhaps someone... No, to begin would only lead further from the paragraphs I am unsuccessfully trying to share.

So here you are:

      "Of the things that make for happiness, the love of books comes first. No matter how the world may have used us, sure solace lies there. The weary, toilsome day drags to its disheartening close, and both love and friendship have proved powerless to appreciate or understand, but in the quiet corner consolation can always be found. A single shelf, perhaps, suffices for one's few treasures, but who shall say it is not enough?

       "A book, unlike any other friend, will wait, not only upon the hour, but upon the mood. It asks nothing and gives much, when one comes in the right way. The volumes stand in serried ranks at attention, listening eagerly, one may fancy, for the command.

     "Is your world a small one, made unendurable by a thousand petty cares? Are the heart and soul of you cast down by bitter disappointment? Would you leave it all, if only for an hour, and come back with a new point of view? Then open the covers of a book.

      "With this gentle comrade, you may journey to the very end of the world and even to the beginning of civilization. There is no land which you may not visit, from Arctic snows to the loftiest peaks of southern mountains. Gallant gentlemen [and ladies, of course ;] will go with you and tell you how to appreciate what you see. Further still, there are excursions into the boundless regions of imagination, where the light of dreams has laid its surpassing beauty over all.

      "Would you wander in company with soldiers of Fortune, and share their wonderful adventures? Would you live in the time of the Crusades and undertake a pilgrimage in the name of the Cross? Would you smell the smoke of battle, hear the ring of steel, the rattle of musketry, and see the colours break into deathly beauty well in advance of the charge? Would you have for your friends a great company of noble men and women who have wrought and suffered and triumphed in the end? Would you find new courage, stronger faith, and serene hope? Then open the covers of a book, and presto - change!"

Sounds a bit like God's Book, doesn't it?

Sky Scrawl

I am sorry that they missed it so completely.

They were inside where the biggest star was the one who could say the funniest things. I happened to be outside where the biggest star was the One who "tells the number of the stars, and calls them all by their names." (Psalm 147:4)

Don't take me wrong. I think relationships are one of the most important, lasting, fulfilling things in life. But like all introverts, I sometimes tire of an incessant cacophony of jokes. Okay, okay, I admit I was slightly miffed. 

It had been overcast all night. I knew what was up there if only the clouds would roll away. I knew it was new moon. I knew the world's greatest light show was happening - only the curtain was still concealing it. So I waited patiently. Well, I thought I knew what was happening. I returned outside. The curtain of cloud had rolled away. 

Awe.

The sky was on its nightly rotation. Millions upon millions of stars. Jupiter, Pleiades, Orion, Sirius, and Cassiopeia arrayed as only they can be. Their friendships seemed deep and ancient, reaching back to "when the morning stars sang together." (Job 38:7)

The ageless beauty always surprises me, but something else was waiting. It was a message. The size of the letters weren't measured by pixels, but by light years. The power of the message wasn't measured by decibels, but amplified by silence. What I saw was a signature - God's signature. 

The magnificent creation was honouring the Creator. The heavens shouted with joy, "Great is the LORD, and greatly to be praised; and his greatness is unsearchable!" (Psalm 145:3) "Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and strength, and honor, and glory, and blessing." (Revelation 5:12)

The glimmering stars scrawled God's everlasting promises across the darkness. God can't help but remind us of His love, "for God is love." (1 John 4:8) Through the silence of His signature, His Word thundered: "I have loved thee with an everlasting love." (Jeremiah 31:3) "Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee. Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands." (Isaiah 49:15,16) "But now thus saith the LORD that created thee, O Jacob, and he that formed thee, O Israel, Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine." (Isaiah 43:1)

Truly "the heavens declare the glory of God." (Psalm 19:1)



I recently received a book called Indescribable. Its title, ah... describes it rather well. It is packed full of amazing, colourful images of God's universe. If you think science-fiction is crazy, then take a look at reality. This book delves deeply into fascinating details - but not so deeply as to lose you in the vastness of outer-space. Coincidentally, one of the authors related an experience similar to mine, which always intrigues me greatly.

And now I will share two excerpts that impressed me especially.

It would take a jet plane flying from the Sun's surface at 800 km/h well over a month... to reach this star's centre. - Thomas Dubay

Ralph Waldo Emerson once asked what we would do if the stars only came out once every thousand years. No one would sleep that night, of course... We would be ecstatic, delirious, made rapturous by the glory of God. Instead, the stars come out every night and we watch television. - Paul Hawken