Home | Paul or Peter

I look up out of the window of my car, shadows of my past press hard against heart denying me many blessing’s as I trifle from the daunting task of meeting new people. Great are the giants that hold back the children of The Living God, from touching the gift’s God would so gently touch their hand.

Plenty strong was the fear as it cast it’s shadow with her dark tentacles pulling at every part of my being, not allowing me to even leave the car, sitting in the driveway waiting like some bored taxi driver buying time until his fare came back.

I was already thick into the gift of God blessing’s, the many gift’s a man might see as he but stumble’s on the path our so Glorious Father. When you witness gift after gift given in such miraculous ways, freely in glorious bounty, how could someone possibly turn their face, or worse yet, hide from meeting yet again another gift.

But such a man was I, no correction, having no problem meeting people I feel comfortable with; unstimulated, unchallenged, never purposeful, unable to prompt inner growth, basically anyone that kept me wallowing in the dirt I so fervently served for years, those kind of people I had no trouble knowing. Maybe it was because I was so secure in where I was at, that it was where I was yet going which prompted the scary, exciting, and challenging sight.

But step out, look into the face, not even the grand confrontation of the eyes of someone who actually might press and ignite that within me, which so desperately tries to shine out, no I think I should just sit in the car and let my mother visit herself the “Hidden Prayer Room”, she so eagerly spoke of.

When all fear was gone what was this that remained, a pride that I have all I need? A confused sense of someone or something seeming different is just to strange to risk yet another change in my already rapidly fluctuating life?

Could this lowly feeling, this whispering voice, this dark lurking creature, hiding under the bed of my youth, or in the dark closet peering out at night be “The Fear of Man”?

What could possibly a man fear, hearing word’s spoken of the another his mother wishes to meet. A Messianic Jewish man, a man who believes in Christ, who built a hidden payer room for people to stay, free of any costs, just to rest their head from the worries and torments of world and soul. Ok, he has also told people on more then one occasion about the “Chair where Jesus Sits”, but haven’t I on more then one occasion shared the two occasions I actually saw Christ?

But here is it still, bar from me any reservation as to the eccentricity, and my own trepidation to change, there remains but one figure between standing on the positive side of a recently crossed river bank, and further venturing into a Promised Land, and that is a giant of proportions that would dwarf Goliath. I say dwarf him because the fear today is amplified by a lifetime’s constant bombardment of all the senses brainwashing out of a child any and all uniqueness, individuality, personal potential, any qualities that might lend a person to believe they are special, created for a unique purpose in this world.

One possibility?;

Somewhere deep in the soul lies a hurt that found it’s way into a young life, most likely seeping into a perfectly created gently sweet adorned room, soft in it construct of mild shades and bright tender hues.

The pastel colored nursery of a child’s heaven, should only be filled with tenderness, love, and compassion; Light shining though cascading streams of soft light colors, warm blankets, and cuddly bears, with puppy dog eyes inviting a feast’s supply of hugs and kisses, mimicking those given in abundance by adoring caring parents. Secure is the furnishings of care, a loving rocker, a sweet bed safe from danger’s, a picture of God’s intent for this young life.

The dark mold slithers it’s way into the crevices that unguarded words and inadvertent neglect, have rumbled small crack’s in the young foundation, most likely at the base of the young house. That in which will no way show it’s evil head until it has grown thoroughly through the walls ultimately bursting out of it’s dark confines.

Demon’s can take on any and all forms, using all the created images that our God placed on this earth, and then warping them into their sinister use. Riding the coat tails of a neglectful father, or a resentful mother, dragged in like the dirt under the feet of wolf who pears through the cracked window hungry for young flesh to devour. Minds of small children misled and shaken by the very people trusted to impart truth, all along their heart’s cry out, because deep down they know the truth, the same truth they have realized at least since they were very little.

“Woe to them that cause these little one to fall, for it would be better for him if he had a millstone hung around his neck and cast into the abyss.”

Let’s examine dark mold for just an instant.

Starting out as the smallest of spores, incomprehensibly tiny, insignificant, even fragile, that such as a small insignificant creature, with stature so minute compared to a man, or woman for that matter, could yet wreak such havoc onto the life and purpose of said child? A man could lay it to waste with but a motion, such is the difference in strength, and it is not until it grows that any damage at all can be inflicted, and only then if it remain hidden, like the coward it is.

It creeps in through small imperfection’s of our home, the mistakes, or stress fractures caused by outward imposed pressures, our home not it’s, for it has to steal into that which is ours by design.

I needs to despoil nutrients from the house, taking from the structure, those parts that are meant for support, meant by God to help with the child’s growth; wood beams, floor boards, insulation, parents, family, friends, the church, school, and then it eats at them slowly almost undetected for years. Interlacing its black roots throughout the framework of the structure.

Oh by the way it has to be near the water, life giving water, that which again was created for the purpose of good; encompassing health, growth, nutrition, cleaning, healing, water is stolen and turned to it’s dark purpose, to facilitate rotting and make more room for more of it’s dark self. Ever greedy, every hungry, slimy, stinky, the worst kind of fowl blackness.

Taking that which is designed for good, like the church, and interweaving guilt and judgment, forging ideals that separate, push people away, kill, and stifle, instead reaching out in love, forgiveness, grace, and tenderness, as intended. The dark pulls back into dark recesses, sucks the water in and converts it to filth.

What is of the purest, clean, clear, freshest, conceived in the very heart of the Father, when her water was intended for wrapping warm comforting arms around this small boy child, pulling his arm close to her, in soft secure grip of loving tenderness, holding this young son of God close against her bosom, safe from the loneliness that this life would so speak into his ear, how could something so good, so true, ever be turned?

Some of the darkest most sinister attacks come right out of the swaddling of those closest, and intended for the most good, such as the church. Children of pastors, persecuted by homes riddled with dark cracks, have the greatest of difficulty, for the very institutions that where designed to help them, become their jailers holding them in a secret cell far from view, or deep under the ground from detection.

But greater is the calling to those who have the greatest challenges in this life! The veins of mold run so deep and thoroughly throughout some structures, often a complete bulldozing is only the beginning of the cleansing that must surely occur.

Thank God, he made the bulldozers as well, and they are under His call.

Black mold hides from the light, it is attracted to the dark, and it can only grow in dark damp places. Hiding not only it’s face from the life giving light, but if the light shines on it it’s entire existence dries up and withers. By the time the darkness finally starts showing its face in the light, the amount of the infestation is so great, and bold is its defiance even to the light, only a complete destruction and reconstruction can save the home.

Oh by the way, it’s spores are deadly. People can die long before it is discovered.

But remember my dear brothers and sisters, the light is there, it’s everywhere, it is our walls that the shadow lurks within, those same walls that hold us back from getting out of our chair and claiming the full discovery of the gift God would gave for us. They are the walls that stop us from seeing God’s face in every gift that places her sweet hand in ours. It’s our own house that keeps the light from shining into the dark places.

Take down the veils, open up the shades, make the walls transparent as pure crystalline gold an the darkness must die! Tear down the walls, those built by our parents, our experience, the world, ourselves, and only then can the cool spring breezes, the very breath of God, His Word’s, blow through the finely lit halls of God’s glory.

My desire to keep hidden, to remain behind my veil, sit in my car almost cost me one of the most significant blessings of my life, to meet such a powerful man of God, a sweet teacher, a blessed friend, an officer in His army beckoning to another; “come put out your hand”.

Funny how mold works.

But there is another possibility?

An influx of a specialist into the battle field!

The enemy mustering at the edge of a clearing, within safe retreating distance from the tree’s, can at time represent an almost overwhelming opposition, especially when the new young warrior to the battle field, has allowed years of assembly to accumulate.

I ponder the question asked of me only hours ago as I relate and raise the statement of frustration I have heard more and more from believers; “why do my efforts to fight obvious persecuting thoughts and temptations seem to progress without effect?”

Understanding the enemy is key int the ultimate hope to realize victory.

Going into battle daily for the cleaning out of the lurking enemy within the forest’s of our mind, can be a time consuming and somewhat frustrating activity, especially early on. For those of great calling, of which anyone reading this, I am sure with any confidence granted me by the keys from above to unlock those dormant rooms, would reveal the fact that many are the enemy that have been assigned to pester, tempt, ridicule, frighten, and distract, and even inflict a young potential officer in His army, to thwart him or her from the greater task at hand.

Perhaps even a Century of enemy troops stand between defeat and eventual confrontation with the leader, the Centurion that directs the rest. Getting rid of the these directing cowards is key in taking dominion of the second heaven within the mind. But let us for sake of literal content assume that our young believer, you, represented in this story have already been diligently cleaning house.

Stepping onto the battle plane, and taking in the scene before me, first it is necessary to take into the eye the structure of what I see. The battle field is always a place of destruction, it is the place where we have put to death those things that keep us from the victory and dominion of our house in entirety. Dark is the soil from the rich deposit’s of fertilizer, the many death’s of sin and self, that have already preceded. It doesn’t take an Einstein to know that the darker the soil, the more fertile and greater the garden that said soil will produce.

Oh yes granted, we have given leadership to our house, and Jesus, recognized and undisputed Son of the Living God, God personified and come to earth for one purpose, to grant to us the ability and Way to come back to the Father, a payment of our debt, He has been given rule. But we still have to make the choice each and everyone of us, for each and every dirty thing we have called our own, face them, identify them, and drive them out. Christian’s can sin, for that you need look no farther then the author of this article.

That means; armor up, go to the battle field, find them, make them identify themselves, and then attack!, if they don’t go running with their tail tucked, screeching like a stuck pig. It’s true, I’ve seen it!

And while todays assignment is not fully exploring the tactics, attacking postures, strategies, armaments, and available troops the enemy might throw at someone, we will for the sake of redundant reading limitations assume that said warrior has been to the battle field on more then a few occasions, cleaning house for the most part of the majority of enemy troops assigned to keep him or her from gaining and granting dominion over their house, and also displaying said house in the full clarity, with the face of Christ.

So there you have it, a house clean swept through more then the average bears attempt to power spray, and the marked results; a significant reduction of attempts of the enemy to try to make you fall, will often lead to lulls in the action whereby attacks and lurking enemy seem difficult to find.

The enemy does, for that matter, only have a enumerated number of troops, and while that account may very well be difficult for us mortals to wrap our minds around, they are limited all the same. The enemy know’s to waste troops on a futile effort as to harass one of The Father’s officer’s, is no more effective then trying take down said warrior with a snow ball, thrown from a great distance, in the blazing warmth of the clear summers sun in Phoenix Arizona. Of course that’s not to say he won’t occasionally take a shot.

The enemy might decide to send in a specialist.

Scene; There sit’s our young warrior basking in the sun of a green grassed hill, sword casually lying at his feet, not out of neglect but because the need to pick it up and slice the throats of enemies, incapacitate them then bind them up and cast them out, like yesterdays old newspaper. This activity has become less a challenge and more of just an occasional fox hunt, when he has a notion.

Oh he’d be the first to admit there are a couple of foxes probably out there still causing havoc, but for the most part, the hen house has been free of harassment lately, and when there is a very accurate shot standing guard, foolish is the fox that tempts his aim. Much is the fruit of a calm hen house, constant and steady flowing production of good life giving gift’s.

Peaceful days, and a warrior lying in the grass, one might say his bottom has even impressed into the slope the contour of a chair. His eye and hand examining one of the perfect flowers the Lord has graced our young child with.

Gently must he consider the tender flower, because fragile are her pedals, and while he has clearly the Lion standing a vigilant guard within, ready at any moment to pounce into action at but a Father’s call, so does he also have the Lamb of Christ. The lamb who has branded the man’s heart with tenderness, compassion, gentleness, learning in sync every move of battle is intertwined also with a method and manner of healing. Balance is always a key for success.

Suddenly and gently as the sweet scent of morning flowers wrap her slender fingers around his heart, a soft warm barrier descends upon him completely engulfing his upper torso, distinctly strong around his head arms and chest. This supernatural armor that seems to descend, usually precipitates something very Godly is about to happen. The world perhaps has called this intuition, a sixth sense, but this gift God grants is a reactionary calling out of his armor, for just as Jesus said in Luke 19:40; “I tell you that, if these should hold their piece, the stones would immediately cry out.”

His eye lifts but a moment from his careful examination of the flower, he glances towards the horizon resting above the slope of the opposing hill, noticing directly the brown haze that seemed to also decent upon the land. It is the dust of the footfalls of that which is mustering pressing the hill, gathering for some kind of attack.

As the opposing horde begin’s to squeeze in on the territory of our young warrior, but no less importantly then that, the area of the land he has been assigned to protect, his post, the warrior remains in the safe garden comfort of recline in his now moss touched chair.

For the keen sight has shown him there is a giant among them.

There is no immediate danger, they are still along way off, and there is the question of the giant!

Not that giants hold as much of a grip on him in the fear department, that they once did, for he has slew more then a few of their filthy brothers before, and with each, the ease of disposal increases. But there still remain the unknown factor, it is still a bit distant to get a good eye on exactly what is out there clearly, that unknown, lends it’s own factors of uncertainty, and it is a giant!

Let us further examine even as Jesus spoke about the stones speaking, the further context that might apply.

Luke 19:41-44

As He approached Jerusalem and saw the city, He wept over it, and said; “If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace-but now it is hidden from your eyes. The days will come upon you when your enemies will build an embankment against you and encircle you and hem you in on every side. They will dash you to the ground, you and the children within your walls. They will not leave one stone on another, because you did not recognize the time of God’s coming to you.”

But praise God Jesus immediately also gives the solution, for in the very next scripture Luke 19:45-46

When Jesu entered the temple courts, he began to drive out those who were selling. “It is written,” he said to them, “‘My house will be a house of prayer’; but you have made it ‘a den of robbers.’”

Ok back to the young prince sitting in the grass.

Like I said ever alert is He for any and all attack’s, having the Lion’s strength and stature, also means he has His senses!

It is but a moment’s moment and he realizes the foul smell of something lurking close!

A demon!

He rolls quickly to avoid a quick attack that now only slices air in a snake like hiss, striking the ground where only moments earlier his head stood.

A scout, dispatched by the giant to deliver a head wound of fear that without doubt would have paralyzed, if not defeated even a fraction of a lessor warrior, but such is the seasoned veteran to these feeble attempt’s, that it was but a fraction of a moment before the true author of that cat piss smell was easily recognized, and likewise only a marginal evading move with consequent circle slice and yet another frog faced demon head goes tumbling down the hill.

Our warrior’s jaw set in determined indignation, but a smidgen of a smile, for the Lion has completely engulfed him in ferocity and confidence. His eyes set on the prey that awaits across the plain. What is amazing, is as froggies head goes rolling casually down the hill at his feet, the entire troop including the giant come to an immediate and abrupt halt! They are suddenly frozen by the blast of the Lions Roar that just crashed through their dark senses, they are frozen like pillars of salt, with one exception, the shaking of their knees can clearly be heard even from here……

running is really their only chance!

I look up out of the car window at the smile of the strangest Jewish Man I have ever seen. Draped in a purple bath robe, sweet joyful smile mapping his face as far as the east is from the west, white hair like the rays of the sun sticking out from his balding head, encircling his loving face like a streaming aurora. Difficult it is to make out any of those qualities though, past the sparkling diamonds shining out from the eyes so deep with so much wisdom and purpose, that a man comes directly to the realization that many are the volumes that couldn’t contain but a fraction of waits within.

“Come on in for a bit” he says.

Getting out of a seat, facing challenges, fears, giants, in this realm or another, is a magnificent calling we should all but feel honored to take. Great are the giants that stand in our way, greatly microscopic in comparison to what we have been given.

We all have our chairs we long, and fear, to leave.

By Peter Colla

For Peter Laue

“Dear Lord Jesus, thank you for the wisdom You have so graciously granted me. Help me further to use that wisdom ever seeking to demonstrate Your face not mine. Thank You for all the skills You have given me, either by my experience, training, or those you have breathed into me with the various experiences my senses have acknowledged throughout my life. I praise God You have given me all I need to overcome any battle.”

Basking in the flowering scents of rolling waves, light colored hughes, dancing across peddled blossom light flavored curly cues, my eye is capture by the balanced beauty, as I run my fingers through the gentle grasses of her soft blonde hair. So carefully the clear waters flow through glimmering pebbles of sparkling silvers, a rainbows pallet of golden shimmering, more spectacular then the jewels of Solomon’s crown. So are the soft spoken words from her lips that gently blow through and among the stones that line the banks of my mind.

As I walk through the cool soil with the soft young grasses tickling my feet, their cold damp leaves caressing soles and soul, my thought’s meander into the construct of the gift, a beautiful area dedicate and delicate to growth in this life. So does a garden grow as two people speak in God’s graces, with and in all the gift’s He so generously give’s.

What is God if not a great and glorious Lord breathing into existence all this little man, this boy child of only the most limited sight, no blind, deaf even to the thunderous Word that He spoke and speaks continually in all flowered scented wonders. Grand if but in majesty of shading from sun’s warm touch, has presented to a child yet again if and through a like child’s sweet sound as she plays near.

Can a simple man even comprehend but a fraction of the splendor he has been given, the creation as she in turn creates.

An examination may be in order, a contemplation of his soul, turning towards spirit, with a look inward to the deeper inner peacefulness, the light and love that in itself burns lightly yet brightly within.

From steadfast supplied wick and oil, he humbly reaches inside with pure and penitent hand, asking a Good and Loving Father for an ear, as a child sits at His feet playing quietly soft and dear, lifting his small lit lamp yet again up for his prayer’s demand.

In the stead of a beckoning world ever pulling from just below the surface of this temple, polluted by all those who have entered to buy and sell, they who plant their own weeds within the garden flowers that are just beginning to bloom, ever should I strive to drive them out.

Safe are the new seed’s within the solid walls resting just between sanctuary of the inner court, and that outer world that threatens beyond, is the mind’s courtyard, the virgin field, in which any possible garden can grow.

If the eye is the lamp to the soul, so again does a mouth contain all the tools that a simple man might need to build any type of one’s desired garden. Doesn’t this earth we think is so real, merely exist within but the fractional spaces of varying presentations of semi states of energies, whispers of yesterdays thunders? That’s what scientist’s say. Those pondering’s can wait for another day.

Back to the grass covered gardens!

A world of Word’s created by the blending of the Father’s greatest creation’s, two of His precious children, as they wrap their tender finger’s hand in hand, lacing themselves in a fabric of multicolored splendor. I close my eyes but a moment and gently bask within the sight unfolding before me.

For lying within my vision, stretching out before me, is a garden bursting forth in majestic splendor. Springing from the deepest blackest soil, yet not a blackness that is devoid of light, but a dark soil that is full of life, reflecting within it’s rainbow of colors sparkling, like gems of crystal wealth, for this earth gives life as quickly as it breath’s in the life giving light, eagerly taking and giving as much as possible, reflecting but a fraction, only that which it can not contain. There is such an abundance! Soil full of the nutrients of our past, using as rich fertilizer much needed for the growth yet to come.

The clear cool stream meanders from the heart of the Word, a river of life gently rolling without impedance, touching and caressing every part with water’s of life, cool in His touch, healing, ministering, teaching, all in gift received and given.

Grasses of every shade of green, light oranges with subtle pearly yellows, and blades of crisp white her sapling’s erupt in a soft carpet blanketing the ground, tucking it’s waiting breath into the neck of this lonely man’s sleeping chest. She gently places her words lightly against waiting arm, as welcome as the warmth breath of a down filled dubay on a cold winter’s night.

Tales of yesterday, painting a picture of garden stone’s, a gentle path for perfect feet to step through grassy patches of blossoming puddle’s, brushing lightly aside without break, their clean scented fragrance of sweet rose, magnolia, gardenia, with just taste of violet, and daffodil. Only moments later blooming jasmine erupts, laced with pomegranate, the sweet spiced smells with sprinkled scented herbs, fills a heart with each bare footed step the words tell.

So sweetly can she meander through the steps that were coldly intended, what was years ago dark, pain and despair in past, his dark faced so used to whisper in ears, such a heartless enemy, but now she just dances gracefully along in transformed tranquility, born again in heart, her light, beautiful steps, each perfect in place, graciously caresses the surfaces of the wanting stones, to the sounds of their beckoning cries; “please but for a moment touch me!”

Many shade’s of green, small shrub-ling’s abound, purple edged, blue greens, subtle earthy browns, with just the touch of lighter hue’s speckle their small bushes, branches bowed in holy supplication ever turning head down in reverence for the Lord. Their quiet refuge for God’s smallest creatures, gentle servant’s who’s existence a calming peace in my heart provide, how soft is the touch of their ears to my child’s eager hand.

With every breath of His sweet child’s mouth, the canvas of color erupts across the field, a pallet of every shade and hue, stronger words paint grand majestic tree’s, built on firm legs, rooted deep in God’s good soil, grounded solidly in the faith that put them there, only in faith, not works, love’s toil.

They spatter the countryside as the ever expanding horizon unravel’s before my eye, in the perfect display of grand forestry with just enough trees of all types and sizes, they present a soft shade beneath to add to her mystery, leaving so much more for discovery.

Fruit tree’s of all types, white blossom of pure cherry, the tangy fresh smell of all young citrus, plum and peach all giving every delight a man could ever fathom, and many never even dreamed.

How beautiful is the slender apple, so much of her being wrapped within the life she give’s, strong in arms, enveloping firmly around all in her care, for as much she must lift, more so does she hold tenderly to her bosom, all who fall within her love’s breath sight. But stronger still are her thigh’s, harder yet must she stand ground with her feet firmly in God’s soil, holding tight, so she can weather the storms that most assuredly will come.

There is righteous pride granted her by the Father Himself, adorning her head in beautiful majesty, for He know’s that not from the soil was she made, from above the ground she was conceived, above in lifted majesty, never quite finding home in the ground, but from the man was she drawn, and in like she is drawn back. Sweet is the abundant fruit of her obedient branch.

Majestic blossomed branches reaching out in majestic strength, her gentle long curves stretch high in glorious praise, even as the soft delicate flowers rain down with the soft spoken words that dance along the recesses of a man’s scarred heart. They bend only slightly to gentle wrestlings of the springs breeze as the same the many flowers also below do.

Fragrant are the white spring blossom’s falling down a perfect cheek of her lovely canvas, down like the tears from the eyes of this little boy, gathered all in royal coffer at God’s feet, among the greatest of His treasures. So winged in solemn gathering fly His many angels, to retrieve the greatest of Hs treasures,

the tears produced in the words planted in the gardens of our soul.

By Peter Colla

“Dear Lord Jesus, thank you for your wonderful creation, even those in the hollows of my heart. Let that mind, body, and heart only be in You, as You are in me.”

Standing before me, hands held up in solitary presentation, My young son holds up for Me to see, lifting his treasure high before My eyes, his face both eagerly pleads and lovingly presents a gift of his own hand. Written on his face the only truly pure pride, a gift of his wanting to share with his Father that which he has made. With wanting eyes and a soft tender word he asks in a most sincere and needing way;

“Daddy look what I have.”

What does he but ask, directing my attention only but a moment from the regimented activity I have entertained myself repeatedly for infinitely longer then but the moment he request’s?

How cold has it become the soul of my mind, the cruel sound of my own words void of light;

“Not now!”,

as I hustle him from before view, with an unconcerning brush of my hand, to not distract my eye but a moment from yet again some meaningless endeavor playing before me in spectacle, who’s outcome will grant no effect in my life or that of any around me. When did I become so selfish?

But harder yet, the image I certainly must face, in this life, if not the next, as to the look I certainly know his face showed, as he turned in disappointment and walked away. That sweet saddened face as yet again a father pushes aside, looking inward as to try to find but a reason why his father does not have time for him. He walks away head down, but to hide the tear, a tear yet again for it must be him.

What a fool I have been, says this so selfish father I see before me. How many treasures has his son had, that this father was not there to share? Gifts given if but to see, the child’s presentation handed with love for an opportunity but to share, in a piece of what has become a essence of his growth, a part of what is to become him, forever missed, never to share.

How many games did he play, where an unexpected and even miraculous catch was made, just to see in his minds eye a son who looks to the crowd, searching for a father’s absent smile to share. A fish on the line without the fathers strong hand to help the excitement that must surely ascend. Where smiles of joys become frowns of pain, for no other reason then the inward cries of his own shame. Why is he not there?

Does dad not even care, what did I do?

It must be that, because it is not lack of love, for does he not encase that love, for I love him? So slithers the voice in his sweet ear.

No it must be me, the small child says, until one day he stops lifting small hands, and no longer looks to the crowd. Again the snake laughs.

“Look at what I made,” my baby says.

When is pride a good thing? When is it balanced on the tone of a soft spoken song gently resonating into an ear of One that never gets to tired to hear? A symphony of tones creating fields of flowering scents in life’s pure love.

Maybe each and every time a heavenly blessed child brings that jewel of discovery before a Perfect and Good Father. Before an eye that never looks away, from the small hands that so want to praise.

What could be greater in the treasury of a good Father’s praises, the coffer’s of treasures at His feet, then all of the gift’s his most precious child would offer to see. Wanting but to share in his life’s most delicate flower’s as the subtle peddles are held in those most cautious fingers, softly holding up for but a Father to touch, how could His heart not burn with joy.

How could He? Let me but try.

Being a father myself as well, I can but give a taste of what I might feel, a glance at the table of such a feast, one of healing, life, light, and love.

When I take but a moment, and give love’s look, for the Good Father is this without end, I can tell you that my heart burst’s with a joy that can not be contained, an exploding star pressing within the edges of my mind, fires burning un-contained, filling a spirit with every essence of God’s good that ever was the thought and purposed in this His creation.

That even the Father must find it hard, with shimmering strain, to see through the rivers of tears that burst forth from His own eyes, when presented with but a glimmer of love and joy on a face of whom exhibit’s with all of its pure peaceful majesty, a small child, his small gift, difficult but well does He manage.

The shear joy in both Father and son, an exchange, but also blending of spirit, as they in their turn both receive good. So can He not refuse as His son with each and every gift, bring hungering hand to the feet of the Father, a golden gift, a cherished alter, where a good and faithful son so cherished his praises bring.

Rose scented offering’s, gliding whispering’s, that transcend without encumbrance through the darkened halls of this age, passing malice and malcontent on their journey’s narrow path, bringing this sweet child’s soft gift to a Father’s waiting bosom. A prayer without end, a gift of all jeweled majesty, bringing but for a moment a smile across the face of a Christ, if but a moment, but as well for all time, for both in but one, can so flow in the heart of a Father that can never forget, never tire, see only love before His eyes, the gift of love so freely given, freely given by the child.

The product of a difficult job well done, that perfect spelling test, a son’s first home run, his hard earned “C” grade, or a truly spectacular catch, that so pretty picture sketched from the hand of a man’s perfect child, a gift of but a clay model of undistinguishable shape, so pure is the praise of such a gift. So equal are the tears of joy such a good Father feels.

How special to experience but, oh so much more when the Father is there to see. Oh so much more the experience of a father, seeing the joy, the life, in the eyes of My child, when you come to Me.

A gift of Praise.

By Peter Colla

“Dear Lord, let me never miss a single chance to experience that perfect gift You dear Jesus have given me as a father, but also as a representation of the Father, let me bless but a fraction You bless each and every time we come to You with hands held high, in true, acceptable, and noble pride.”

So sweet is the sounds as it filters through the chambers pulling softly in the mind of a Father his child’s need, her soft cry slices effortlessly through the congestion of a never ending buzz, created in the life we have so casually called our home. This constant state of endless discourse, blaring televisions, and conversations directed not necessarily towards anyone, but more to the self-satisfying acknowledgement of self, hold’s no barrier to the love driven calls of His child in need.

The sound of her voice cuts through the mayhem with such clarity, it is in but a fraction of a moment, when her cry has but just begun, that an immediate response is not only initiated, but can hardly be ignored.

A Father can no less turn from the beckoning cries of His child then He can shut off His face from life itself. Resting within the sounds of such a sweet voice, is the essence of everything He loves about her, the very music of her mouth, the gentle tones filling sonnet’s of her soul’s music, even laced in the cries of her hunger.

A father has but a few moments in life where He has opportunity to not only hear someone He love’s, who absolutely and completely love’s Him call out, but becomes the only instrument able to fulfill that need.

The baby needs a bottle.

As the night progresses from the day, and a tired mother rests her head, but for a moment, being she was oh so busy all day long, then fall’s the task upon the hand’s of the father to give the baby that bottle she needs later in the evening. He never turns away from the privilege such a wonderful gift grants, making ever so much more a layer of garden fresh pedals round His heart. For it is in this service that health is most certainly delivered unto him.

With beckoning eyes, and the sweetest spirit, the longing cheeks of a beautiful baby glance up as He reaches down to take her from the crib. Lifted gently up from earth into the realm of the air, the young spirit envelopes her trust in the arms of the Father in receivership of that love and support those infinitely strong arms provide. Floating freely so are the earliest thoughts, coinciding perfectly with similar accounts, many have shared at the end of life’s toils. Is she but a moment flying?

Warm is still the place she just moments earlier rested her most precious head in quiet slumber. But warmer still is the bosom of acceptance her loving life clings to with tender hands and strong fingers. A scent of babies breath fills the air as Father breathe’s in every fragrant that bring’s needed healing to his hard worked and not so tired soul. Such sweet smell fills the essence of his being, making His heart long to take such pure perfection in his waiting hand’s.

So can also the Father receive healing? As he takes her and wraps His arm’s around, for as the young child lies against His chest is it not comprehensible that both Father and child benefit? I know from experience they do.

Soft be the beautiful hands as they reach up to the Father, His own eager hands reaching as well to her in response to her cries. For He does not solicit the cry, but He never backs away, from her need’s that she has, He will so gladly meet.

She knows His strong safe grip all to well, as she melts into His hold, with out fear or resolve, reaching up then grabbing tightly she seems to melt into his heart. Immediate her crying stops to be replaced by love’s sweet smile, and how contagious it is, as it’s duplicate erupts across the Father’s face.

Is this how it is when any a child calls to the Father?

And while I am sure, I can certainly not speak for all father’s, there is one that I can speak with the greatest of confidence, knowing Him intimately, for He abides in me, and I in Him. For as the Father has felt, and knowing it is good, and further understanding all good things come from Him, then all doubt passes away as I conclude; so does also the Father feel when His son cries out.

But the Father knows the need of the child even before the need is realized by the child herself. For the bottle is waiting, ready for but the call, given freely after only but a moment’s preparation. The work for it’s creation set down long before the need ever arises, would in no way reduce the gift of need being met.

Does He mind giving to her that which she needs, I say no? Is that not what He has worked for, is that not what He has lived for? Is it not what He would die for? Gladly!

But further I would offer, the greatest pleasure is not found in getting the gift of life and bringing it to her, the greater pleasure is not even stopping the crying, or the answer to the young prayer of the child, the greatest pleasure lies within the seeing such a product of pure love, giving and receiving both at the same time love in the bottle of life, in the eyes.

Seeing the eyes of the child as she looks up into the loving eyes of the Father. The eye’s, the lamps to the soul.

He sees the love, undeniable satisfaction, that coupled with safety and thankfulness, blended with heart wrenching joy, radiating from the eyes of His little child as she looks into His own, grants a complete and final satisfaction. If but a moment, to the utter and complete necessity of Him doing exactly what He need’s to do, at this very moment, and no other.

It would be impossible for a Father not to tear from the sweet sounds of gentle satisfaction her soft voice makes as she drinks. I know because impossible it was for me.

Soft as she lies,

her warm chest against mine,

a Father can feel that heart beating

young babies breath so divine.

And try as you will,

a tear but longing to hold,

can never Father’s head turn aside

away from her crying truth be it told.

Her sweet eyes call Him out,

His ear so but longs to stay

wanting, needing but to give

away child’s hunger in such a day.

Love is only the small charge,

a good Father ask’s in His pay

glorious flower in passing wake

beauties blossom His heart’s lay.

So is it but Glorious Father

as I come pleading to You

and call to Your bosom

with my own tears silent hope anew.

This young child reaching up

for his Father will but see

the need in his calling

though all chaos this world might be.

Lift me up dear Jesus

so my spirit would but fly

and take me into Your arms

holding tight as I might try.

You so loving bring me in

to your bosom for my need

and with loving eyes do you caress

loving prayers my tongue’s plead.

No need is to great,

no want goes unheard

from heaven’s rest’s loving Father

already granted in His word.

For there I sit fondly,

a small child do I lay

resting quietly on Fathers shoulder

in the warmth there I stay.

So is it for one Father,

as he hold his child so close

knowing he in turn receives

love abounds, a gift for Him the most.

By Peter Colla

“Dear Lord Jesus, help me call to You Father, You who washed me clean, give me the strength to reach up, and the wisdom to know when I am in Your arms.”

Sitting in this chair, this most glorious chair, Jesus’s chair, nearly three years after my first visit to Peter’s, I come to the realization that so very far down a path I have come. A dance that was precipitated not all to long ago, could have been developed, oh so much differently had I but softened my heart and lightened my step. A dance card that has been more empty then filled, might have been traded for a warm partner to share nights fearful storm with, under the warm safety of her arm’s delight.

But here I am, still rocking to the beat of a quiet clock ticking slowly in it’s own solitude beat, just beyond the walls of recognition. God is so a God of restoration, and for the heart that ask’s, He will but grant, if we have but the courage to face our giant’s and put back those fear of yesteryear’s.

Who is such a man, that He would give such a gift as restoration to one but as foolish as I, for out of His loving hand passes only gifts of such unbelievable beauty and tenderness, that only fear of finally finding peace and happiness could keep one from jumping head first in to it’s cool refreshing waters. But so do more then a majority of fools stand, for gifts have been given, only to see the back of the one asking, as he walks, no runs away.

I had such a chance, for in she walked, with arm’s and heart open for but this simple man to rest his weary head. The joy’s of immediate recognition, an image pop’s out of a screen, and conversation erupts into a friendship that seemed endless. A friendship perhaps for eternity, even before eyes gentle light reflected off the cheeks of the other.

I remember with longing heart, the first day when ear and heart glanced her way, the vision of everything and nothing surrounding my view, was only in remembrance of a face. So sweet a smile, wide mouth of incredible beauty, a smile that never left a face for hours of time, no weeks, yes months. No recollection of what we ate or who else spoke, but merely the soft touch of a hand against mine.

I always liked the story of the Banyan tree, for strong are the great trees that our fine God has given us, sure and stable, lifting arm and eye ever towards God in simple reverence; “Thank you for creating me”, they most assuredly say. Many a majestic tree has deserved a word, but in my mind the Banyan tree stands out, for among the sandy shore of island paradise lives many a tree and flowers to delight every sight, smell, and taste. But alone is the Banyan for to stand if and when the storm comes.

There have been more then a few native islanders that have saved their own live’s and those of their families, by lashing themselves and said love ones to this tree, in a last desperate attempt to save them from the oceans fury when the larger storms come. This is because the Banyan tree reaches out and plants firmly it’s arms into the ground in reverent bow, making it but impossible to topple.

But even the largest Banyan tree’s are no match for the largest Cyclones of the South Pacific, storms of such magnitude they dwarf our own hurricanes in comparison. But the natives have found when they find a mated pare of Banyan tree’s, two in which they have intertwined their arms, even the largest Cyclones can not topple.

So such is a one that I had found, one that could not be toppled. Her being such as one that not only cares, but compliments, whereby making you feel infinitely better then you could have ever been alone, making you want to be better in yourself, this kind of woman is truly a treasure. One that wanted to see your own success and advancement before her own, and stood by with applause when the day came, such a woman would you face armies for.

A woman that you could pray with, seek God with, walk this journey with, in this life and maybe the next, because the thought of a best friend was something you had become intimately acquainted with, finally. Some one you loved to hold, more then life itself, and the warmth of her breath’s fragrance would fill your soul well into the night long after she has gone. This kind of woman you would die for.

But the giants were to new, the battles came on to quick, and the training of the warrior had barely begun. For she said it herself. Now many moons have passed and officer’s training has been nearly complete, and seeing the loss of a battle never engaged sends this man’s heart ever looking back from distant hilltop.

But now the lone Banyan stands, arm’s bowed in God’s reverence, for many and fierce are the storms that are coming, and unfortunately so alone must I stand.

How does one ask for forgiveness when he but turned and ran from giants of the past. For these unscalable mountains that have held him back from the very same happiness, from even well into the recesses of his youth. Pushing him ever to go around, or to turn back from every kingdom his heart sight, that which God may have placed in his path. Always the fear of finally finding God’s grace, how could he but be worthy, for to taste her sweet touch and to but again lose her would be more unbearable then his mind could hold. So was Goliath.

But as I walk around the shores of this clear lake and dream a dream of yesterday, remembering fond conversations of a life’s anew, I wonder if but a God can grant yet another chance for such a sad fool?

Great is the tasks He has given this lonely soldier, and lonelier still if he must face them alone, but push on though he may, with steps never wandering, furrowing along country road he will roam.

How does one say, forgiveness to plead, a fool though he has been, how does a man tell of his fear? Maybe this day, Good God will but advocate, and chance will but bring her again to him near.

So soon is it not, no more from those days, of long sleepless nights and cold winters day’s, for long have the memories of life’s long past dreams, leaving behind those cold nights awful scream’s.

A race still to run, and a job still but to do, given in orders by Him we freely accept a heart’s true, would but not falter in lessons to give, with hearts anger laughter make, to walk on in quiet step marching order’s to take.

How deeply did I know your heart did I break, when walking away, with no word did I make, but forget but I could, and walk on in stride, no man and no pride, I’d continue the path with but a glance back I would.

For stars have lost their wonder, even while lying them under, and all of God’s glory, mountain victories abound, but dull are their lamps glory, with but her soft hand not around.

For nothing can be done and no word can be said, for the lot has been drawn, so must he lie in this cold bed, for foolishly and with fear did he turn and make haste, into wilderness once more his lost love did he waste.

Wilderness is my post.

You know who I wrote this for!

By Peter Colla

“Dear Jesus, help Your poor son, if but one more time, a chance to leave the wilderness. This soldier is tired, he is cold, and it’s late, but I know if you would, that out there somewhere is another walking along the same path, going the same direction, and if You would but give one more grace, give me yet again the blessing, the wisdom, and the courage to reach out my hand and take hers, for this Banyan tree doesn’t want to stand alone.”

The aroma meanders through the chamber like a soft cool summers breeze, dancing on the edge of the senses with the soft footed gentleness of the most beautiful young princess, a whisking of flowing light garments. It touches the inner senses with a deep sense of satisfaction, feeding the hunger of body’s pure delight. It’s very bouquet has the amazing ability to both satisfy and illicit further hunger.

A golden loaf of light browns and earthly tans, crusted flakes, out from the warmth that bursts from within. Light goes in, binds to the essence of the pure white grain that rest under the surface, wrapping it’s arms around the bread that will not give, but sustain life. Heat, warm light, God’s created gift of being presented to the body for the nourishing of its parts, given by God for all parts equally, needed and free with love.

There is just a singe on the bottom where the bread came in contact with the fire baked stones, heat and fire to erupt the life generating processes that expand this wonderful gift of God from mere elements of the earth. Life within life, grain, yeast, water, a touch of salt, and oil, all the gifts any part might need.

He broke the bread gave it to his deciples and said;

“Take this, all of you and eat of it, for this is my body, my body which has been given for you.”

“Take this and eat, in remembrance of me.”

The bread was broken and given to all, everyone present took a piece, receiving all they needed, all that could be given by the bread.

Even as the foot sits in the dust, and has not the privilege to hear bread’s crispy sound as the loaf is broken, does the foot not benefit equally as the ear?

And as the hand which can feel the warmth, and has the privilege to break it, and give it, will never see it’s beautiful golden color, does the hand experience less?

The mouth can taste this wonderful blessing, and even to the One who speaks those Words, also tastes the same sweet flavors, as all that recline at the table. What gift does Father have for Him, the Son, does He not receive likewise an equal gift from the Father?

They all hear the Words, created by the Father; Son, sinner, and saint, all equally given, even as the rain falls on everyones head.

Even as the One gave, takes He also a taste, for as God gives so, does He feed in the pleasure of the gift.

Being raised a Catholic, the act of taking communion was taught to be something of reverence, a moment of sanctification.

But as I have spoken of the experience with others; a common question seems to speak though peoples heart, lingering on quivering lips as if an unspoken secret, a dark question one might hardly dare think, let alone speak; “I don’t know, but have you ever felt anything significant during the act of communion”?

Resting in the depths of such a question, resides a feeling of doubt, guilt for some kind of lack there of, as if belief might somehow be substantiated by the very manifest of such a question. How many souls have doubted their own beliefs as a result of the un-appearance of an emotional connection to communion?

There are many churches out there, in addition, where the taking of communion is only allowed if a number of prerequisite tasks are first completed. Rules need to be obeyed, people are told they must be or become members, given permission, a class or two might need to be taken, a prerequisite kneeling before a man, or just by being someone who happens to be appropriately dressed, and or employed. Oh, and heaven forbid, if they have participated in any activities that the said church deems unforgivable, prior to wishing to participate.

I have even heard them go so far as to say; if people partake without meeting the prerequisite set of qualifiers, they even risk a dire punishment from God, even unto death.

Well I felt God prompting me to examine this for a moment.

There seems to be a number of examples of instance in which Jesus, sits and dines, or drinks with people, in any and all of these instance, I have never heard him once place any kind of admission prerequisite in any of these attendance’s. As a matter of fact, in most cases He seemed to sit and dine with not only tax collectors and prostitutes, considered in that time to be the absolute bottom of society not only in cleanliness, but undeniably in the eyes of the church government at the time, but did He also not sit with the Pharisees and Sadducees who Jesus himself referred to as “A Den of Vipers”.

Or resting casually on the side of a perfect green grass carpeted hill as a few loaves and fishes are broken and given all to everyone over five thousand present, to the point of giving complete nourishment, with an abundant overfull, leaving nobody unnourished, who would but partake.

Either way in both cases there seem’s to be no prerequisite prompting to do anything prior to eating or drinking.

Yes He did say “Do this in memory of me”, when He shared His last breaking of break, and drink with them.

But why “think of Him” with this act?

Why not “Think of Me before you sleep” or “every time you kiss someone you love”? And while I believe there may be many reasons for the significance of breaking bread and drinking of a cup, as infinite many as there are infinite images of the Face of God all around us, one in particular comes to mind to this writer;

If God would have us think of Him, as often as we could, even with every waking breath, what a good start would it be for His children to at least think of Him and the sacrifice He made for each of us, with something that we at least do each and every day; eat and drink.

Some people need a physical representation of a supernatural act in order to bring heaven to earth in their mind.

A real feel of something in their hand, so as to give blessing to the hand.

Something to the lips, as to bless the lips and more even the mouth taking in the taste and reality of the gift.

Something to the ear, hearing the Word and through the sound, a creation of an image in our mind, not all that different then the creation of the entire universe by a single spoken Work back at the beginning of existence.

But did Jesus place any prerequisite as to who he shared bread with, who might hear, who might see? The invitation to the table, and as glorious as it must have been, there is no apparent sound of any word of restriction or exclusion. And while nobody was sent away, one did leave, turned and ran from the presence of God.

And even Jesus himself warned; “Better it is that one was never born, then to betray the Son of Man”, for sacrificed was but the reason He came to the earth.

For it is clearly written in Luke 22: 17-20 He shared bread and cup in the last supper, asking them to remember Him.

And it wasn’t until the next moment Luke 22: 21 that Jesus states; “But, Behold, the hand of him who betrayeth me is with me on the table”.

It was further written that “the darkness came into him”, because at that point Judas made his choice, and he fled. “For darkness looked upon light and it comprehended it not, and darkness fled.”

Sharing at the table of the Lord, while one partakes of a piece, all share, all are welcome.

As they take all from the same loaf, so is a piece of the same given to each, and each as a part of the whole enjoys and benefit’s in maybe a slightly different manor, but all are fed, all receive nourishment.

The Word that is given to a man through a man,
Who is God,
but has become man,
as to reach us all,
in loving gesture to come home.

A request to choose,
not a command to bow,
but merely to request to remember,
the sacrifice the Prince gave each and everyone of us.

That Word which is Him,
but is also part of a one as it passes through him,
and as a part,
it is of Him if but for a moment,
becoming Him the Word,
resting on the edge of his tongue and soul.

The thought which is God,
granted in His wisdom’s gift,
is life created out of light,
baked with the fire of glory,
and resonates into existence,
for all the ears to hear.

In the ears of all that come,
the Word rests on the surface of His children,
all who would hear,
God touching the ear of each,
and forming a picture,
creating in the mind of each of their soul’s.

The eyes then take each image in,
each and every gift of The Fathers’s creation,
every color forming into beautiful picture,
blending with their luscious desires,
fulfilling the hunger and pains as it forms in the mind,
that loneliness that has lingered since birth’s first day.

Grant to each of us,
in every part,
all that we would but need,
in our every part,
each in it’s capacity to feel, all what you would give.

Every hand that takes the bread,
every eye that takes the gift in,
with the ears receiving of Word,
with the mouth sweet taste,
into the body for all parts to benefit.

Is it not with any word given to any part of the body, any prophesy, any healing, can they not be used for all of the body?

Is not every gift for the body, if it is given by God for the entire body, all to use all equal all free?

By Peter Colla

“Dear Lord Jesus, help me to think of You each and every time I but eat or drink, for as freely as I receive the gift of these life giving nourishments, You gave Your sacrifice for my salvation as well. I merely have to believe and remember this simple fact, to receive the washing of my soul and clear out any darkness, so when I look at You, The Light, I will not flee.”

When do you think you went into the wilderness? the Voice of God softly yet sternly asks.

Waking in my bed, there is a breeze of a tender flower, softly blowing through the recesses of my mind, cool as the spring morning, gentle in her touch, a touch though I no longer can feel. As much as just a gentle weight that one places with gladness on his own heart, so place I myself the burden of the loss of the so dear part of me, unable to find, unable to replace.

Can there be restoration for such a loss, when a part of you has been cut away, taken by an enemy that is as cruel as it is uncaring.

For she is no longer there lying beside me, how desperately I reach, still are the unrealized dreams of yesterday as I turn to hold her in the moments between sleep and wake, tear stained cheek, their salty taste dig deep in my soul.

I desperately reach for that part of me that is but a vacant painful void, scratching that no longer existing leg, attempting to rub away the pain that rests just below the surface of my awareness, I lay there hoping, even praying that maybe I may just be waking from some cruel nightmare, but alas no that part of the bed remains cold.

The amputated leg is still gone. The days, nights, years march on.

How funny as I think back to the memories of such a foolish boy, a lifetimes days and nights squandered like the clean clear waters of a seemingly endless spring, spilling out on the hot desert stones, until one day the last drop falls, and there I sit with a thirst that can not be quenched licking dry sand scorched lips, looking off to a distance towards false visions that only glimmer above the heat baked sands.

Father you need not tell me when I went into the wilderness, for I know full well, I had everything, I was in The Promised Land, and foolishly walked towards the mirage without prompting or push, just one foolish step after another, all on my own.

So here I am nearly twenty years after the death of my wife and unborn child, a four hour flight home from visiting a most precious friend. Pondering the recent events of my life, all taking form into a clearer and more evident path that seems to be forming below my feet. I decide to put on my headphones, not to listen to music, as much as to create a quite environment in which to rest in prayer with God.

As always I tend to grade whether I am in Wilderness or in the Promised Land based on productivity, but much more so the awareness of undeniable blessings from God, an area of drought I seem to continue to wander in continually for at least a very long time.

Change has been happening in my life at a speed where I might comfortably say could compare to the outside observer as being of the speed that could leave Jessy Owens in the dust; learning and growing more in the last year, then the entire forty seven years combined, and this last adventure was no different.

In this particular case a physical transformation was also evident, because my good friend I also was dating, a truly Godly woman Carol, convinced me to shave my head.

So here I sit, recently shaved bald head, hoping this somehow is a good thing, maybe in God’s plan and sitting quietly back at His throne, again, asking God stuff;

“So when are you going to let me come out of the wilderness?”,

the question comes out of the lips more as an appeal for mercy then an actual question.

A bit later I hear the Voice of God, soft tender as any good Father could be, patient with His son, holding him on a lap that never is to crowded, never gets tired, gently He says with only a little of a Fathers prompting, yet enough to let one know, an answer is not only wanted, but demanded;

“Tell Me, when do you think you went into the wilderness?”

I know exactly the day, the hour, the very moment, but to explain it means I should at least fill the reader in on a few points of reference and history.

I remember another day, not only but a moment before a most horrific day, the day of amputation, that day when she left, no, that day when she was taken, that day when my child was gone, taken, by an enemy that not only wishes me destroyed buy would destroy my family in it’s entirety, even to destroying my surviving two and half year old daughter.

We are driving and my wife softly says, and in a most casual way, turning towards me in her new car, facing me, making sure that I would not only hear but would truly understand the love and depth in which she spoke;

“I want to thank you for everything you have given me, you have given me more in this life then I have ever had even hoped for, I have truly had everything I have ever wanted.”

A truly strange thing for my nearly ten month pregnant wife to say to me just days before she was scheduled to deliver our second child. The levity of the statement I can hardly repeat without tears reservoir-ed up in the recesses of my soul, pressing to bust that seemingly unbreakable dam they hide behind. It was such an undeserved honor she was paying me.

You see, she was so much better of a person then me, she always wanted me to enjoy this life, even if it didn’t to help her situation, in as many possible appearances according to the eyes of that most worldly man who stood by and watched, me.

How many times did I go to the park, playing basketball with the boys, just to leave her at home to tend to the baby herself, never did she complain, just a kiss, a wish to stay safe, and a smile of a wish for me to have fun.

How many softball games, with the more then one beer after, at the bar with the boys, not to mention the more then one occasion of flirting with some other lost soul who happen to sit a seat or two nearby.

How many excuses to get out of the house, how many occasions of wondering on the edge of the promised land, what is the fool that has everything he has ever wanted just to wander away looking over the hill into the land of the enemy, looking with an eye of desire. I’ll tell you what kind of fool, your talking to him!

So much guilt, so many times a gift being ignored, casual complacency on my part, being rewarded with love and compassion on hers. Even to the point of wanting me to be everything I could be, dressing good, looking good, signing me up for a fitness membership, teeth whitening, a professional hair stylist and enhancement, things I would never have done myself.

She truly loved me more then herself… a clear manifestation of agape love.

We never made it to that glorious delivery day of the second child.

It is so easy to tell when a person is standing knee deep in the “you-know-what”, there is an awareness that even an animal will turn its nose up to, and I was in it.

When to bomb goes off unexpectedly, instantaneously, it never hit’s us front on, so as to possible allow us to flinch and maybe bare the brunt of said shock wave, no it always smacks us from a side we are not looking, let alone expecting. We always foolishly think we would, should, or possibly could see it coming! We always think we so foolishly have this world we surround ourself in some kind of control.

I have so often heard the secular world so foolishly speak of; “following it’s heart”, “positive thinking”, “speak things into reality”, and while these concepts have the components, slivers of God’s truth that make them just about usable or maybe somewhat believable, I will tell you, when you face the truth of a baseball bat square in the back of the head, and suddenly your world has changed instantly, un-expectantly, permanently, and consequentially darker, you begin to wonder if control was really the only true absolute you really ever had, and that was absolutely none!

Ok back at it…

So the bomb goes off, let me describe the feeling; a dull sensation that seems to press from all sides, a heaviness like you sit under an enormous amount of water, there is a sort of very faint but distinct ringing as if you just can’t quite hear right. Everyone and everything seems to have taken on a bit duller and lifeless color, food has lost it’s taste, but so has the day. Sleeping becomes your friend, no your lover, for maybe in her arms you might just find that part of you that no longer exists on this earth.

For whatever protective reason, all the memories that seemed to make you happy only moments before, are no longer within reach of your conscience memory, as if a wall has been constructed between now and everything you had ever loved. Had it not been for the one remaining child, the only remaining essence of that once satisfied loneliness, nothing on this earth could have kept you in the dark place of the event.

I remember buying a journal and wanting to write “A Day in the Life of Hilly” every night before bed as a sort of memoir for may daughter Nadia about her mother, the problem when I wrote the first sentence; “The day we were married..” nothing else could come out, not because it was to emotional, but I could seriously not bring up any conscience memories of the events of the day, no movement, no substance, no chain of events, lacking substance, feeling, emotion, just a shell, a black and white image that the day merely happened.

That was basically for everything prior to the day of her death. I believe God does that to protect you from the pain of all these emotions such a flood of memories could cause. Shock! This one lasted years.

Days turn into weeks, and months become as eventful as the breathing that sentences you to the days tedium, another meal bringing yet another series of repetitive steps in the marching around the jail yard of your heart.

God will only allow so many attacks of the enemy, only as many as we can take. But figuring out where exactly and what is an attack and not a blessing, now that is challenging, especially when you have one foot, strike that two, clearly planted in the world.

And this man could not take to much, escape was so desired yet seemingly impossible.

One thing though, I don’t believe I ever blamed God, myself yes, God, no. Praise God for that gift He so graciously gave me, an ability to resist blaming Him.

Oh yah, when did I walk into the wilderness?

Within a couple months, in walks a woman into my life, a beautiful woman, no perhaps the one of the most beautiful woman I had ever known, a woman’s woman, a Marilyn Monroe, of both spirit and passion, sensual, stimulating, exciting, and the rapid filling of the void that had erupted in the middle of this man’s chest months earlier was so rapidly filled I hardly remembered it there.

How can one come to a conclusion something is bad for you when it feels so good. Pain erases, suddenly a joyful spirit, a breath of life bringing light in, like I never felt possible, an absolute sense of comfort, compassion, love and completeness. When days begin to shine again, and a person actually looks forward to the day instead of the night, so did this girl friend bring into my day.

How can a man possibly know something like that was not good, I will tell you, when He forget’s to ask God!

Finding out at first she wasn’t for the taking, separated yet not married, as if that was bad enough, but actually fearing the answer on so many other levels, might even be worse, one doesn’t dare go to the Father with such a question. So was my guilt already.

Yes I know what people said; so soon after the death of a wife, the transition for the both of us, me a death, her an up and coming divorce, the giving of support we both provided each other, was it not worth the further fracturing of an already broken heart? You tell me.

God is such a good Father, He love’s his children so much, He wouldn’t want any of them to hurt, and in His infinite mercy only moments after I started in a relationship with my new girl friend, I found myself traveling to North Dakota to visits very good friends of both myself and my departed wife, my dear friends Al and Debbie.

In the cold country of the north stark of green, middle of the winter, where a man can almost hear the voice of God on the gentle cold winds, softly but lovingly calling him to live, fight, learn, and grow. In suddenly walks another, the sister, Debbie’s sister, Krystal. Did I say walks in, if is possible for an angel on earth to merely walk anywhere, I think she just appeared?

Either way, when I say angel, I would venture to say that it would be a serious understatement to say that Krystal was perhaps the purest, sweetest, kindest, caring, gentlest woman I had ever known, rivaling perhaps Hilly herself, and each and every one of those qualities was not only demonstrated completely in her soul, spirit, and eyes, but in every fraction of her physical being, literally as the winters sun light shown through her perfect blonde curls.

The next three or four days, but it may have only been two, were so filled with blissful discovery of just a couple of people starting to become friends, conversations sitting on the ground watching children play, a brisk walk out in the neighborhood, a drink with friends, lunch, coffee. Conversations somehow about everything and nothing at all, designed in an essence of discovery, somehow following a blissful rhythm that somewhere as I think back to it almost follows a heartbeat in pace, not mine, but one that a person can just feel, as they close their eyes and let their mind ponder on The Father of everything.

One night we even went out with everyone country dancing, ok, I admit it, I am not that big of a fan of country music, and less of my own skill in the dancing department. Growing up in the country, when I was a kid, the idea of being a cowboy seemed to be something people strived to move away from, rather then towards. I mean, didn’t they teach people to two step when they felt they where to uncoordinated to handle anything else?

Even with the dancing, fun, there was a comfort of all the friendships involved, ease in which we could get comfortable spiritually, and here was never even a frantic desire to step into any physicalness, not even a holding of hands.

Looking back, I believe I was so absolutely enthralled by the honor she showed me, that absolute respect was something that was not only needed, but demanded.

So once more, on the last day of my visit, we found ourselves again walking in the pure snow covered streets of the neighborhood near Al’s and Debbie’s home, casually talking about anything and everything, bringing to my amazement the fact that neither of us were a bit cold.

Then suddenly the piercing statement that suddenly quieted every sound around, Krystal suddenly said; “I would really like to date you, but I can’t, because your not ready.”

I wasn’t sure why, and while I should have probably been insulted and maybe even a bit upset by her suggesting to me I wasn’t ready, somewhere in her words I heard the voice of wisdom, knowing she was talking with an authority, a Godly wisdom. She was right!

I may have even put up some kind of half feeble fight to support my case, and then she added; “Six months, we will wait six months and then see, can you do that?”

What could I say; “Of course, I can wait six months!, can we at least write, talk on the phone?” I said, with only a marginal belief in my own heart, which I knew right at that moment, wanted so desperately to wait.

“Of course we can write” she says with the gentlest, kindest smile I believe I could ever bring to memory, and we continued our walk.

When did I walk into the wilderness?

Back to Arizona, and to the girl friend.

A few letters exchanged hands, and Krystal even sent me a picture, bringing to memory the visit pulling soft strings on my heart, but they were to weak in comparison to the chains that were being placed on my heart, chains I was placing there myself.

The letters soon faded and with it any thoughts of Krystal, my life continued to move in a spin resembling more of a circling of a wagon train ever tightening it’s circumference in some ill-fated attempt to stop the onslaught of the feared attackers even now wanting, waiting to pounce just outside of a view, in the dark underbrush of a dusks eye.

More and more entwined the girl friend and I become in the web of our own design, days of continued attempts to even reach but a glimpse of the comfort received initially, brings us to a place in which any and every moment we seem to fill with some kind of activity, not for building or growth, but just a substantiation of the addiction that has firmly planted itself into the side of another desert walker.

So when exactly did I walk into the wilderness?

After deeper and deeper walking into a regiment of daily chasing my tail, trying desperately even to find a glimpse of the relief of loneliness I seemed to discover back at the beginning of the year, I realized I had walked into such a deep hole that no visible out was possible. I had firmly placed as many chains on my heart as it could hold, with only minimal chance of a happy ending, but truth be told, if you asked any of my friends who observed from just outside, there really never was a chance.

I turned away any and all advice, turned away friends, family, even my face from God, just digging further and further into that desert I was already marching into. Months again blend into a gloom, that resembles more of a pollution, then a fog.

Again on a not so bright, typical day, I go into the office, another days treating peoples need’s, serving up some kind of relief, like a fast food drive through, how ridiculous to even attempt to help others when your own life is so fractured.

Suddenly in walks Krystal.

Amazingly with her, as she walked up to the counter I was standing behind, a brightness seemed to fill the work place, a breath of fresh air, a coolness that only one who had walked a very long time in the desert could appreciate. I could feel months of chains dark, heavy, clear from my eyes, but with it a nervousness began to fill my almost clearly shaking hand.

She softly says; “Hi” as she steps up to me in a voice that has only sweetness, patience, goodness, and purity in the soft sort of way, bringing only a few words to mind, and they are all about good!

My response was not quite as fluid, or kind, as a matter of fact it was somewhat cold, hesitant, and restricted; “What are you doing here?” is about all I could choke out.

The cold chill running up my spine, a chill of guilt, shame, and maybe even a tinge of fear, for the girl friend was standing right behind me, being that she by this time was also spending the majority of her days at the office as well.

There was no judgment, no guilt on Krystal’s face, a gentle compassionate comprehension of me was as evident on her entire demeanor, as the wholesome smile she extended.

Then just as softly but with an almost majestic authority and piercing clarity she answers;

“Its been six months.”

A almost heart stopping pause. Needless to say I was shocked, but for many reasons, she then added as if only to ease my tension, she was visiting her other sister Diane in Phoenix.

There needed not be any guilt, for I had plenty myself, and at that moment all I could manage to say was;

“That’s nice.”

“Ok”

“Well have a nice trip…”

With just the most subtle hesitation, the never ceasing pure smile, she gives a most subtle nod and softly says;

“bye”

That framed image has burnt a picture in my mind for years to come, as she turns to leave.

I believe I fondly think she may stopped for just a moment at the door, and gave me a final smile and soft wave, again wondrous light shining through her glorious hair framing that perfectly beautiful face, then disappeared forever into God’s world from which she came.

I clearly remember my own words screaming in my head as my heart so wanted to run after her;

“You Fool, what have you done!”

But the chains had been so set, there was no escape, I couldn’t move.

Here I am years later, now sitting in a car driving home from the airport just after landing, tear filled eyes, and God you ask me; “Do I know when I went into the wilderness?”

“I know exactly when I went in, right at that very moment!”

Then a soft yet compassionate voice resonates in my head, with such authority, yet peace it leave no doubt to Whom it belongs;

“No!”

“That’s not when you went in, It’s when you could have come out!”

Tears flowing now.

“You went in all those months earlier when you started doing all that business dressing fancy, going to the gym, and especially all that business with your hair.”

I quickly snapped to attention and argued; “That doesn’t make any sense, my wife wanted me to do all that stuff?”

And He said;

“Yes, she wanted you to do those things as a gift to you out of her love”

“But you took it, and never put it down, out of vanity!”

“That’s when you walked in!”

How do we know when we walk into the wilderness?

Answer; When God tells us!

For all the angels I have had the privilege of knowing.

By Peter Colla

“Dear Jesus, grant me wisdom as to those things that may drive me to walk into the wilderness, and Father strengthen me to learn what I need while there, to grow, and to find Your path that may lead me back out again.”

“And Father bless those angels, those women who are as close as you can come to angels in this world, give to them all the possibilities and desires of their hearts.”

Armor On Time!

Helmet on, Chest gear which includes a new and very secure Harness, Tools of action including many cams, nuts, quick draws, everything he needs to help with victory. Weapon of choice, the pickax grappling hook dangling securely from his belt. Oh one last thing, the thing he needs most to Shield against certain defeat, good strong and safe rope.

Standing before the lone crest, is a solitary man looking up at the massive formation that looms ahead of him, so broad the arms of it’s mass, his wits breadth can not hope to hold, so tall in his mind staring down at him, taunting him, he is yet just beginning to fathom the power and scope of the task that rests before him.

Last chance, he could turn back now, nobody would be the wiser? Sure, he could find any number of excuses that could satisfy any who would inquire, rational excuses that would appease everyone but the one who resides in his own mind, for whatever excuse this time he uses to turn, he will himself always know the truth, that any and all excuses are just that; bail-outs designed to excuse the last remnant of rational thought before he takes on the impossible.

“Well I guess that’s it, I’m going!” he says with less of resound and more of hopeful anticipation. Up he goes!

Hours in, that seem like weeks, he presses face down against the hot stone, a clenching hold on to her like a long lost lover, and while he holds for his dear life, the adoration of her is only measured by the adrenaline produced with the ever present chance of certain death. If but one rock releases, one slip of foothold, a single clip falters, a death is most assured to follow, but this fear yet dims in comparison hopefully to the ecstasy of overcoming.

Conquering this giant of a mountain, pushing a lifetimes fear behind, is about as easy as facing the creatures that looms under the bed in our childhood dreams. As was in this man, and I would venture in any, before there is a unsettling desire to first conquer said giant, he has to come to the realization that there was such a one even out there.

Spotting the mountain in the recesses of our desires, those that may push us one way or that, and hold us back from going yet another, that looming presence that chains us back from accomplishing those mountaintop experiences that sit on the path of our destiny, finally reaching those cloud shrouded dominions that some only hope to find in the safety of dreams, has gotten to be one of the quintessential discoveries and subsequent victories God has designed in us from times birth.

He clears the fear from his mind and wills a covering to stop those thoughts from entering.

With each grueling lift of his torso, one ever aching step further, he nudges closer. Just pulling one step higher with burning arms, another inch pushing closer to the top, requesting yet again a thrust from legs that have already produced from the edge of spasm, he nudges just that much closer to freedom, dominion, and victory. How impossible the task seems when the giant looms out in front of us like an unconquerable barrier. He must shield his heart from this pull somehow?

There is tug trying to drag him down, it seems to draw from within almost a tingling pain, painted with layers of fearful glaze. It’s cruel fingers pulling hard down on him, whispering for him to give up before it’s to late. A dark creature’s biting tease, that eases into his mind from an initial burning ache, to an eventual stabbing pain, inflicting on every once of his body it’s cruel fangs, as they painful stab muscle after aching joint.

The grind of the rough giant’s face against his young cheek is as cold with the soulless callousness, as the evident lack of any care in it’s hot touch. Thank Jesus he can press on. He cuts all thoughts of pain from his mind and wills his arms and legs further.

What drive’s a man to risk heart, body, and soul, in what his very essence, his entire childhood history would tell him is certainly an endeavor destined for defeat? What pushes a man to attempt to conquer the unconquerable? Maybe a deep seated courage, a strength that can only be associated with life, love of life, love, a Light burning bright within, well I guess there you have it….God!

Defeat, that is always the risk, the possibility. Yes, and in it, resides the fear of what would remain; a fractured, broken body that lies only among the ruins of society that are left, that is of course if we might find the broken remnant of a man remaining, there is always a chance death could surely follow. Well at least that is what we have been told our entire life. So how stupid to try such a gallantry courageous, and foolishly unrewarding endeavor?

Such have the many words that have been spoken into his mind throughout his life, words of insufficiency, inadequacy, doubt, fear, all have been ingrained in the mind since he was a small boy. But somewhere in the barren burnt out battlefields that fill the hollows of his mind, our young mountain climber finds not only the courage to overcome a giant that may not have even been conceived in earlier days, as being something that can be, no must be overcome.

Suddenly his hand reaches over the edge of a last outcrop, and he feels the flat safe surface of victory. Fear no longer has any pull, and like the wisp of some unwanted heat, just like the first feeling as you quickly open an oven door so fast does the unwanted intruder flee.

He pulls himself to the top with simple ease, forgetting any and all pain the preceded, only to be replaced by the excitement of victory, the deserved pride of overcoming, the feeling of good. Our man drops to his knees and with a tear running down his cheek he feels he has vanquished every foe he has ever hidden from. King of the mountain.

Everyone has a mountain, some have two, or maybe even more, but I believe it might be safe to say everyone has one large mountain that conquering represents a significant milestone in our walk to fulfilling our destiny.

Before one would gander on to talk about the these milestones, maybe a pause is in order to talk about destiny. Plato among many other more modern well wishers popping out their own explanations to the fundamentals of this journey we call life, would have us belief that even though seemingly everyone has a destiny, or a driving force, to fulfill some kind of either self or esoteric discovery that makes this life purposeful, this destiny may or may not be from God.

Modern philosophies will also have us believe that this driving force even though specific in task and destination, is randomly fathomed, accidental, or genetically evolving. I don’t know about you, but I have rarely found anything accidental, random, or developing, with the awe struck turtle-like speed in which geneticists would have us belief the various species of the world evolve (another days writing), and any of this resembles even a remote quark of intelligence.

Most of these “philosopher’s” have for the most part at least included God as the originator, developer and planner for our destinies, probably due to the incalculable intricacies that the majority of these destinies seem to play out before people will finally admit being there.

So if you take not my word for it, but the majority of every philosopher, scientist, or die hard romantic, that has ever lived, and put them into a can, pop the lid, at least a common admittance sprays out in an effervescent gust to the sound of; yes there is a God, a higher intelligence, a master plan, that seems to be governing the inner drives of people to fulfill some deep routed cavity, that pushes us to paint that one picture, have that child, look for that love, that one!, build that building, fight that battle, push for that job, find that lost face, touch the hand of the creator, all to give some meaning to this life.

Some of us conquer them without realizing what the significance is or ever giving the glory to the One that not only gave us the ability, but the Armor to defeat the mountain.

Amor On Time!

She sits on her bed, half dressed for yet another date. A tear forms in her recently made up perfect eyes. “Why bother, the outcome is so predictable”, a soft voice whispers in her mind as she repeats with her own mouth the doubt that has such lashing effect across her heart.

A plate of steel forms across her chest as she already begins to develop defenses against a predictable outcome. “No happiness in store for me” she says to herself.

When you have been hurt by love so many times, the very thought of love brings it’s own shivers down your spine. “Can I make myself vulnerable one more time?” she says to herself, as she goes back the the mirror to fix the mascara stain that has now driven a tear plowed trail down her soft tender cheek. Again there is that whisper; “look at you who would want you?” this one darker, older, familiar, yet alien in nature.

Putting on the nicest shoes, prettiest dress, just exciting, no sexy enough to accent her beauty, but hopefully not giving the wrong idea, that is the task at hand. Enough attractiveness in case she wishes to continue the relationship after tonight, but not to much to give the wrong idea in case she doesn’t. All the right weapons for the right battle, a battle of survival.

She would love this time to be different, find that attraction, that desire without all the pain that seems to inevitably follow. So may of her friends are bitter, and why shouldn’t they be, you even kick the family dog enough and mean becomes inevitable. They don’t help although with their constant complaining, their defeatist ideals.

She has only memories of men taking, even back to her father that at first loved her so unconditionally, taking any and all the love she would so eagerly give, just to turn away when she needed him the most. When she started to feel confused by the so many looks, that no longer meant she was a perfect cute little child of God, but some object to be used for pleasure, there was nobody to talk to, no man.

A dark creature speaks a bit stronger in her ear this time; “Only your body, that’s all they want!”

Where was her father when that first boy took her, wasn’t her dad supposed to protect her, wasn’t it his job. Ya, in her mind she knew she ran away herself, she stole away to be free, but really all she wanted was that love. “Daddy, I needed you!”

And up in heaven this very moment was a Father weeping because he saw the pain that both the free will choices of a daughter and a earthly father caused.

She can not fight the deep seeded desire to be wanted, needed, but she also wants. Where has that gotten her? Every time she goes down that road and admits even to herself she can possibly want someone, need someone, they take her, and then discard her. Is that all she was created for?

Nice guys, they can’t possibly exist, a man that could actually honor, care about her more then himself, want to lift her up, rather then put her down, listen to her, need her, not just use her? More Armor On!

And by this time if a true gift does come by, a sweet man who cares for her with all of his heart, a man who would take a bullet for her, fight armies to protect her, will she again not see him though the shield, through the blinder that sits on her helmet. She has to admit to herself, she only sees the men that have always been strong enough to push through the armor, the tough guys, the bad guys, the ones that care only for themselves.

So up goes the armor, a Shield against the heart, a Breast plate barrier to the soul, so nobody gets in, a Helmet to protect her mind, her eyes, her ears, using any and all of her weapons not to demonstrate love or tenderness as designed by Him, but to wield in a frenzied attack to survive, control, and manipulate, lest they first wound her again. Bringing yet another river of tears.

Armor being used for the wrong reason, not to conquer the foe, but to defend again change. To fearful to change? Armor against God himself.

To many tears!

Have to stop the tears!

“No!” This time she says! “God, help me, I’m not doing it any more” she pleads.

For the first time she drops to her knees and asks to forgive. How does she know she has to forgive? She just knows. A quickening sense of power streams through her soul and suddenly forgiving doesn’t seem so hard. Wave upon wave of emotion rock’s her like stones being hurled at her from afar.

Her father for abandoning her when she needed him, huge tears erupt from her eyes, for rejecting her love, for not being there, suddenly she doesn’t see him as neglectful, but feels sorry for him that he was manipulated by that dreadful black creature as well, for the pain it caused him, for everything he missed. A sword slices in almost lightning speed, she can almost hear the demon screech as it flee’s in pain. Her mind suddenly realizes, what happened, something wonderful just happened, something powerful.

A warmth washes over her like the sweet scent of the warmest bath oil, and a freedom suddenly lifts from her heart. A heart that suddenly slows just a beat, and becomes more powerful in her chest.

Face after face of men that have used her, come into her recognition, just to be replaced with sweetest faces of little children who happen to have been used themselves. Each in his turn receives the gift of her forgiveness, and with each act her stature grows, shedding years of pressure pushing down on her delicate shoulders. Pain she have held in her neck, shoulders, her back, burdens she has carried release, and just as quickly the pains flee in also almost audible screams.

Finally only one remains, a most difficult one to forgive, one she had no idea even existed, fear presses down on her head, a throbbing headache waiting to explode, but she still calls to Jesus for strength, and immediately a soft hand gently lifts her chin.

She lifts up her head from the tear drenched carpet and locks eyes on the most difficult one to forgive, yet maybe in her entire life,….. herself!

“How could you do that to me?” she says through the flood of tears that now blur her vision from even seeing herself in the mirror. “How could you let, me do that to me?” More tears, blinding her vision as she looks in the mirror at herself, then suddenly something moves in the mirror just of to the side behind her.

The eye of her mind spots something, just behind, just in the peripheral outside the edge of the mirror, a brief chill goes up her spine, because she knows not only is this no good, it is also not of the world.

She also softly asks Jesus for strength, he delivers, and then some. With a speed and power she had no idea she ever possessed she springs to her feet and pivots to face her foe with a movement so sudden she can audibly hear a lightning crack.

In her minds eye as she spins with sword in hand, she is immediately aware that she is also armored and carrying a shield, and guess what; It feels good! Turning to face a large fanged beast dragon-like, angry, spewing all types of filth from its red gaping holes it has for a sorry excuse of a mouth and eyes, she immediately realizes this filthy creature has been tormenting her with rejection her whole life. She could almost recognize it through some kind of familiarity.

But it wasn’t going to be that easy, because in front of the larger beast was a smaller more seductive foul creature with an animal face and a naked woman’s body rushing towards her to engage in the conflict, as being instructed by the larger one hovering behind.

This creatures name resonated in her head immediately; lust!, and as she sliced through it with a parley of blows toppling the bloody mass to the ground, another one formed and jumped right into the attack.

This ones name was immorality, a few more slices and down it went, then nudity jumped in, self vanity, selfishness, on and on, she sliced through creatures with ever increasing power and ease, until with a deafening roar the dragon turned and vanished in an instant.

Our young beautiful woman slumped in exhaustion against the vanity, realizing she was still staring into the mirror. Slowly she got up on shaky legs and cautiously turned half expecting to see a mass of bloody carnage on the floor in front of her bed.

What was amazing, not only was the room completely clear of any sign, but her bedroom now looked brighter, cleaner, and more purely beautiful then she had ever remember it in her entire life. As a matter of fact there seemed to almost be a golden yellow and streaming white haze or glow that emanated from everything in the room. The room took on an almost purity of it’s own. She stood there only for a moment and looked, then turned.

Moments later our beautiful pure and sweet princess changed into the most lovely outfit that any man could have ever laid eyes on, not because of what it accented, but because of the radiant beauty that shined within. With a sweet and happy smile she gave herself an agreeing nod in the mirror, and turned to go out meet her friends, but more importantly to meet the gift God may have for her today.

Amor On Time!

Crisp clean shirt, smart bold tie, a jacket that sets the stage for the respect he seeks, tools in one hand computer among other things in his briefcase, all the essentials to help with this days tasks, and maybe a new item his left hand carrying a small Bible. For his mind is opening a door to a possibility that more security, more Shield is needed.

“Give me all I need today Lord to overcome” he softly says as he grabs the last of his personal items and heads for the door. Recently his prayer life has actually taken on more of his day time schedule then he had ever thought possible in the old days.

What used to be restricted to a few prayers, of very restricted effect both on himself and seemingly the environment he happen to pray for, usually finding itself place only on Sunday, at meal times, or for a hurried brief moment before the children went to bed, has now grown to an almost a daily even.

What is amazing is as he began to pray to be delivered from certain elements, desires, even borderline addictions in his life, the easier it has been to turn from these things. Yes, he does sometimes fail, fall, but all the quicker to get back on his feet, more prayer time and less is their effect on his life. Prayer is beginning to find a place in his daily regiment, almost like exercise or personal hygiene.

He reaches behind and puts the small Bible in his back pocket.

Off to the office a good man goes, wanting to just this one day make a difference. A few minutes earlier start then normal today, he set’s off with design, deciding to take a bit longer road, maybe just a course that will require more walking then normal. He has decided there are things that need to be done on the way.

Weighing hard on his mind is the days issues that seem inevitable coming. A boss that is just not satisfied with his performance lately, there is a feeling that no matter what he does success just always seems out of reach. He gets his tasks done to the best of ability sure, but there is a looming aggression in literally every turn, a feeling of just getting by, and that seems to translate to his clients as well as the staff around him.

The lack of success has not exactly gone unnoticed in the rewards department, he seems to be passed over on more then one occasion, and when he does contribute in a real and significant way, it seems others receive the credit. That has trickled into his home life and he is seeing the tell tale signs on the face of his wife. He has no idea what to do. Thus the prep for the walk today, a time of needed asking.

As he walks quietly in the recesses of his contemplation, he finds a peace that seems to dissolve any and all problems, the many worries waiting for him at the end of the road. He is suddenly enjoying the way his mind ponders a word he had received only days earlier form a Higher Source. Conquer your giants and the mountain callings that you have always known are yours, will fall into your dominion with a subtlety that great kings witnessed as legions bowed before them merely at the sight of His awesome grander.

What is remarkable is he has actually began to imagine these sins that he desired to overcome, strange creatures appeared in his mind, some in the form of darks formless beasts, others cliffs, mountains, or even dark caves to be overcome. But as he prayed for deliverance from each problem, each in their turn disappeared from his mind, and so did the problem in his life.

Speaking with God has never been his strong suit, and prayer even less, but desire and a softening heart has made the desire to face these seemingly, until recently unknown, hurdles more and more of a necessity then a casual once a week, one and a half hour church activity.

A casual conversation with his Lord is all he can muster, no lofty introductions, he wouldn’t know where to begin, but really wouldn’t an all knowing God see right through all that formality any way!

Our young man asks with a child’s soft eyes, if his Father might listen as he asks for wisdom. He almost talks to God the way a small boy would go and talk to his Father, what is strange, is it almost feels more natural and effective, then any of the lofty prayers he has heard his whole life.

Almost aloud and in a soft tender voice he says to God; “Show me those things, those dark forces that have held me back from not only discovering my mountain callings in my life, bring to my attention those demonic creatures, those black barriers that have held me back from fulfilling my destiny in You.”

There is a sudden quickening of his pulse, a warm sensation comes over him. It may be as a walking dream, or just how your mind drifts off to another place as one meanders in an activity that is safe and stable, especially when contemplation of Him is involved, when a son asks of the Father. Anyway something happens, something real, maybe more real then the all the information he is bringing in from his five senses.

He steps onto a barren plain, devoid of life, there has been battles here, it is dry, cracked and lacking anything that resembles growth. Suddenly out of the corner of his eye he sees something, ominous, dark, bear like, yet like no bear he has ever seen, large ferocious claws thats resemble more like gripping fingers. A gaping mouth that has a hunger about it, that seems insatiable.

The creature is huge, but for some reason our young champion is not afraid. It is drooling a filth that he knows for some reason consumes flesh not out of need for food, but out of some deep desire of lust.

He takes a step closer, and at first the creature puffs up trying to use its great stature to intimidate, but just as quick it pulls back almost intuitively realizing the one before him has no fear, and thus being one to fear. This in itself seems impossible, for his whole life images of such things have been ingrained into his mind to be things not only to be feared, but respected as being indestructible.

“Who are you?” he not so much says as thinks? And immediately a few words take shape in his mind; “I am greed!” It clammers with a loud self righteous sense of self pride and entitlement.

Our hero again steps forward realizing just that quick a mighty sword rests in one hand and a shield in the other, immediately his own powerful legs begin to move below him as he charges forth. The look of fear crosses the beasts face as panic ripples through its body like the wave across a dark pond after a large bolder had just been tossed in.

The fight lasts only moments and with a few brief slashes, and an almost elementary circular overhead slash, he delivers a crippling blow to the throat, issuing forth black blood that doesn’t even reflect light as much as just is. The not so ominous creature lashes out in one final attempt at some kind of retribution, a last ditch effort, and the thrust topples it sending it slithering half decapitated body scrawling to the ground.

Our champion stands over his vanquished foe only for a moment then mouths a simple prayer; “I bind you in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth and banish you to the pit of hell!” Huge metal bindings instantly forms around the now helpless creature, it tries to squeal in fright, but gurgles black ooze, the bands constricting it to the point of complete immobility, and just as suddenly it vanishes.

With an almost bold confidence he adds; “Any more of your uncircumcised buddies want to come back and I will line them all up right along side of you!”

Immediately he finds himself back to himself, but with a completely changed outlook, success just doesn’t seem to be as important any longer. The anxiety about being scene as a winner by his boss, clients, or other staff members seems trivial compared to just showing them the peace he has seemed to find. Money has lost it’s pulling taste in his heart.

A calm confidence wraps it’s arms gently around him, and he sees his own reflection in the glass as he reaches for the door, he seems to have physically straightened up into a stronger, fitter, and more happily excited look of utter confidence.

He reaches into his back pocket, pulls his Bible out into his hand, grabs the handle of the door with other the briefcase hand, yanks it open, and strides in with excited anticipation the likes of which he has never felt. One thing was for sure; “This mountain is his!”

Armor On Time!

A child of the Living God, a man, a woman, a child, does it makes any difference?

He opens his eyes to yet another glorious gift given, another day only to be experienced, lived, and discovered, to the fullness that which would send honor to Him that gives the gift.

If Jesus Himself came down and said to our recently awaken young child; “This is your last day, use it any way and as best you can”, how do you think such a day would find itself? Well one would think, as you probably would agree, that same person might say right back to Jesus; “I will live it anyway You choose to allow me to, with any and all discoveries You bring across my plate.”

Every bite of food, every playful request of your child, every look and smile of a stranger, every living experience, every person that crosses your path, a lovers kiss, a friends hand, every gentle breeze on your forehead, every drop of water in your mouth, every puppy, the very sight’s, sound’s, taste’s, touches, your every breath would become so significant that a person would hardly want to miss anything, in the fear that he might miss something, anything, that one thing that made this life worth living!

Well today is truly such a gift that makes a life worth living, because it is a gift from God Himself to you, to me, and nobody knows if today is actually the first or last. Do any of us really have any control at all, over even a single breath, it is all in God’s hands?

Up from bed the man climbs, every touch feels almost alive in pleasure of discovery. Sweeter today is the feeling of the warm bed, the taste of the blessed water trickling down his face in the perfect morning shower wetting that mouth, touching his tongue, the same water that only a moments before in time past, touched the body and blood of Jesus himself. For a brief moment he remembers the Body and Blood of his Savior, and as he drinks a few precious drops, warmth fills his entire body.

The cool air of a days anticipation, on go the cloaks of the day, subtle reminders of our humanity, dressing for a day, for the business of the day. Blessings on all that cross our young child’s path. When he isn’t about his Fathers work, he is mending the tents in peoples live’s, earning a few denarii, just enough to meet the needs of his obligations.

What a bright beautiful day filled with such peace, so many beautiful vibrant colors. Even the very breath he breath’s seems to fill his lungs with scented bloom and light wisps of sweet flavored honey. Even the sparrows perched in angelic gaze, resting watchful eye on his every move, in their area of play. He sees the flowers, the leaves, clouds, only days before he hardly knew existed at the end of his drive.

A day of constant contemplation as he walks into the work place, people seem to just love to say hi to him with a more warming welcome come lately, his soft yet deeply compassionate voice has almost a healing effect on people itself, at least thats what they tell him recently.

Many a times has he delved into the face of any and all giants that have held him back throughout the years. This ongoing process seems to find itself in the meanderings of his recent wilderness walking, they pop out from around hidden rocks like the snakes that lie coiled not hardly making their presence known until you nearly step on their slithering heads.

Mountain strongholds of the enemy have fallen lately like dominoes, often revealing the hidden truths of their dark origins behind their not so permanent walls. The resulting discoveries, and subsequent delivery from the bondage, they had in place, has been nothing short of miraculous.

For the first time our young child is doing exactly what he is supposed to be, his mountain calling, his stronghold mountain designed for his purpose since the beginning of creation. People are reacting so positively, people are being touched, their tears of joy are so much more valuable then any gold. The ease of his victory is miraculous, because he knows it is all God.

But does it matter, even unsaid by others, he knows what he is doing is exactly what our glorious God would have him do at this very moment in his life.

“Thanks be to God for the such a peaceful joy and happiness in knowing You, and experiencing these gifts.”

A days blessings for our disciple, brother, apostle, elder, teacher, prophet, healer, father, fisher, servant, does it matter what people call him, yes it does, because if they say; “he has the face of Christ!” no earthly title could even come close to that majesty, the very one He would us all have.

What a pity to have only found this peace at this late stage of life. The sadness at all of the years of waisted time, the missed chances for discoveries, the so many fallen souls resting along the side of the road as he crossed to avoid, in even his recent past. The oh, so many times he turned his back on a good thing, a pure gift, a piece of wisdom from the Holy Father Himself. How many times has the young child went around the giant of a mountain instead of climbing it.

The guilt is overwhelming, maybe it is time to go back to the battle field; “What remains?”

“What cobwebs have I missed in the corners of this great mansion You have so graciously given me” he says out loud in his tearing eyes?

“Why do I continuously go back to the memories of my sins?” the pain of these memories, the feelings of inadequacy, whispers of being unworthy, pains of unresolved healing’s lying deep in the crick of his neck, buried there below even the pressure of a most skilled masseuse. There is unfinished business in the house.

Lunch time and off to the park for a climb up the mountain. If the Armor isn’t already on, he quickly commands; Armor On Time!

However odd it may seem, beating down the body with strenuous exercise always prompts a quick method to clear the air of earthly distractions, making it so much more fluid to hear the Voice of God ever so clearer and louder. No different this time!

About the time he gets three quarters of the way up the mountain, the Voice of God comes in loud and clear, an overwhelming feeling of love and acceptance plays through his soul like the penetrating warmth of a baby lying against his chest;

“My sweet son, how I love you so very much” the Fathers voice booms in recognized sweetness granting all the peace one could possibly hold.

“You have such a heart, let me tell you what has held you back almost from the very beginning of your young life.”

“Think back to almost your earliest memory, what do you see?”

He looks deep within his memories seeing various images out of young eyes. Images of playing, resting in bed, going to school, some images more of objects and places; a brother playing in a crib, a program playing in black and white on a television, voices talking in another room to an absent audience.

A gash on the forehead, and a mother rushing him quickly to the Doctor.

Other images of significant moments playing at a small stretch of beach, sitting in the mud looking the gentle waves made on the surface of the lake. Ever is the watchful eye towards the dark place that is just further from him, and while nothing seems to be there, he seems sure that if he takes his eye away something dark will emerge. His mother sits near, also watching.

Walking through yards, crawling into a dog house with the family dog. The neighbor’s barn, the skeleton of a new home being built. Memory after memory, but also blocks of blank space, memories and feelings that seem to flow into places and then suddenly end in shadowed dark.

There was moment, something happened, a young boy left alone after swimming lessons, darkness, a cold floor, where is everyone, why is he left alone at just an age of five or six. Only dreams of something, something fearful, something shameful.

“Who do you see in these pictures?” the Father says, not with guilt but with tender care, and even sorrow.

I see nobody mostly, sometimes I see my mother, my brother, friends, all sorts of objects, people I hardly remember, faces. But most of the time I am alone.

“Do you see your father?”

Once maybe?

“Do you see his face?”

No, he has his back to me. He is a good man, a kind man, he worked hard for us, we always had enough.

“But you don’t remember seeing him?”

No!

“Now my sweet perfect son, listen; all those times you were alone, all those times you wanted so desperately your father to be there, the many times fear creeped up and pulled it’s dark claws against your beautiful skin, there was the enemy whispering in the ear of your father to turn away.”

“Forgive your Father, not the enemy.”

“And while you are at it, forgive yourself for allowing yourself to fall prey.”

Then I hear the powerful Voice of my Father, the God of all Creation boom out in Thunderous Authority;

“That creature that was assigned to destroy my young son, what is your name?”

From the hollows of my deepest memory I hear a faint voice, yet one I have heard so many times in my life, I recognize it’s dark pull, an almost whisper from depths deep past;

“I am Infirmity” it says.

Again the Fathers voice, this time with confidence for a child that He is so proud of, as He encourages him further to take those few steps towards obedience;

“Go find that mountain stronghold that has held you back, that hiding demon, that dark cliff face, not even the one that might hold you back from your own mountain calling, but one that is designed to hold you back from even seeking Me.”

“It is the one that commands the others that have tormented you, your entire life. It is the one that gives the others their commands, it strengthens them, it leads them, find him and the others will flee.”

In my deepest heart I just know, because I know, because I know, it’s name, and it is; Abandonment and Rejection.

What is amazing; when a spy is in the area, he can go about his dirty little secret tasks, causing problems, steeling gifts, mucking up the system, but once the spy know’s you are on to him, it goes into stealth mode, off hiding, trying desperately to get away with it’s skin, or in this case unchained for eternity.

The good news; when the spy is hiding trying to escape, it is no longer doing it’s dirty job, all the negative effects quickly dissipate.

A soldier with obvious rank and stature steps up to a brightly lit battle field, rays of light shine in golden beams in all directions, brilliant streaming lights cascade out of every glowing object; golds, yellows, very light but ruby bright crimsons, and royal purples all blinding to everything except the supernatural eye.

The many rainbows that dance among the blossoming trees, glisten as they sing sweet tunes of flowery scent mixed with a cool soft breeze. Sparkles across the land form as gemstones cover the ground like the glistening pebbles of cool Colorado stream.

All these brilliant colors reflect off the glimmering armor that adorns our strong knight. His hands blaze in almost translucent blue white shining through, shrouded in simple unadorned cloak, its gleam radiate with power underneath.

He glances down to see his strong translucent hands, brightly glowing white blue from within holding the largest white hot blazing sword in one hand, and a perfectly secure mirror polished white gold shield in the other.

Step upon thunderous step he confidently strides up the pure gold path that forms in front of him, each step replaced by a sea of perfect flower peddle’s that immediately form under his sandaled feet.

I then hear the Father say with almost a joyful pride; “Well done My good and faithful son”

“Happy hunting!”

By Peter Colla

“Dear Jesus, help me to find those dark creatures, those cobwebs, those mountains, that would would open the doors for the enemy in my house, the chinks in my armor. Let me see them with Your eyes, give me Your Lion’s strength and courage, and grant me the weapons to overcome them, all in the Glorious Name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth.”

For Vicky