Skip to main content

Are you all in or out of God’s Mailbox?

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1h0rtX6gaL5fPoeyvRlU4IeewLawpDGky

Recently, my husband and I strolled Downtown Thibodaux. 


We caught a storybook glimpse of a squirrel eating seeds in a Magnolia tree, then came across a historic mailbox. It “cat-pawed” my Alice in Wonderland curiosity, so I took a picture.


The washed-out color of olden times drenched the mailbox in rust. 


I thought to myself...are we all in or out of the mailbox of true Christianity?


Today’s world has become more “open-minded” to veiled sin. They are condoning unstamped letters of promiscuity that have slipped into society.  


As Christ followers, we need to think of ourselves as letters that have been sealed with righteousness. 


Are you being fully slipped into the mailbox with a boldness or are you being jiggled in halfway, falling to the world? 


Are you being stamped with truth or unstamped with a holy vagueness?


Are you being slipped into the mailbox with a fervor or being finicky and falling to dirt-like debauchery. 


Is your letter to God being written with obedience or written with fickle foolishness?


You cannot serve two masters. You either fall into God’s mailbox or lay on the ground, being trampled and torn by the world. 


No man can serve two masters: for either he. will hate the one, and love the other; or else. he will hold to the one, and despise the other, Yecannot serve God and mammon. - Matthew 6:24

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Pine Heart Roots

  On a Friday afternoon, I packed the car and my mom and I drove down Sea Blue Lane.   Our destination was Pine Prairie, Louisiana.   Wheels rolled down blacktop while music notes rocked and rolled through the Malibu.   We sped through Lafayette and entered “Country Land”.   As I passed by horses, my eyes lit up with little girl joy, as usual.   Cows grazed as clouds speckled their backs.   The bayous were fading behind us as pine trees started to grow in their place.   The scenery was refreshing, renewing our minds with fresh crawfish waters.   We finally arrived at my cousin, Dana’s house and parked upon O’Banion territory.   I needed to strip my bark of “stress needles” and regrow peace around my “pine heart”.       I was feeling distant from my dad.   Year after year, the roughness I once felt on his hand was smoothing.   He is branded in my heart, but I needed that brand to be lit under fire ...

Country Bound

Country Bound I travel down a mellow, yellow sunflower road upon miniscule “wishing” pebbles.   A monument stands tall amiss sprightly wildflowers.   Rustic, red barn, tell me your wisdom, tell me your stories.   A split rail fence is my guide, built by thick, rough hands.   It dances to a patterned rhythm around a charming, pastel blue farmhouse.   I am country bound, my soul to be found. I pass by a field flowing with radiant corn.   Stalks stand tall, presiding over misty pastures.   Golden wheat is nuzzled with sunny rays.   It waltzes with the wind and tangos with blades of grass.   Hearts of farmers beat in rolling hills, growing “love soy seeds”. An apple pie sits on a crackled window sill cooling for attention.   Cinnamon swirls through a two-story house.   Maple beans, sweet greens, and cornbread overflow the Amish-built table.   Greens pop into savoring mouths.   Sugary beans candy-coat t...

Ice Skating Beyond the Wood

    I once lived out in the country, beyond the babbling noise of car horns, banshee sirens, and life's marathons.  Those years were spent amongst the forest and foxes unseen.  Turkeys and bubbly bunnies were our woodland neighbors.  Milk cows jingled, jangled across the distant pasture.  Tawny deer sidled near the glistening pond, making neighbors with their shadows upon the ice.  God's peace nestled on the porch of our quaint "Ponderosa". My brother and I decided to go ice skating one December eve.  My dad, a bristly fellow, took up shovel and headed to our pond "beyond the wood".  He heaved and hoed, shoveling snow off the "present wrapped" ice.  Snow tipped oak branches where robins once perched.  Flurries floated, settling upon my hard-working dad.  My brother and I dressed as warm as puffy Eskimos.  We trudged and nudged through the white, pure land.  Hopping Jacque Cousteau (my dog), followed our ...