Are we Continuously getting Looped in our Disobedience?

A few days ago, my dog Tucker, kept getting himself caught and looped around our patio pole due to his lead.

I stood there and thought about bad habits as we try and live a Christian live. I dug up the lingering compost material of disobedience amongst our spirits.

We should be led by God. We should be directed by the Holy Spirit around patio poles, prickly weeds, snake dens, and ultimate destruction. Although, almost all Christians have a tendency to disobey and wrap ourselves around a beam of backtracking and confusion.

As I looked at Tucker as he was standing there caught and taught by his lead, he looked worried and boggled with, “come and let me loose.”

If we truly love and fear God, we will listen to Him and the leadership of the Holy Spirit. Jesus will loosen our constricting tie and we will live with intention free from burdensome bends and loopiness.

Even though the patio pole may look more stable and tangible, God’s ways are untied with joyous peace, clarification, comfort, and yards that lack sticky weeds. Your yard will be filled with green grass because of His rain allowance and pruning growth.

I try and pray each morning. “Holy Spirit, guide and lead me. Let me be still and know that you are God.”

If we put our full trust and obedience into God’s lead He has established for us, we will round the beams of bewilderment, pass by prickly patches, and find our way to the bright green grassy areas of growth and freedom.

There you will find less worrisome clouds and more flowers that have bursted into fields of faith.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding;

in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight. - proverbs 3:5-6

Comments

"Memory Day" Memories

“Memory Day” Memories August 11 th , 2008 will always be etched in my mind. Why? Do you ask? That was the day the leading man in my life went home, my dad, Bob J. O’Banion. He was my encourager, support system, teacher, boulder, and most importantly, a godly leader. When you needed a hand, both of his calloused hands were there to hug, shake, and give you a pat on the back. When you needed Christian advice, his wisdom traveled from his can line to yours. With the can pressed against your ear, you’d hear, “God is the way, the truth, and the light.” He was a true definition of a man, a sovereign man. Integrity made him a humble guide through the Blueridge Mountains, the dry desert, and beyond. Love lined his face with deep canyon wrinkles. He sought and dug ditches to provide. The rooftop was his “day home”. Sun-tanned skin branded him a “sweat by the brow” toiler. Family sto...

Seasonal Change

The loss of my dad still hurts, especially when seasons change. . For those who have lost a loved one, the aching still seems to pulsate through the cracks left upon our hearts. . Seasonal change can breeze in bronzes of bereavement. It can fall with ambers of aches and molasses colored missing. . For me, this is true about Autumn. The leaves change once again, and my dad’s memory wafts o’er red-roofed wishing wells. The shallow water collects pennies of “wish you were here” under Birch trees. . Seasons and holidays blow in memories that patina the past. . Those who have lost a parent, we think upon childhood memoirs. Instances where we held our mom or dad’s hands, while strolling under amber stained glass etched with maple leaves. . I think upon harvest memories where the jack-o-lanterns flow, and the crockpot chili steams in bowls. . My dad walks behind my brother and I as we prance towards candy. In seasonal memory “trick-or-treats” bounce of...

Climb the Rope of Hope

I have to admit, I’m feeling a dew drop of sadness today. I was supposed to go to a RV show with friends, but decided to stay home. Why did I stay home? I miss my dad. It’s been almost 12 years and I still ache for him. I miss his love and his godly guidance (I’m crying as I write this post). I couldn’t go trudge in and out of memories. I couldn’t go up and down steps of the past. My heart couldn’t bear the weight of camper-sized flashbacks. When I was growing up, we were a band of gypsies, as my dad called us. We traveled the highway and byways of America in our RV. We’d laugh and play games. We’d have conversations about God’s beauty. We’d bond as a family, as a God braided clan. That bond has made me grieve a hard grief. That closeness clamors my heart with the dad category of love. I don’t grieve on a daily basis anymore. The wounds of loss have healed. The scar is not as prevalent. But, the missing still resides. The missing still dews rosy teardrops. ...

Search This Blog