It is that kind of day. Two months ago, at a local farm I made this wreath from moist root, dead branch and thorn tails. I left it to dry, wrapt in gauze tissue, then forgot all about it. Today my husband NJ put it on the mantel. It was still fragrant with raw bark, and tree tang. And some softened thorn sting.
Good Friday is that kind of day. Life at Crossbeams. In the raw. Decibels of disbelief. The chaos of Belief! I gawk at it all hang jaw.
Yep, did it. A tribute I always wanted to offer to the One & only Yeshuva!
Wasn’t easy doing “Via Dolarosa” but for a still moment, I felt me standing there on that deadly route, watching as the gory trek uphill happened….. for you, for me:
this One who would do all that for a planet full of us. A Saviour to savor! A word to mull in this week, while we each go through changing life styles, in an earth season like never before. Am so grateful for the Cross and how It changes me, every single day, every single day, redeeming my time, life, existence. Am trusting you get that too. This need to savor the cross, relish cherish the Friend that’d lay His life down ‘for you, for me…’
Listen close and you will hear a bus, a neighbour’s drill….. yea was recorded in a tiny home studio, at a time of transits. This Album was worked off a Psr 630(keys), and my undying love for Theatre: it is perhaps who I am without choir costume and acquired taste… just all my voice & human pulse. It is the rough of pavement psalms and His pursuing love; (thankyou ABBA Father for being Who You Are: creative, generous, incredible!)
my daughter insisted we put it out again(released 2004,Mumbai). We even found lost Master tracks…. thanks hon risking this one on your channel💔
Often we might go barefoot in trails where we are in the enlarged presence of Other Intelligence. Here we strip protocol, and might hear a Reply. Here I knelt unashamed of my crying need for Christ alone: for Yeshua who gave His life for us, for me…
for the local prostitute who walked around our bus stop. She’d mock me with an inscrutable stare; oneday I saw her in an outfit I gave away to our building watchman for ‘his wife back home’ he said;
now this street girl knew it was my dress she wore, she watched me recoil, watched my righteous indignation. And then I sensed God watch me: my superior brows rise in ‘whoa’ as if the rest of us mortals were such perfection!
This one is because of that street girl.
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