Author Archives: Chayli

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Why do God's people, formed in His image and indwelt of His Spirit, make mistakes? Why does He let them? Does He not realize the pain that failure inflicts upon them? Could He not better reveal His glory through them by making them perfect little specimens of Him?

There's one obvious answer, that being that in creating us in His image He gave us free will, the ability to choose. Even if we choose to do what's right, we are still human. And no matter how hard they try, humans fail. Trying doesn't always mean succeeding. Resolve can vanish in a moment, and before we know it, the tears are falling over an action that looked good at the time but revealed its true and faded colors later.

So God's people fail because in all reality they can't help it. But could there be a purpose behind our failures? A greater purpose that makes even the worst mistakes turn the portrait of life into something raw and beautiful and, yes, even glorious?

Perhaps while we are yet wallowing in our fallenness, the Father is whispering to us to look higher. . . ...continue reading →

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O love that will not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in Thee;
I give Thee back the life I owe,
That in Thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O light that followest all my way,
I yield my flickering torch to Thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in Thy sunshine's glow, its day
May brighter, fairer be.

O joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to Thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain
That morn shall tearless be. ...continue reading →

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The Life of a Hermit

Right here I sit, amongst all my friends,
And we all have our roads with their own little bends,
But mine shall begin where the rest of yours ends. . .
I want the life of a hermit.

If in ten years my bright face you would see,
Come to the place where the soul can run free;
Sit on my stoop, and I'll fix you some tea.
Mine is the life of a hermit.

Far up the mountain, with trees on all sides,
There in a meadow my small cottage hides;
Bright is the sunshine, and warmth here abides,
Here in the life of a hermit. ...continue reading →

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Perhaps it's disrespectful to be sitting out here eating Jelly Bellies and contemplating life on Mary Ann McTimmond's grave. If it is, and if she would have minded in a former life, I know she doesn't mind now. She, and likely those she influenced, has been dead and buried longer than I or my parents or my grandparents have been alive.

In a sense, she doesn't matter anymore. All she's left behind her, to me who never knew her, is a mossy, faded gravestone and a story that ended too soon. She was only twenty seven when she died. Four years older than me.

I wonder if she knew she was going to die, if it was some kind of long illness that took her. I wonder if she feared death. Or perhaps she looked forward to seeing again her infant son whom she'd held and loved for only a day before he was taken from her. She was twenty five then. Two years older than me. Too young to lose a child. ...continue reading →

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. . . life is beautiful.

It's brilliant sunshine against crystal skies. It's sixty degree weather in the middle of January. It's a warm breeze and the hint of laughter in the air.

It's little boys who say funny things. . . "I'm hot. Shall I take my shirt off?" It's little boys who do funny things. . . belly laughs that are too contagious to ignore and back rubs with tractors.

It's raking old, moldy leaves and still thrilling at the newness of life. It's being with friends. It's muddy shoes and blistered hands.

It's swinging. Going twisty. Holding still. Giving underdogs to the little ones. It's sore fingers from holding onto the swing next to yours, and perhaps sore lips from the smile you can't contain.

It's joy, and it's laughter, and if all is right with your God, it's peace.

This is life. Life is beautiful.