I love butterflies. They seem magical somehow. You never really see where they come from, or where they go. They appear, flutter and vanish. I like to make up stories. Many of my ideas have never been written down. They stem from something like a butterfly flitting by. I say a few lines about the moment. Then finish what I'm doing. Imagine what would happen if I stopped to write all the thoughts I have about what I see. I used to carry a small notepad with me wherever I went. I think it's time to do that again. Most of my stories have come while going for a walk and scribbled down on a piece of paper. No butterflies around now, except for the one in my hair.
Friday, November 8, 2013
He is a man I grew up with. Yesterday he celebrated 95 years of earthly living. I find his voice comforting. I always have. Through wayward times in my life, I seemed to always find him. I wanted the hope he offered. I believed in the things he stood for. His passion was sincere. His message never waivered. I wished I could be like him. Bold, honest, driven. How does a man keep his passion for 95 years? How can an old man bring so many to think about the thing that matters most in life? It's not the man that gives the hope. It's the message. He is a willing messenger. Billy Graham's simple message of salvation through Jesus Christ has brought millions into the kingdom of God. Isn't it amazing that a simple man, with a simple message commands so much attention? Perhaps it's worth contemplating. After all, eternity is forever.