Until last night I never understood sin. I thought I did, at least to some extent, but my comprehension when placed beside the actual reality pales to the harshest comparison words can denote. This revelation that was afforded me about the nature of sin has completely changed the entire structure of my belief system and left me paled beyond recovery to the resemblance of any world view I have ever entertained in the past. Last night in a revelation I saw the complete ugliness and hatefulness of the disease called sin, a plague that infiltrates the entire universe, infecting and destroying every aspect of the world physically, mentally, emotionally, sociologically, and spiritually. I saw that Sin is a disease blacker than the deepest black hole and which has infected not only the human race but the entire cosmos. It is the mother of all sickness, pain, suffering, ugliness and death--acondition which can only be dealt with by compete eradication, else it erradicates the whole creation.

Let me begin by stating that I am not a prophet and only the least of shepherds. I do not say that the flock I have tended is the least, they are the precious sheep of the one true LORD GOD, but I only imply that my role as shepherd deserves no special merit. I am merely a man of flesh and blood, not a whit better than any other man.

Bedtime Stories By Londis Carpenter

In my childhood, every night, when it was time for bed, After we prayed for God “my soul to keep;” I still recall the stories that my Mother to me read— To comfort me and help me go to sleep.

The bedtime tales she read to me were like a healing balm When monsters filled my childish heart with fright. Her gentle voice comforted me and always brought me calm; Her soothing words protected through the night.

When darkness came to frighten me, Mother was always there; Her presence helped relieve each childhood care. Her stories taught me to be brave; how to face every fear; To rise and meet the devil’s every dare. I’m older and now Mother’s gone; I’m in my senior years.

I have a loving Father up above. When darkness falls and brings to me a different set of fears, He loves me with a mother’s kind of love. He whispers bedtime stories in dreams that set things right After I pray “I lay me down to sleep.”

I love the bedtime stories Father reads to me each night To show me that my soul is His to keep.

It is written in the Hebrew Scriptures that two are better than one and a three ply cord is not easily broken. It’s a good saying and has many applications. I believe when he gave us Science, Religion and Politics the Creator in his infinite wisdom was offering man a three ply cord, attached to a lifebuoy and tossed into a world that was drowning in its own desperation. However, mankind, having only finite wisdom, foolishly allowed his lifeline to unravel until one by one each strand weakened and eventually the whole rope snapped. Who can deny that today each one of these three institutions is broken?

While they all claim to exist independently, the truth is that any one strand is meaningless without a connection to the others. Combined into a wholesome and balanced three ply cord they empower the human race, lifting us up from the slimy pit of barbarianism to the highest pinnacle of civilization. Separately, however, they only serve to enslave and rob us of human dignity and the freedom of self-expression.

Imagination is the architect of dreams
And when it meets with knowledge, art and truth
It etches on eternity’s vast doors
Visions beyond vain logic’s need of proof.

Arising on the wings of fantasy
Worlds dwell, unknown to merely mortal men.
Places where souls aspiring higher realms
Have sometimes met their own angelic kin.

In night watches I ‘oft go there in dreams;
Carried away to mystic realms, afar.
Angelic figures hold me, hand-in-hand
And ferry me to some enchanted star.

You’ll never read about it in History books or tomes, Or in encyclopedias you find in finer homes. You’ll never hear it spoken of in lessons teachers tell; But I was there in person when we captured Toy Box Hill. An army made of broken men; some couldn’t stand at all, Plastic soldiers dressed in khaki, only two inches tall, In Bivouac near the train station assembled on the floor, We stood against the brightly painted wooden soldier corps Lionel train gondolas and flat cars carried stores, Of rubber band munitions and things that help win wars. While, in their bright regalia, atop the Toy Box roof The enemy relentlessly, stood brazen and aloof. Toy Box Hill had always been our home; we knew no other space Until one day last Christmas Wooden soldiers took our place.

But our boy has remained loyal, never tossing us away And he’s kept us all together in a place where we can play And though his parents bought him brand new soldiers bright and clean, Johnny preferred to keep our plastic army war machine. And many days with Johnny putting us all through the drill, We prepared for the battle, to retake Toy Box Hill. The wood soldiers outnumbered us, at least three times or more.

Great poetry is like a precious stone, Found mingled with mere rocks amid the gravel. Stunning in its own unique expression, Unmarred by wasted words and senseless babble. An agate in the sand along the shore, Washed by the tide, has secrets to reveal. And pearls hidden inside an oyster’s shell, Messages of great riches may conceal. Thousands of words may be written to rhyme; Each having its own story to impart. Each little tale, its message may convey In words that no doubt pour from someone's heart. But words alone do not a poem make. Neither the strength of feeling that's opined. The greatness of a poem is its song That lingers in the heart and in the mind. Lyrics which by universal applause, And with a bow and tipping of the hat, Haunt every man's soul, giving him pause. Causing to say, "I wish that I'd said that."

I have a secret garden; It’s hidden in my heart. I planted it with seeds of love, God’s spirit did impart. I cultivate it every day, So no weeds choke it out With fear or hate or unkind words Or unbelief or doubt.

God’s word I’ve hidden in my heart Lest sin should take control. Flowers of love and beauty And peace now rule my soul. And every morn and evening I find some time to spend In the garden I have planted Its beauty to attend.

I don’t know anyone who does not enjoy receiving gifts. Many of us enjoy receiving gifts on our birthdays and for Christmas and other occasions; sometimes we even receive them for no special occasion at all.

But for the most part receiving a gift is a pleasant occasion and we often celebrate with a party and express out thanks by a card or some other way. What I wonder is how have we expressed our gratitude for the gifts we receive from the Lord? We have the gift of Jesus, His son. And when Jesus ascended to the Father’s house he “gave gifts unto men.” We have the gift of the Holy Spirit, the Gifts of the Spirit and the gift of being accepted in the brotherhood of the family of God.

These are gifts we all shared in common. I know we all appreciate the gifts we have received from above, so I would like to propose that we make today a huge party day to celebrate our gifts. In the unity of the spirit let’s declare today a thank you party day to the Lord for all his goodness to men. It’s easy to sign on spirit to spirit, just agree in your spirit that you are joining this celebration. God will know and perhape even smile on us.

Imagination is the architect of dreams
And when it meets with knowledge, art and truth
It etches on eternity’s vast doors
Visions beyond vain logic’s need of proof.

Arising on the wings of fantasy
Worlds dwell, unknown to merely mortal men.
Places where souls aspiring higher realms
Have sometimes met their own angelic kin.

Of those among mankind I most admire are such who’ve overcome the saddest grief, and men who’ve pulled themselves out of the mire after their lives had crashed upon the reef. A phoenix who has risen from the fire! A broken heart that’s brave beyond belief! These are men to whom my soul would aspire. No matter if of sinners they are chief.

When you look at me to day and see my clothes don't fit so well,
Please don't just see my coat all frayed and torn.
Look beyond my shirt and trousers with their rips and with their stains—
For many years this garment I have worn.

Mother went to heaven in a dress that she had made,
A hand-sewn garment mama made of plaid.
My mother was a seamstress, the best I've ever known;
She managed to make do with what she had.