Gentle Reader,
Without preamble, because I slept little last night and it’s difficult to breathe. Kate says: work.
Go.
Smoke fills the air. Ash and dust fill our lungs.
Houston floats. Florida braces for impact.
The Northwest – 1200 fires. We burn.
I am not given to attempting to predict when the Lord will return, but I can’t help but feel that the apocalypse has begun. Natural disasters, wars and rumors of wars. Birth pangs or death knells; hard to decide. A winding down and winding up. My eyes look to the sky above, covered by a layer of yellowish, dirty particulates. I long to see it rend in two, split in half, unable to bear the weight of the Glorious King condescending, once again, to set foot on the earth He holds together.
He declared the work finished. Took His place, seated at the right hand of the Father.
And yet we wait.
Again, the “already” and the “not yet.”
Stop.
