Truth

Flashes of light
They appeared long before
Long before I could capture the exposed
Let truth take its place
Let truth have its way
As it manoeuvres and brings us back
To the yellow brick road of our lives

On The Anvil, by Max Lucado

With a strong forearm, the apron-clad blacksmith puts his tongs into the fire, grasps the heated metal, and places it on the anvil. His keen eye examines the glowing piece. He sees what the tool is now and envisions what he wants it to be—sharper, flatter, wider, longer. With a clear picture in his mind, he begins to pound. His left hand still clutching the hot mass with the tongs, his right hand slams the two-pound sledge upon the moldable metal.
On the solid anvil, the smoldering iron is remolded.
The smith knows the type of instrument he wants. He knows the size. He knows the shape. He knows the strength.
Whang! Whang! The hammer slams. The shop rings with the noise, the air fills with smoke, and the softened metal responds.
But the response doesn’t come easily. It doesn’t come without discomfort. To melt down the old and recast it as new is a disrupting process. Yet the metal remains on the anvil, allowing the toolmaker to remove the scars, repair the cracks, refill the voids, and purge the impurities.
And with time, a change occurs: What was dull becomes sharpened, what was crooked becomes straight, what was weak becomes strong, and what was useless becomes valuable.
Then the blacksmith stops. He ceases his pounding and sets down his hammer. With a strong left arm, he lifts the tongs until the freshly molded metal is at eye level. In the still silence, he examines the smoking tool. The incandescent implement is rotated and examined for any mars or cracks.
There are none.
Now the smith enters the final stage of his task. He plunges the smoldering instrument into a nearby bucket of water. With a hiss and a rush of steam, the metal immediately begins to harden. The heat surrenders to the onslaught of cool water, and the pliable, soft mineral becomes an unbending useful tool.
“For a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come so that your faith—of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire—may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.” (I Peter 1:6-7)

They belong to me ...

The lessons of my life, are mine alone
They belong to me
The road ahead is unknown
The mountains, hills and cliffs are of course, before me
My head is held up high
The Lord lifts me
I am not afraid
They belong to me
Precious, priceless
Only love can compare
Let nothing come between us oh Lord
The voices, the faces, the words
Let me tongue be guided by the rudder of your word
Today, I feel my feet
I know the peace that be mine
I give it to no one
Let the fire burn
Let the smoke of my flesh rise
Let the sting bring to life the lesson
Keep my tongue still
As my truth be known
Let time take its place
Let the seasons work at their pace
As the sinew grows
Let my inner man rise and take shape
Let my eyes be filled with understanding
Let my ears hear the words of the spirit as the world nudges and pushes
Yes, I do not deny the errors of my way
The inevitable part of my humaness
But let not the very thing that connects me to victory be taken
Let not love be taken
Let not the error of denying love take me from me
From place to place, my home is always in my heart
My lessons are mine and mine alone
They belong to me
I am at peace with these
Let strength, peace and love hold me close
Always Lord
I love You.