(Okay. Perhaps I am. Just a little bit.)
It is very possible that you, skilled observer as I know you are, are curiously noting a theme. The blog title, the verse that now graces the sidebar, and the title of this post seem to have wrestled themselves out of the same general pool of thought and plopped themselves down here for your appraisal. A very odd thing, that -- I dare say, it's very nearly as though the same person wrote them.
In any event, it seemed appropriate, what with proper introductory sentiments being in order, to allow 2 Timothy 1:7 wheedle its way into the first post somehow. For you see, the same person did fashion the words which have emblazoned themselves throughout my blog-space, and it was not my hand that held the pen. It was that of Someone Greater, whose heart I seek ever to emulate, whose love by which I am ever overwhelmed, and whose penworthy fingers not only formed my spirit, but etched upon my heart the very words that have lain themselves before you now: the words that are not Mine, and yet to me have been given -- words that stay the trembling of my star-crossed and shipwrecked soul.
For God has given us a spirit not of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.
- 2 TIMOTHY 1:7
Of what eternal fabric are the woven the thoughts of man? They shall fade and crumble in their time, as shall every word that I leave here. Yet the truth of them, I hope, shall have its heart in eternity; and though I do not pretend to be any more than a living, breathing being whose beating heart shall someday be stilled, I wish to give you something that shall last unto the stillness of your own heart, and beyond--a thing more precious than life itself; for it is what makes life's brokenness worth more than even its beauty.
It is a little thing called Hope.
