Sunday, May 29, 2016

When it rains on the grave

The last time I flew to Minnesota the sky was grey—just like today.
It was the last time, too, that I’d written.
It was December then and as cold a day as I’d ever known.
Today, the end of May, it’s not so cold, but the sky is just the same. Dark, ready to cry.
I grabbed our bag off carousel number eight while my wife waited outside to catch our ride.
We drove straight out of Hubert H. Humphrey Terminal B and crossed the street into Fort Snelling—a terminal of another kind. 
We made our way to where we'd been. I remember how the guns rang, the bugle played, the flag was laid, how we shook from the cold and tears fell like rain.
As we drove to the other side of the hill the sky shook, we turned on the wipers as fast as they could go.
The grey sky remembered and returned our tears. We walked from one weeping stone to the next. Finally on the edge of the hill, overlooking the little pond, we found it. His name etched in stone.
Grass had started to grow over the muddy hole. As if on cue the sky bit back its’ tears and for a solemn moment we snapped pictures with wet phones.
When we were through, the sky opened up again and soaked us to the skin. A cold wind whipped the rain across our face. I shivered and thought, ‘how fitting, for the start of this Memorial Day weekend and here we stand among the graves and all the heavens are weeping.’
But something was missing. The whole world was weeping—but where was my sadness, where was my mourning? Had my heart grown as cold as the stones lined up in rows for as far as I could see?
As we made our way back to the car I took one last look across the yard. I stood there staring. I couldn’t get any wetter so what difference would another moment make? And that’s when it hit me.
It was almost as if I could hear the echoes of heroes who wouldn’t retreat from hell’s thunder and raining fire. Those stones weren’t weeping. They were shining. The sky wasn’t mourning, but honoring every soldier that had fallen, a baptism of sorts, a cleansing with a promise of a new beginning.
Nah, I think perhaps they weren’t crying, but instead, the boots were just gettin' a spit-n-polish to look good for the parade.

Remember while you’re remembering…to make some memories, today.

God’s best to you and yours,
Happy Memorial Day

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

He's run out of second chances

He’s run out of second chances.
Today he’d be 82.
But 26 days ago he took his last breath on earth…and his first in eternity.
Twenty-two days ago an icy wind cut to the bone as the bugler touched shivering lips to the horn and blew out “Taps—the saddest sound on earth,” as dad would say.
The flag was folded by white gloved heroes standing strong and proud as if they didn’t notice the sub-zero, biting wind.
The salute of the rifles silenced the whipping wind.
The melodic voice of Vince Gill warmed the atmosphere with…
Go rest high on that mountain
Son your work on earth is done
Go to Heaven a shoutin'
Love for the Father and the Son

The preacher read and spoke and prayed.
And a marker was placed up on the ridge next to a pond—dad would want to know if it was a place he could fish.

He taught me to swing a bat and throw a ball. He taught me to drive a boat, water ski, tie a fishing knot, land a Pike and never say can’t.
He worked hard.
If he knew a need—he met it.
If he saw a flaw—he’d fix it.
If someone stretched out a hand—he shook it.
And when I blew it—which was often—he always gave me a second chance.
He was loud in so many ways, except his religion. Some might even wonder where he stood as far as all that goes.
But if you’d watch, you’d see where he stood, more than hear.
He’d close his eyes and bow his head before every meal. It was brief and quiet and easy to miss—but I saw him do it a hundred times or more. He’d do the same before every take-off and landing when on a plane.
He’d give anonymously. Kind of like how he prayed.
Was he was too embarrassed to say, “Let’s pray”? Or maybe he figured—
relationships are best shown, to be known.
When I was boy, maybe around eight or ten, he took a stand. He sat us kids around the dining room table and said he’d committed his life to Christ. He read from the Bible, prayed out loud and I learned a new word that day—devotions.  
It didn’t last. I don’t remember when the thing dad called, family devotions, stopped. But the impact never did—it changed my life, forever.
He made mistakes to be sure. Some might even say in terrible ways. I still remember the day I discovered he wasn’t Superman, and couldn’t walk on water.
But, he was my dad, good and bad, for better or worse, and through it all he taught me, God is greater and He gives us all a second chance.
It didn’t take me long to figure out all on my own that…
Maybe God only counts to two, ‘cuz I’ve had more than my fair share of second chances.
And isn’t that the point of it all? No matter the life, how terrible or great, God’s grace is sufficient to forgive, if only we’ll repent and turn from our sin.  
Twenty six days ago Dad crossed the final threshold to his eternal destination. He didn’t wear his religion out loud but walked like a man who knew his sin…and prayed every day to be forgiven.  
He’s run out of second chances—because he’ll never need another.
He’d be 82 years old today, but instead, I believe, he’s twenty six days young and celebrating his best birthday ever, knowing he’s forgiven and forever with The Son.

Monday, January 4, 2016


August 15th 1961
We were in Kenya, carrying on our missionary work–handing out bread with a message, Bread Of Life.
Sarah’s water broke the fourth of August. She was two weeks early!
The babies came! Two beautiful, handsome boys! I know, I was there, I saw them. I held them, I kissed them. Loved them…still do.
As I watched my wife cradling our boys I was in awe. My mind was spinning. From the two of us—two new creations have come.
They're people, real live tiny people. I have never felt closer to The Creator.
My precious Sarah, never looked so beautiful! She glowed.
And then...they were no more.
Through sweat and tears of joy and pain she eyed our sons. “Your father and I–two worlds united, and you—” She hesitated, bit her quivering lip and drew a deep breath—“Isaac and Ishmael, two worlds divided.”
I was confused, we planned to name them Peter (after her father) and David (after King David, the man after God's own heart).
She touched my hand, “I love you–see you soon.”
She was gone.
All went black.
The expanse of the universe cannot contain the breadth of emotion I traveled that day.
I woke to thunder–in my head, and a nurse about to stick a needle in my arm.
"Sarah! Where's my wife!"
“She didn't make it” hissed the nurse.
“Where's my boys—I want to see my boys! I want to see my wife!”
I yanked a bandage off my head and felt dried blood.
“You bumped your head when you fainted.”
“Fine” hissed the snake as she jerked a curtain back that divided the room.
One baby, not ours, lay...

From Conspiracy Theory...or not

.99 cents @ Amazon

Although, the story lands on the fiction shelf, a little research will expose that many of the events and dates are historically accurate, making the storyline plausible.

The golden thread that weaves the plot together comes from a belief in the strength of family, the power of prayer and the battles that rage against that the story holds true.

Is it fact or decide. 

Just beyond our natural senses there's a battle going on for you...for me. The turmoil we see on the nightly news is a reflection of this battle. 

Be forewarned: This is not a politically correct story...but that doesn't mean it is not correct. 

Thank you for continuing to send your prayer requests. ipray4u.

Thank you for sharing: 

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

How to never get bored…

For five weeks Mac scrubbed every inch of the pier and the bottoms of several boats until not a trace of the diesel spill could be found.
Mac made one last trip up and down the pier to make sure he didn’t miss anything. And then he put away all his tools and made his way into the marina store to tell Sean he was through.
“Whaddya talkin’ about Mac? You’re not through ‘til I say you’re through. I can’t believe my ears. The son of such a fine sailor as RJ MacArthur quitting a job before it’s through.”
Mac cleared his throat. “Well sir, I can’t find a lick of that spill anywhere…there’s nothing left for me to do.”
“Nothing left to do?” Sean narrowed his eyes and made a noise that sounded like a growl. “Don’t ever let me hear you say those words again. Got it?”
“Okay but—”
“You’ll always have something to do if you just do the next thing.”
“The next thing…what next thing?”
“Don’t matter. Just find one thing that needs doin’ and that’ll lead you to another. You won’t ever get done and you won’t ever get bored. Do you understand?”
Mac nodded.
“Okay then. What’re you gonna do next?”
Mac shifted his feet and lifted his shoulders up and down. “I have no idea.”
Sean pulled in a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll help you get started. But the next thing is up to you. Understood?”

From The Voice

More than just a book, it's a message about the strength of family, the power of prayer and the battles that rage against them.

What folks are saying about The Voice…READ MORE

Let me know if you’d like a signed and prayed over copy for you or a friend.

Prayerfully yours,

Monday, December 28, 2015

What gets a prayer warrior out of bed...

 “It’s time.”

Burt heard, but didn’t open his eyes. He just listened, to be sure.

“It’s time.”

This time he opened his eyes and pulled in a deep breath.

His wife shifted her head from his shoulder to her pillow. She knew the drill.

He watched her breathe. He felt the warmth of her hand on his chest and closed his eyes.  Just a little longer.

His ears started ringing again. He figured it was from too many years in the factory without wearing ear plugs. But it sounded just like the vibrating ring of a sword, being knocked from a warrior’s hand—at least the way it sounded in the movies. And then the dream returned all at once in a flash.

He lifted her hand from his chest, slid to the side of the bed and sat on the edge.

Mighty warrior? It’s just a dream. I can’t even help my own kids, let alone…forget it. 

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. How’d his life get so messed up? Even worse…so ordinary?

What happened to all the big plans?

Four kids from his first marriage and two through his third. The middle marriage was still kind of a blur. He entered it to try and kill the pain of the first. It didn’t work.  

His life was spent in stages. The first half he set out to be…well, to be a mighty warrior for God. He had big dreams of going into the highways and bi-ways and changing the world for Jesus. But, something happened. About the time he was getting settled in as a dad, a husband, a provider and moving toward his calling. It all came undone.

No sense going back to rehash. He’d done that a thousand times. Cried a million tears, too. But, what was done was done.

The worst of it was the pain it’d caused the kids. They went from a Godly Christian home and a loving church family to being raised by an angry single mom and a wounded, weary, every-other-weekend dad. The kids were the casualties of this war.   

Burt spent the second half of his life playing it safe. He got a job in a glass factory making bottles. He let his world changing dreams die. And other than taking one more chance on love after a decade of mourning, he pretty much lived the description of ordinary.

The only thing he had to show for it all was an ordinary house just outside, Ordinary Oklahoma. He had a pretty decent assortment of homemade fly fishing jigs—but they were nothing special, just plumb ordinary, too. He figured they could’ve named the town after him. 

That’s how he lived. That’s how he retired and that’s how planned to die. Ordinary. It rubbed him the wrong way if he thought about it too much, but for the most part, he’d surrendered to it. His youthful dreams were just that—dreams. He was never meant to do anything great, when he had tried all it did was put him in a spiritual battle that cost him his wife and precious time with his children. He’d not make that mistake again. No, he was ordinary—and that’s how he’d stay.

Except for one thing, but truth be told, he thought, The Voice, was ordinary, too.

He knew The Voice that woke him in the night or arrested him by day was God. But doesn’t that happen to everyone? Just like back in the Garden of Eden, when God walked with Adam and Eve, in the cool of the day just to chat. God doesn’t change. He still likes to do that today. Everybody knows that—it’s just normal, right?

“It’s time.” 

It’s the same thing every night and nothing changes. What difference does it make? Go back to bed. 

The words that never failed to push him off the bed echoed in the silence of the night.

“It’s not about you.”

His knees cracked as he stood and his ankles did as he shuffled toward the door.

 Let me know if you’d like a signed and prayed over copy for you or a friend.

Battles are won or lost in the midnight hour
 By those who dare to wear
The Mantle of

The Silent Knight

The question is...

Will you be one of them?

Prayerfully yours,


Thank you for sharing:

Saturday, December 26, 2015

The Towers...

Burt Smith lived in Ordinary OK. But his life was far from ordinary. He just didn’t know it…yet.

3:00 a.m. September 11, 2001

The Commander and Burt had been at it for three days.
Neither stopped to eat or sleep. 
The warriors waited. Armed and ready they hovered around the two, waiting for the command, yearning to be put to flight, longing for a fight.  
They knew they’d been deployed for a reason—but that’s all they knew.
One unsheathed his sword. “Why are we here? What are we waiting for?”
Almost in unison the others spoke, “Obedience brings understanding.”
Each warrior nodded and the one who brandished his sword started to slide it back into its scabbard, but before he did he noticed a glint across the blade.
Every other warrior saw the same.
He raised his weapon toward heaven and it started to glow.
One by one the warriors unsheathed their swords and did the same. As the tips of their blades met, in unison they said “For the blood of the Lamb!”
All at once they were engulfed in a white light brighter than any welder’s spark. And at that moment they knew exactly what they had to do.
Into infernos they flew.
Towers fell.
Towers of Faith and Courage grew.
In the flames they comforted, encouraged and helped carry bodies from the flames of buildings to the streets of New York City…and souls from the flames of hell to the streets of glory.
Burt was unaware of the events taking place over fourteen hundred miles away on that Tuesday morning, September eleventh, 2001.  All he knew was that he could finally sleep.
He collapsed on the couch.  
Most of those who discovered the mission…weren’t around to tell about it…

Let me know if you’d like a signed and prayed over copy for you or a friend.

Battles are won or lost in the midnight hour
 By those who dare to wear
The Mantle of

The Silent Knight

The question is...

Will you be one of them?

Prayerfully yours,


Thank you for sharing: 

Monday, December 21, 2015

An Endless Silent Night

Comments filled the facebook page like cackles from a hen-house, ...
except for his.

One here, “What did I do to deserve this,” and one there, “Why is this happening to me.” 

Lonely cries for help. Bobbing up and down, like flares from a lifeboat, in the middle of shark infested waters, he posts his comments.

You’ve seen him before, remember? 

He sat near the wall, all by himself. Everyone was smiling, eating and laughing...except him. He just pushed food back and forth with his fork. 

You wondered if you should do something to cheer him up, just say hi, or simply tell him to have a nice day. But, you were too busy. I was preoccupied.

And he silently screamed for help, all alone in a crowded room. Especially at Christmas time they cry.

He keys in questions, but what he really means to say is a statement, “I’m dying. Please help.” 

Desperate for an answer he rephrases and sends out another SOS. “I pray and pray every day for this pain to go away …this is so heartbreaking… not being able to see or hear or talk to my kids is killing me… I don't know what to do… I just wanna give up and forget everything.”

He pulls painful breath through heavy air, and prays for this endless silent night to end. Christmas glitter only rips opens and salts the wound.

Finally despair gives way to fear, and fear, to fight-or-flight: “I CAN’T TAKE THIS #!% NO MORE. I HOPE SOMETHING HAPPENDS SOON."

He spells happens: happends. Probably a typo, but an accurate description of his hearts’ cry: whatever is happening must END soon.

His friends reply with words of comfort… “Everything’s gonna work out… Stay strong bud…Hang in there…You’re a lot stronger than you think…Love You.”

I figured maybe we could talk, so I sent my own message.

“I just read you're goin' through a hard time - call me. I've been in your shoes and know the choking feeling of pain. There is a way to ease this and in the long run honor your children. I'll be praying for you.”

He called. 

I drove up to the little country church where it was quiet, and I could be alone, and talk on the phone. I sat in the parking lot and for an hour or so we burned up the phone. We talked, and talked and talked.
And then we prayed.

We finished praying. He said, “Wow, I’ve never heard one that long before. And um…maybe it worked.” And the phone went silent for a moment or two. “Because, I got a couple tears.”

I failed to stifle a chuckle and said, “The length of the prayer doesn’t matter, but the depth of God’s love does. And that’s, plenty, deep, enough to cross this river. And if I was better at prayin’ it wouldn’t have taken so long. Sorry.”

We cackled a little like facebook-chickens and said our good-byes. Sometime during our call, night had fallen. I stared out the windshield into the starry night, the endless silent night, and felt peace and prayed he would find the same. 

Later that evening I saw him post again on facebook. Only this time it wasn’t flares from a sinking lifeboat, but fireworks from a Celebration Cruise: “I guess praying does work cuz I got a call from my kids. I talked to them for about an hour. I will be seeing them this weekend. They are coming to stay with daddy, I am so happy.”

Prayer works. God cares. He does, He really does.

But, I’m not so naïve as to think all of life’s problems are settled after one pep-talk and a prayer. Life isn’t quite that simple.

Life is like trying to wrap a puppy for Christmas.

It doesn’t sit nice and quiet in a pretty little box, with a pretty little bow under a pristine tree. The puppy shreds the paper, pees on the presents and runs off with the angel-tree-topper that was knocked off the tilting tree by Uncle Bob and his eggnog. Wrinkled paper, bows and ribbons litter the floor and the kids play with the box more than the toy…

But, in the midst of all the chaos there is a song playing, a place of quiet rest, a place near to the heart of God where a Silent Night, is a Holy Night, where all is calm, and all is bright, where glory streams and angels sing, where Loves Pure Light brings sleep in heavenly peace.

God's gift is good tidings of great joy, to all people; Immanuel : God with us.

When we spend time with The Answer, the questions don’t seem so hard.

He cares for you, He really does.

Have a merry, a very merry Christmas.

Thank you for your prayer requests at

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Thursday, December 17, 2015

How to find the perfect Christmas tree & love

“How about this one?” He slid out his axe. 
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so, daddy.”
“Why not? It’s perfect. Seven foot blue spruce, straight and full.”
She looked up at the tree and shook her head. “It’s not the right one daddy.”
She tromped away. Little pink boots left footprints in the snow.
He watched her tug her plastic sled over a fallen branch, looked at the spruce one more time, slid his axe back into its sheath and let out a sigh. “Okay, but you won’t find a more perfect tree.”
She stopped dead in her tracks. Her mitten opened and dropped the rope attached to the sled. She turned around and put her hands on her hips. “Daddy, we’re not looking for the perfect tree.” She shook her head and held her hands out to her side. “We’re looking for the right tree.”
He pulled in a breath and pointed at the seven footer, “But this—”
“There it is!” She ran three steps, turned around, ran back, picked up the rope and jerked her sled off toward a scrawny tilting evergreen about five foot tall.
By the tracks in the snow it was obvious that the tree had been hit by a snowmobile. It was broke at the trunk. On one side the branches were smashed and twisted.
She raised both hands in the air. “Daddy look! This is the one!”
“Oh honey...this tree's b—”
“Beautiful! I know! I told you we’d find the right one.”
He shook his head. “This tree’s been hit. It’s already starting to lose its needles. It won't even last through Christmas.”
“It’s perfect.”
“Perfect?” He pointed back toward the seven foot spruce. “That's perfect.”
She shook her head and put her hands on her hips, again. This time she stomped one of those little pink boots. “We need each other. It’s perfect, better than’s right.”
She shook her head again and turned around and looked at the wounded tree. “Yep, that’s the one.” She nodded and smiled.
That tree made it through Christmas.
As a matter of fact, after sitting in water through Christmas and a hundred and one conversations with a little girl, it was planted on the south side of the barn where the exhaust vents kept the ground soft all year long. In the spring, it started to grow. To this day it shades the south side of the barn and that was over fifteen years ago.
That little girl? She’s twenty two. Married with two kids; one boy, one girl.
Just the other day she sat with her dad on the front porch at the farm.
“Dad…” She pulled in a deep breath and let it out real slow. “Dad, how'd my life get so messed up?”
He looked at her, lifted a little smile and waited.
“I had everything planned so perfect, but now...” She shook her head. “Now, when I look at him, I don’t feel a thing. I can't laugh or cry or smile I'm numb. Why is life so hard?”
“Come on, I want to show you something.” 
She followed her father.
He leaned against the south wall of the old red barn. “Listen.”
She waited and then shrugged. “What?”
He held a finger up to his lips.
They waited. Listened. 
Coo-ah, coo, coo, coo
He looked near the top of a twenty-five foot blue spruce.
She followed his gaze.
There perched on a bent and twisted limb sat a pair of mourning doves. 
“They mate for life” he whispered.
She bit her lip.
“The male only has one foot. He can’t fly straight…or far.”
Her mouth dropped open “How’d that happ—”
“I hit him with the tractor a few years back. Didn’t think he’d make it, let alone find a mate. He couldn’t fly circles or dance the mating ritual like they’re supposed to do…”
They listened to the mournful call.
“Look close at the female. She's the smaller one on the left…she’s only got one eye.”
“What? No.” She made a sad little sigh.
“I figure she must’ve tangled with a kid and a BB gun.”
"She can barely see and he can hardly fly." He looked at his daughter. “They need each other.”
She swallowed hard. Looked at the tree, the crooked twisted limb, the less than perfect pair. She blinked and spilled one bottled up tear...and then another. Her pretty chin quivered. She smiled, then laughed and then she cried. “It’s perfect, better than’s right.”  


Love like the perfect Christmas tree.

It grows quiet, and soft, and slow.
Not with the flash spark and speed of a manufactured tree.

It’s messy

It sheds needles, bares branches. The needles, once soft and supple, bright and green, dry out, loose their color, turn hard, brittle and prickly.

It weeps.

It’s sappy and sticky and it just won’t leave.

It’s true.

It stands naked, broken, wounded, unadorned…unashamed.

Love comes softly

It grows soft, and quiet, and slow
Birthed from The Perfect Seed in a manger...

Love is better than's right.

Merry Christmas,

Leave a message & share...

Sunday, December 13, 2015

Why do folks have to die around Christmas?

God, why do You let folks die around Christmas?
Can’t You give us some relief…a reprieve?
For thirty days this side or that, please declare:
We’re just mere mortals we can’t stop the tears.
When we should celebrate the birth of Your Son, instead we remember the death of our loved one.

Why don’t You freeze all tears around Christmas? Only allow snow to fall. Let big, white, fluffy flakes float like angels. Cover all earth’s dirt and grime under one soft blanket of white. 
Just for this time.
Hold back the sorrow.
Dry the tears.
Keep death a bay.

You see my little house down here?
Remember how every year it lights up the sky and points toward heaven?
Every year but one.
This one.
Tonight when darkness falls it will cling to the eaves and saturate the walls where once jingling bells and sparkling lights lit up the night like the star of David.

Tuesday taps will play.
White gloves will lay, a red white and blue flag, into the trembling hands of a widow.
Tears will fall.
The widow will pray…
And every year from here on out, we won’t be able to help but remember, along with the birth of Your Son…the death of our loved one.
Why allow such a blemish on such a snowy white Day?
 Surely He who defeated death, hell and the grave can stay the tide, for just a short while.
What’s that You say?
I am the resurrection and the life, he who believes in me shall not perish but have everlasting life. I do not take pleasure in the death of my saints. I attend every funeral and welcome them to LIFE. Where no pain, no sickness, no blemish, no sorrow, will ever stain that snowy white day because…


In that there is no blemish.

Thank you Lord for the life of my dad, the death of Your Son. And for the hope that one day we will be reunited us as one. 

Until that glorious day my hope is found...

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Thursday, December 10, 2015

Proof Of The First Christmas...written by the finger of God

 Ever wonder about that star? 
You know; the one the wise guys saw causing them to travel from afar.
What exactly did they see? Is there proof?

Yes there is!
Proof Of The First Christmas Story...written by the finger of God
Johannes Kepler sometime in the 1600's figured out that the solar system is like an enormous clock.  NASA uses the same calculations today. 

Now, software can pinpoint the exact location of stars at any time in history, viewed from any place on earth.

Let's do a little time travel.
Ride with me as we turn back the clock and listen in on a few star gazing magi.

Can you see it? The King Planet is on the move.
Yes, I see it, Jupiter moving toward Regulus.
Interesting, The King Planet moving toward The King Star, do you think it could be a sign?
We will see.

The ceremony takes months. Three times The King Planet circles just over The King Star. A heavenly halo signals a Kingly coronation.

Yes, I'm quite certain a king is to be born.

But where?
Look close. The coronation has taken place inside the constellation Leo The Lion. 
This could only mean one thing, The Lion of The Tribe of Judah… A Jewish King. 
A King of the Jews is on the horizon. But wait. What is following?
Could it be? 
Yes, it is the constellation Virgo, The Virgin. 
She rises with the new moon birthed at her feet.

It is written: 
Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a Son, and shall call His name Immanuel. 
The King has been conceived.
A King will soon be born, and not just any King but The King of Kings.

Nine months from when Jupiter started the crowning ceremony, the wise men witness, The Star. 
The brightest star they have ever seen. The brightest star anyone alive has ever seen. 
Only it wasn’t a star, it was Jupiter, The King Planet joining Venus, The Mother Planet. (Today in planetariums they show this event because it is so spectacular.)

This was all the wise men needed.

The King is born! 
Mount up we’re headed west. 
Follow that star.

The journey may have taken months.

Where is He born King of the Jews?" They asked in Jerusalem.

Then they saw The Star again, only this time it had stopped. (Actually it’s called retrograde motion. It looks like it’s stopped but only changing directions.)

Believe it or not, on the day we celebrate Christmas, December 25th, In 2 BC, Jupiter entered retrograde and early in the morning from Jerusalem it appeared to be the brightest star ever seen stopped
 directly over the little town of Bethlehem.

I believe on that day the magi made the five mile trek and presented their gifts to the young Christ Child. 

 God knew before he flung the stars in place the exact moment He would enter the womb. He left us undeniable proofs.
 He wrote it in the stars and sent angels to proclaim, Peace on earth, goodwill toward men. 

Merry Christmas 

**NOTE: There are different schools of thought regarding the times of Jesus birth, I believe what I've written here to be accurate but admit I am certainly no expert on the subject matter. If you would like more information please visit

Drop me a line and let me know how can

This post is linked with more Peace filled Christmas messages: 

{peace} #OneWordAdvent "I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.” Anne Frank //✒️writing is prayer. How is the word {peace} speaking into your heart? // 🎨 Savor the quiet & write your Advent reflection. Link up your blog posts on {peace} this Thurs on using this peace badge -- 📷 or tag your photos/artwork that speak {peace} to you during the week using hashtag #OneWordAdvent. Share your moments. 💕 {thanks to @writinginthestillness for gifting her beautiful calligraphy for the linkup badge}

Have you considered giving The Voice  for Christmas ?

More than a story—it's a message.

A novel about the strength of family, the power of prayer and the battles that rage against them.

The only thing Mac wanted more than a good day of sailing, was a big, noisy, messy, happy, family...

 But, life happens and dreams sink.

Unseen battles rage and little things make a big difference.

Ricky didn't know it, but the moment he turned around and headed toward, The Voice, he opened his heart...and started a war.

God is near the brokenhearted and puts the lonely in families


What folks are saying about The Voice: 

Doug i enjoyed your book sooo much. 
I spent two days enveloped in the spirit of your story. I cried and I laughed.  Your picture words put me right in that delightful sea setting. Loved mention of Mankato.

All in all I loved your book. I have read 33 books this summer. I have to say yours was the best. Thank you for writing such an inspiring book. In fact, I stopped and
prayed on several pages when the content spoke to me. In other words I heard The Voice.
Sharry... Blessings  

"If you believe in the power of prayer, you will love this book. I was hooked on the first page. The characters were so real and genuine. The book is a refreshing change from the ordinary. The battle waging between good and evil comes to life in this story."
Author of the trilogy, Jesus My Son, Mary's Journal, by Mary Bailey, Kentucky

A great read
"The Voice is a delightful story of love, dogged faith in a God who does not always answer in the way we expect, and of the power of prayer.

Set among sailing boats and the sea, the characters are so well portrayed that I grew truly fond of them and found myself drawn into the story, rooting for them in their difficult circumstances and rejoicing at their victories.

There are some great lessons within the pages, of the benefit of dogged perseverance, of praying in every situation and of the way God is in control in spite of appearances, at times.

There is also a glimpse into the invisible world where the spiritual battle takes place and the effect of faith and prayer in that arena.

All in all a great read which will leave you enriched by the experience."
Author of, God in the ICU, Dave Walker, South Africa

a book to share !
"I literally just finished the last page of this book. I had to keep reading, I couldn't put it down I NEEDED to know what happened next. This book is full of love, tears, sadness joy and adventure. Most importantly God. This book was so inspirational, and kept me guessing and going, I could really play the characters in my mind too. Awesome!"
Sadie Tyson, Florida

Five Stars
"Amazing and inspirational!!! Can't wait for the opportunity to read more of your glorious writings."
Tanya Rasche, Minnesota

One of the best books I've ever read and I've read a lot ...
"One of the best books I've ever read and I've read a lot of books. Write us another one Doug . We will love it too."
Brenda Norwalk, Florida


You'll hear His Voice in...

A silent prayer from a little boy...
"Please make mommy & daddy stop fighting." Moments later, they did--forever.

A heart's longing from an old sailor...
He looked toward the sky, "Dear God...maybe it's not too late." The lines blurred and he thought he heard the sound of children--calling him Papa.

A Divine connection for a wounded warrior...
Could anyone see past the scars and love a soldier, twice burned--once in the flesh and once in the heart?

And all they ever wanted was a big, noisy, messy, happy family. Was that too much to ask?

God is near the broken hearted and puts the lonely in families.