Writer's 'Anti-Gel' and some Supernatural Assistance

A writer often is often asked: “What do you do when you are struck with Writer's Block?”

You know, that dreaded experience of trying to get the next project off the ground, but find yourself staring at the screen or notepad for hours because the words, story ideas or subject matter are nowhere in sight. Finding any inspiring idea just seems like trying to hunt and trap an extinct mythical creature that can no longer be caught and tamed. Frustrating!

That's your hard core definition of Writer's Block, not having something to write about.  However, believe it or not, in my experinece that's somewhat rare.  A 'block' also has its common variety of niggling frustrations that are more common.

How about the kind where you have your story or academic subject matter ready to put to page, depending on where your creativity is leading you, everything is all laid out in your notes or plot sketches, you have all the information you could ever want, but you still can't seem to start the thing? The first paragraph, not to mention the first page or three, is crucial because you know that's your opportunity to catch your reader's attention. You hope you nail it … but.....you could botch the whole thing and turn your reader off forever.

This expectation of making a good first impression can weigh a writer down, literately block them from starting because nothing sounds and feels right when you type or write it out, and then the anxiety sets in that convinces you're a hopeless mess-up, which makes it worse. Nothing seems to 'gel' together, so I will metaphorically call his icky place the dark paralysing world of “Writer's Anti-Gel”.

When starting the first chapter, of “Faust: My Soul Be Damned for the World, Vol.1”, guess who literally sat for two days a good half of the third staring at a blank screen coaxing the creative muse to appear with loads of coffee and chocolate until FINALLY the first introductory paragraphs 'gelled' into place. (And no, I wasn't goofing on the Internet, I wasn't connected at the time. I was off it several years in fact!)

Writers will tell you just hammer something out and then edit the crud out of it later: you won't get anywhere unless you force yourself to write and get a first draft together, because if you wait for inspiration, it'll take half a lifetime before you get a book together.

Yes, there is truth to that, I do hammer things out be it good or bad once I get into the actual draft and there's something to build on and then edit, but the first paragraphs, (and okay, I'll admit, a good portion of my texts), I like to make sure it sounds perfect in my head and I'll keep editing it as I write instead of just writing away without polishing as I go, so of course, I get stuck in the parallel non-creative gloopy gloopity glop slow-paced dimension that is “Writer's Anti-Gel” until it finally gels in the right direction.

The thing is, the last paragraphs and closing segments are just as tricky in their own way as the first. “Faust” is a historical academic epic so to speak, so naturally the end of the chapter has its own unique requirements. I needed a satisfying conclusion that gels in a way so it's not rambling but not abrupt either, something that makes a lasting impression regarding the vast amount of information just presented and that rounds the whole thing off just nicely in a page, preferably less, maybe with a memorable kick.

Well, when I was nearing the end of that first chapter I got stuck in the non-gelling “anti-gel” universe again. When you're writing about how a real historical individual may have sold his soul to the devil for knowledge, power and worldly glory, and you want to round off this gruesome history 'quite nicely' with a 'memorable kick', that's a tall order!

Of course, I knew I was going to be staring at the screen for days on end with this doozie, but rather than succumbing to staring and wasting time moaning in the Realm of Anti-Gel, or hammering out just anything until it was squished and prodded into place and still feeling like a product that was way below par even for a draft, I did what any desperate writer does ….

I prayed. 

Yes, seriously.

No, I'm not kidding.

I thought of my Guardian Angel, who often gets ignored even though I know he's there.

We never think of our invisible guardians enough or ask their assistance, even with our daily tasks. They don't just guard us from temptation and danger, they like us to involve them in our lives. They take a keen interest in everything we do and they like helping us in our work, (as long as it's not sinful of course!)

  So, I reached out to my neglected princely friend and told him what was needed to finish my first chapter and asked if he could enlighten me with an idea, maybe let me know how to polish it off ....

Then...'It' happened.

No sooner was the request made when the words started to interiorly flow so quickly like a bubbling

cascade it was like I was taking speed dictation. I was literally yelling in my head 'Not so fast! Not so fast!', my fingers tapping away trying to capture that miraculous flow as the text rolled out right to the very end...then, stopped.

This was so different from the 'running flash' of inspiration to where you don't want to stop writing because you're on a roll. I've had that too quite a few times, but when those 'running flashes' happen, it still feel like it's you and your ideas. This wasn't exactly like that. It was really was as if “someone else” was interiorly dropping the words and I was doing my best to keep up with their pace. Prayer answered!

So a word to the struggling writer: try giving prayer a chance, and while you're at it, don't forget you have an angel at your side.

Here it is, the final paragraph to the first chapter of “Faust: My Soul be Damned for the World Volume I”, which I cannot take credit for. I give it fully to my Guardian Angel:

“Faustus, who embraced evil and shunned righteousness, became the foremost symbol of the misuse of free will, that sublime gift from God with its inherent opportunity to choose virtue and reject iniquity. “What shall a man gain if he has the whole world and lose his soul,” (Matt. 16: v. 26) - but for a notorious name, the ethereal shadow of a career, and a brief life of fleeting pleasure with no true peace? This was the blackest and most captivating tragedy of all, few could have remained indifferent to the growing intrigue of this individual who apparently shook hands with the devil and freely chose to descend to the molten, sulphuric chasm of Hell for all eternity for so little in exchange. It is a drama that continues to fascinate today as powerfully as when Faustus first disseminated his infamous card in the Heidelberg locale to the scandal of his generation. In fine, a life of good or evil, the hope of Heaven or the despair of Hell, Faustus stands as a reminder that the choice between these two absolutes also falls to us.” 


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If you find yourself stuck in a situation, no matter what it is -- don't forget to pray.

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Creativity Inspiring Creativity

(Post originally published April 22, 2015)

Inspiration (1769)

by Jean-Honoré Fragonard (1732-1806)

It is no secret that artists, poets and writers are continually influencing and being influenced by other creative minds and their work. It has happened for millennia, one new movement after another springs forth from the innovative experiments of the previous generations that came before them, consequently receiving recognition as the latest styles of their age.

Just as in real life, characters in novels experience the same ‘aha!’ moments and find themselves inspiring and inspired by others, but then that is hardly surprising: even fictitious stories for the most part burst forth as imaginative flourishes from the soil of real life occurrences and observations, or the narratives wouldn’t have the ‘ring of reality’ about them, (unless the story is really ‘out there’ in the woolly realm of La-La Land!)


Naturally, my characters in Brushstrokes of a Gadfly experience the same pattern of innovation or they wouldn’t be realistic, especially as many of them are supposed to be artists. Of course, the author undergoes the same process with them as the story develops, the characters and what inspires them can also lead to episodes of philosophical soul-searching in return, a cyclical process of creativity ever renewing itself!

One of those ‘philosophical’ moments occurred this morning. First, I was greeted with some very disturbing news on Sky International from Britain. We, the faceless mass of the public, have been told over and over these last few months or so how well Britain is doing and that the UK economy is steadily growing out of the Great Recession, (God forbid we should actually tell the truth and state we are in a global Great Depression!) Yet, the news just reported this morning (April 22, 2015) that the food banks have received an unprecedented number of people searching for aid like never before. So, who is actually ‘doing better’ in the United Kingdom? Certainly not the average British family! Reading between the lines it is easy to see that only the mega-rich are doing better, while the economic climate is still just as dire if not getting worse for the general populace like never before, but the media keeps lying to everyone about that. To cap that off, in the same news segment there was a disturbing report about the rise of cruelty to animals in Britain, and the national Prevention to Cruelty to Animals charity has received a record number of calls and reports; every thing from woeful neglect to outright torture of innocent creatures that can’t defend themselves. One story was appalling, a dog was locked for months on end amidst her own excrement in a car outside her master’s home. Furthermore, she was expecting a litter of puppies and was obviously undernourished. What a demonic, yes demonic, way to treat man’s best friend. Thankfully, she was spotted and rescued and now has a new loving owner. Is there a link between dire poverty and this ghastly display of cruelty? Are people taking their frustration and stress out on the animal kingdom and their once-beloved pets? This is certainly are a disturbing sign of our times.


While hearing this on the TV, or the ‘telly’ as they say in the UK and Ireland, I was multitasking and conducting some practical research for my next novel, a continuation of Brushstrokes of a Gadfly. One artist that barely received a ‘hello, how are you?’ in the first novel is currently receiving some additional development in the second. (UPDATE: the new novel is finished! Vocation of a Gadfly!) The artist in question is inspired by the opening lines of a poem by William Blake (1757-1827) who was also an artist, and since I had only paraphrased Blake’s lines in the draft so far, I thought I had better go over them again to make sure I quoted them correctly. They belong to Auguries of Innocence, however, I couldn’t stop at the opening verses and continued to read the entire poem to refresh my memory. Immediately Blake’s other lines struck me as markedly relevant to the report I was hearing repeated over and over in the background:

“A dog starved at his master’s gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.”

How apropos. Continuing the poem, it was eerie to see just how accurate Blake had pinpointed the omens of decline both morally, financially and politically that now are so evident in our modern nations, and not just in Britain. ‘Auguries’ is another word for ‘omens’ or ‘future signs’ after all. How mankind interacts with other creatures considered less than itself is a tell-tale sign indeed: if you cannot treat defenceless animals with compassion and kindness, how will you treat your fellow human beings? Demonically I say. I shall give an example:


I suppose not many have heard of one frightening story that was recently reported from Greece a few months ago, a country which is beyond doubt like other countries completely mired in a Great Depression rivalling that of the previous century. In the very birthplace of ‘Western Civilisation’ there are families now living for two and three years without electricity as they cannot afford it. One man who was a caregiver for his elderly mother at home could no longer pay the electricity bill, so the company just came and shut the power off, regardless of the fact the elderly woman was on a life support machine. The workers had their orders so they simply turned it off: the man could only stand by and watch as his mother died. Sounds like the Nazis at the extermination camps who claimed innocence when accused of war crimes because they were ‘only following orders’, doesn’t it? The next frightening part of the story was the man couldn’t call the ambulance and have his mother taken to the hospital as the public health system in Greece is only for those who have a job, (which in their crippled economy are non-existent). If this is the current condition of the country that gave us democracy, I fear for the rest of the democratic world. Just look at the crumbling decay of Detroit and the water management debacle: the last time I heard, the poor who could not afford to pay their water bills were cut off from that service, a basic necessity of life. The situation was becoming critical to the point a UN commission went to investigate just like any other third world country experiencing major humanitarian crises. I do not know if the situation there has been resolved or is still in crisis, but what a humiliating downturn for America that prides itself on being one of the most developed nations in the world.

What times we are living in! The poor and the elderly are not the only victims, all those who cannot speak for themselves or are afraid to speak up are also vulnerable. Let us not forget the children. The cases of scandalizing and cruelty to children are woefully on the increase, and have been for the last sixty years. Talk about the loss of innocence. How can we turn our backs and ignore the outright atrocities that are happening in our era? I promise, no more horror stories in this post, but I could not help but jump up on my soapbox ~ a few of my characters are ‘gadflies’ after all, people who cannot help but shake things up and get people to do a little soul-searching too, so I suppose I’m still on topic. Moving on...

Of course, after reviewing Blake’s poem a few more times, I find it has now provided me with several other ideas to develop in the new novel, you shall have to read Vocation of a Gadfly to see what, where, how, and with which characters. However, for now I shall share with you Blake’s famous poem below underneath one of his artworks, which you might be familiar with thanks to the ‘Hannibal Lecter’ movie, Red Dragon (2002) starring Anthony Hopkins.  What philosophical, soul-searching ideas will Blake’s following verses inspire you with?


 

The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in the Sun (c. 1803)

Auguries of Innocence (1803)
by William Blake

(First published in 1863.)


To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house fill’d with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro’ all its regions.
A dog starv’d at his master’s gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm’d for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf’s and lion’s howl
Raise from hell a human soul.
The wild deer, wand’ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus’d breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher’s knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won’t believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever’s fright.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov’d by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov’d
Shall never by be woman lov’d.
The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider’s enmity.
He who torments the chafer’s sprite
Weaves a bower of endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to the thy mother’s grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgment draweth nigh.
He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar’s dog and widow’s cat,
Feed them and thou will grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer’s song
Poison gets from slander’s tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy’s foot.
The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist’s jealousy.

The prince’s robes and beggar’s rags
Are toadstools on the miser’s bags.
A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro’ the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Throughout all these human lands
Tools were made, and born were hands,
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;
This is caught by females bright,
And return’d to it’s own delight.
The bleat, the bark, the below, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven’s shore.
The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Write revenge in realms of death.
The beggar’s rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heaven’s tear.
The soldier, arm’d with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer’s sun.
The poor man’s farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric’s shore.
One mite wrung from the lab’rer’s hands
Shall buy and sell the miser’s lands;
Or, it protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.
He who mock’s the infant’s faith
Shall be mock’d in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne’er get out.
He who respects the infant’s faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child’s toys and the old man’s reason
Are the fruits of the two seasons.
The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.
The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar’s laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to armour’s iron brace.
When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket’s cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.
The emmet’s inch and eagle’s mile
Make lame philosophy to smile
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne’re believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt,
They’d immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.
The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation’s fate.
The harlot’s cry from street to street
Shall weave old England’s winding-sheet.
The winner’s shout, the loser’s curse,
Dance before dead England’s hearse.
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie
When we see not through the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.

***

 

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Poor but Blessed ~ An Irish Memory (Author Unknown)

(Post originally published February 8, 2012)

We met and we married a long time ago,
We worked for long hours when wages were low,
No TV, no wireless, no bath, times were hard.
Just a cold water tap and a walk in the yard.
No holidays abroad, no carpets on floors.
We had coal on the fire and we didn't lock doors;
Our children arrived, no Pill in those days;
And we brought them up without any state aid.
They were safe going out and played in the park,
And old folk could go for a walk in the dark.
No Valium, no drugs and no LSD.
We cured most of our ills with a good cup of tea.
No vandals, no muggings, there was nothing to rob;
We felt we were rich with a couple of bob.
People were happier in those far off days,
Kinder and caring in so many ways.
Milkmen and paperboy would whistle and sing.
A night at the pictures was our one mad fling.
We all get our share of troubles and strife.
We just have to face it ~ that's the pattern of life.
Now, I'm alone, I look back through the years.
I don't think of the bad times, the troubles and tears.
I remember the blessings: our home and our love,
And that we shared them together, I thank God above.

***

 

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The Emperor and the Seed - by Al Cunningham

  A Short Story by Al Cunningham



An Emperor in the Far East was growing old and knew it was time to choose his successor. Instead of choosing one of his assistants or his children, he decided on something different.

He called the young people of the empire together one day. He said, “It is time for me to step down and choose the next Emperor. I have decided to choose one of you!”

The children were shocked, but the Emperor continued, “I am going to give each one of you a seed today. One very special seed. I want you to plant the seed, water it and come back here after one year from today, with what you have grown from this one seed. I will then judge the plants that you bring, and the one I choose will be the next Emperor.”

One boy, named Ling, was there that day and he, like the others, received a seed. He went home and excitedly told his mother the story. She helped him get a pot and planting soil, and he planted the seed and watered it carefully.

Everyday he would water it and watch to see if it had grown. After about three weeks, some of the other youths began to talk about their seeds and the plants that were beginning to grow. Ling kept checking his seed, but nothing ever grew. Three weeks … four weeks … five weeks went by. Still nothing. By now, others were talking about their plants, but Ling didn't have a plant, and he felt like a failure. Six months went by, still nothing in Ling's pot. He just knew he had killed his seed.
Everyone else had trees and tall plants, but he had nothing. Ling didn't say anything to his friends, however, he just kept waiting for his seed to grow.

A year finally went by and all the youths of the Empire brought their plants to the Emperor for inspection. Ling told his mother that he wasn't going to take an empty pot. To be honest, Ling felt sick to his stomach, but he knew his mother was right when she told him to take it to the Emperor. Reluctantly, Ling took his pot to the palace.

When Ling arrived, he was amazed at the variety of plants grown by the other youths. They were beautiful, in all shapes and sizes. Ling put his empty pot on the floor and many of the other kids laughed at him. A few felt sorry for him and just said, “Hey, nice try!” When the Emperor arrived, he surveyed the room and greeted the young people. Ling just tried to hide at the back. “What great plants, trees and flowers you have grown,” said the Emperor, “today, one of you will be appointed the next Emperor.”

All of a sudden, the Emperor spotted Ling at the back of the room with his empty pot. He ordered his guards to bring him to the front. Ling was terrified. “The Emperor knows I'm a failure! Maybe he will have me killed!” When Ling got to the front, the Emperor asked his name. “My name is Ling,” he replied. All the kids were laughing and making fun of him. The Emperor asked everyone to quiet down. He looked at Ling, and then announced to the crowd: “Behold your new Emperor! His name is Ling!”

Ling couldn't believe it. Ling couldn't even grow his seed. How could he be the new Emperor?

Then the Emperor said: “One year ago today, I gave everyone here a seed. I told you to take the seed, plant it, water it and bring it back to me today. But I gave you all boiled seeds, which would not grow. All of you, except Ling, have brought me trees and plants and flowers. When you found that the seed would not grow, you substituted another seed for the one I gave you. Ling was the only one with the courage and the honesty to bring me a pot with my seed in it. Therefore, he is the one who will be the new Emperor. If you plant goodness, you will reap friends. If you plant perseverance, you will reap victory. If you plant hard work, you will reap success. If you plant forgiveness, you will reap reconciliation. If you plant openness, you will reap intimacy. If you plant patience, you will reap improvements. But, if you plant dishonesty, you will reap distrust. If you plant selfishness, you will reap loneliness. If you plant laziness, you will reap stagnation. If you plant greed, you will reap loss. If you plant gossip, you will reap enemies. If you plant worries, you will reap wrinkles. So, be careful what you plant now. It will determine what you will reap tomorrow. The seeds you now scatter will make life worse or better. Yes, someday, you will enjoy the fruits, or you will pay for the choices you plant today.”

***

 

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The Rich Man's Son - A Christmas Story (Author Unknown)

(Post originally published December 11, 2011)

 

(Image: "Xmas Greetings 7th Division 1917...")

Once upon a time not so long ago, there was a very wealthy man who, with his devoted young son, shared a passion for art collecting. Together they travelled around the world, adding only the finest art treasures to their collection. Priceless works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet and many others adorned the walls of the rambling family estate. The widowed elder man looked on with satisfaction as his only child became an experienced art collector and shared the same tastes as he. The son’s trained eye and sharp business mind caused his father to beam with pride as they dealt with art collectors around the world.

As winter approached, war engulfed the nation, and the young man left to serve his country. After only a few short weeks, his father received a telegram. His beloved son was missing in action. The art collector anxiously awaited more news, fearing he would never see his son again. Within days, his fears were confirmed. The young man had died while rushing a fellow soldier to a medic. Distraught and lonely, the old man faced the upcoming Christmas holidays with anguish and sadness. The joy of the season – a season that he and his son had so looked forward to – would visit his house no longer.

On Christmas morning, a knock on the door awakened the depressed old man. As he walked to the door, the masterpieces of art on the walls only reminded him that his son was not coming home. As he opened the door, he was greeted by a soldier with a large package in his hand. He introduced himself to the man by saying, “I was a friend of your son. I was the one he was rescuing when he died. May I come in for a few moments? I have something to show you.”

As they talked, the solider explained how the man’s son had told everyone about him, not to mention his love of fine art. “I’m an artist, well, an amateur of art,” said the soldier, “and I wanted to give you this.” As the old man unwrapped the package, the paper gave way to reveal a portrait of the man’s son. Though the world would never consider it the work of a genius, the painting featured the young man’s face in striking detail.

Overcome with emotion, the man thanked the soldier, promising to hang the picture above the fireplace.

A few hours later, after the soldier had departed, the old man set about his task. True to his word, the painting went above the fireplace, pushing aside thousands of dollars of paintings. And then the man sat in his chair and spent Christmas gazing at the gift he had been given.

During the days and weeks that followed, the man realized that even though his son was no longer with him, the boy’s life would live on because of those he had touched. He would soon learn from dozens of letters sent to him from other soldiers that his son had rescued them too before a bullet stilled his caring heart. As the stories of his son’s gallantry continued to reach him, fatherly pride and satisfaction began to ease the grief. The painting of his son soon became his most prized possession, far eclipsing any interest in the pieces for which museums around the world clamoured.

He told his neighbours it was the greatest gift he had ever received.

The following spring, the old man became ill and passed away. The art world was in anticipation. With the collector’s passing, and his only son dead, it was announced that all those paintings would be sold at an auction. According to the will of the old man, all of the art works would be auctioned on Christmas day, the day he had received his greatest gift. The day soon arrived and art collectors from around the world gathered to bid on some of the world’s most spectacular paintings. Dreams would be fulfilled this day; greatness would be achieved as many would claim “I have the greatest collection.”

The auction began with a painting that was not on any museum’s list. It was the painting of the man’s son.

The auctioneer asked for an opening bid. The room was silent. “Who will open the bidding with $100?” he asked.

Minutes passed. No one spoke. From the back of the room came, “Who cares about that painting? It’s just a picture of his son. Let’s forget it and go on to the good stuff.” More voices echoed in agreement. “No, we have to begin with this one first, the man's last request was explicit,” replied the auctioneer. “Now, who will take the son?”

Finally, a close friend of the old man spoke.

“Will you take ten dollars for the painting? That’s all I have. I knew the boy, so I’d like to have it.” “I have ten dollars. Will anyone go higher?” called the auctioneer. After another period of impatient silence, the auctioneer said, “Going once, going twice. Gone.” The gavel fell. Cheers filled the room and someone exclaimed, “Now we can get on with it and we can bid on these treasures!”

The auctioneer looked at the audience and announced the auction was over.
Stunned disbelief quickly struck the would-be art buyers. Someone spoke up and asked, “What do you mean it’s over? We didn’t come here for a picture of some old guy’s son! What about all of these paintings? There are millions of dollars of art here! It was announced the whole collection was up for auction! I demand that you explain the meaning of this!”

The auctioneer replied, “It’s very simple. According to the will of the father, whoever could appreciate his greatest treasure, although it seemed small and insignificant to the eyes of the world, would be considered worthy to receive the rest. Therefore, whoever takes the son...gets it all.”

This story puts things into perspective, doesn’t it? Just as those art collectors discovered on that Christmas day, the message is still the same – the love of a Father – a Father whose greatest joy came from His Son who went away and gave His life rescuing others. And because of that Father’s love...whoever receieves the Son receives all. You don't have to be rich, just give Him your 'all' with an open heart.

Dear friends, this story illustrated the love of our Father in Heaven, our God, for us. He sacrificed His beloved Son and whosoever would believe in Him will not perish but have everlasting life. The is the greatest gift of love to each one of us, and the beautiful part is, we don't have to wait until Christmas to receive Him.

***

 

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