Cherith:

It must have been so beautifully clear :
The little brook by which the Prophet dwelt .
Its gentle bable drew the ravens near
The sparkling brink , and when Elijah knelt
To cup the water for his thrist , there dropped
From golden beaks the bread that God had sent :
Metallic feathered birds that never stopped
Their ministery until the brook was spent .

I like to think of those brief hours of peace
For one man shut away the while with God :
A God who had the power to bid rains cease ,
To stay the dew from drenching the parched sod .
A man content with neither script nor book
In God’s companionship beside a brook .
Jan Bagwell

One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us trend to put off living . We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon – instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today.