wyhr.orgWendy’s World

I heard this poem at Life Church. It broke my heart to think of the men and women who believe this.

God doesn’t love me
You can’t force me to believe
God is good
This is the One Truth in life
This world is a product of chance
How can I believe that
God will use my life
I know with certainty that
God has left me
Never again will I say that
Christ is Risen from the dead
I know now more than ever in my life that
Man can save himself
We must realize that it is ignorant to think
God answers prayers
Christians declare that
Without God this world would fall into darkness
This world can and will meet my needs
It is a lie to say that
God has always been there for me
I now realize that
No matter what I do
The Truth is
He doesn’t love me
How can I presume that
God is for me

Note – The poem, when read backwards, is a message full of hope. Check it out here.

I know, I know. I finished this study up months ago. The thing is – there’s an epilogue. Since it was such a great study I felt compelled to complete the whole book (this is not a common occurence). I’m glad I did because I found this:

Were there but some deep, holy spell, whereby
Always I should remember thee…
Lord, see thou to it, take thou remembrance’s load:
Only when I bethink me can I cry;
Remember thou, and prick me with love’s goad.
When I can no more stir my soul to move,
And life is but the ashes of the fire;
When I can but remember that my heart
Once used to live and love, long and aspire–
Oh, be thou then the first, the one thou art;
Be thou the calling, before all answering love,
And in me wake hope, fear, and boundless desire.
~George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul

Would we know that the major chords were sweet,
     If there were no minor key?
Would the painter's work be fair to our eyes,
     Without shade on land or sea?
Would we know the meaning of happiness,
     Would we feel that the day was bright,
If we'd never known what it was to grieve,
     Nor gazed on the dark of night?
~Charles Spurgeon

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seemed filled with intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
Of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing is not hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster;
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of the three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

–Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

~Elizabeth Bishop