Dare You Not…

Dare you not hear the beat of your heart?

The silent thrum,

The quiet hum,

As constant as memories, and just as forgotten?

Loud as fear,

Heavy as woe,

Deafening to afflictions tearing it apart?

 

Dare you not feel the beat of your heart,

The timid quiver

The faint whisper

As constant as regrets, and just as forgotten?

Brittle as grief,

Fragile as despair,

Indelicately manipulated till our souls depart.

 

Can you hear the silence?

and Remember to forget

Can you feel the imperceptible?

but forget to Remember.

 

Dare you not live?

 

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The Golden Thread

Once again the world is awakened to the rising sun, glorious in its stead; punctual. We glory in it’s warmth and beauty, gladdened by its presence as it overlays the land in gold. Its light washes over the darkness of night and sweeps our fears away with each ray of its golden light; rejoicing in its ability to give life to everything we see.

And yet

Often we are awakened to the rising sun, indifferent to its punctuality. Greet it in contempt and dissatisfaction. At times we take in it’s warmth and ignore its beauty, its presence merely a constant reminder of how fleeting time is in it’s relentlessness; the gold it overlays across the land only illuminates the repugnant inconsistencies and frailties of life. We’d rather wallow in the darkness, shrouding our objectionable desires and motives below the cover of darkness and obscurity, regardless of the fear that rattles our bones. Hiding from the light that reveals our life so no one sees everything about ourselves.

And even then

Is this not so even with God? Each morning we awaken, by His grace. Rising, we should glorify Him for his steadfastness and consistency. We ought to glory in His warmth and beauty, the God of love and creation who has continually blessed us with many things that should bring gladness to our hearts; His presence overlaying our lives in the gold of His majesty. His Light washes over the darkness of our hearts, sweeping away our fears, softening our hardened hearts and washing away our sins. We should be rejoicing in His ability to give life to all that we see but also to those who are dead in their iniquity, disobedience and sin.

Junk Yard Angel

JunkYard Angel: courtesy of Jason Chan: http://www.jasonchanart.com

The Outer Edges

A dreary, grey sky draped over the metallic hulks that lined the outer edges of Chatarra City. Dark looming shapes that etched the sky in jagged patterns; husks of old cars, machinery and all things scrap. I stood outside the junk yard,  in front of its rusted entrance gate that was now nothing more than a bent frame. I let out a puff of smoke from the cigarette between my lips, watching the tendrils of smoke dissipate into the air.

Cool. Calm. Collected.

I let the words play over in my mind as I walked into the yard, aware of the silence that emanated within the compound. No junk yard dogs. No junk yard owner yelling inquisitions at me. Just the silence of rusted metal. I walked through the alleyways of the compound, looking at the familiar junk piled together haphazardly. Apart from the nervousness caused by the eerie silence, there was a rising belligerence from irritation; this isn’t what I wanted. With one final puff of smoke I threw the stub of my smoke  down and crushed it with the heel of my shoe.

Cool. Calm. Collected.

Why I was here was simple.  I’m an inventor of sorts. I love to tinker with all kinds of machinery; building contraptions and gizmos. A rather fulfilling and exciting hobby I took up at a young age, when I realized that banking wasn’t for me like it was for my dad. No. I found my joy in dismantling toys, calculators, toasters and radios, and once, my dad’s old computer. It sure didn’t end well but it awoke in me a desire for more. Not merely dismantling…but building from scratch.

I frequented junk yards from then on. Collecting all kinds of scrap metal and mechanical components to the point where my backyard became a scrap heap in itself; but I was never satisfied. I then started to travel from city to city, junk yard to junk yard, searching and never satisfied, until finally I found myself in a dilapidated, smoke hazed bar, drowning my dissatisfaction in warm draughts of cheap beer. My companion, whose name I could not recall nor where I’d met him, endured my ceaseless babble with nods and grunts and the occasional “sure”. We sat across from one another on creaky wooden chairs, the bright yellow globes overhead illuminating my companion’s dark wiry hair and thin somber face.  I loathed the look of pity engraved on his face but I endured it as he endured me.

It was as I ordered my next round of warm ale that my companion shooed the attendant away and dragged me up to my feet, pulling me away from the smoke filled room towards the back of the bar. He dragged more than led me out the back door before shoving me out into the cool night. I landed onto the dusty ground on my back, drunkenness rendering me incapacitated.

“I know what you seek…I know where you can find it” He said to me in a thick Spanish accent. From his flannel shirt pocket he pulled out a thinly rolled cigar and from the back pocket of his faded jeans he pulled out a lighter.

“There is a place…in the Outer Edges” he began to say, as he placed his cigar in his mouth, “it is a quiet place…a secret place” He flicked the top of the lighter with his thumb, producing an orange flame that cast an unnatural glow across his face. His eyes flickered with the flame and I felt a chill crawl up my spine.

“This place is…different” he continued, taking a drag from the cigar before blowing a plume of smoke up at the purple sky “…Chatarra City…it is not like the other cities…but no city in the Outer Edges ever is huh?” He chuckled softly to himself.

“…it is there where you will find what you are looking for. It has everything that you could possibly look for. A haven for people like you.”

He looked down at me, giving me a wry smile before turning around and disappearing through the door, heading back into the bar and leaving me to sober up outside. With set mind I headed out towards Chatarra City, hoping that I would finally find what I was looking for.

Now here I was, disappointment and dull anger vying for my emotions as I perused through the familiar junk. There was nothing special about this place; it was like every other scrap heap I’d wasted my time and energy on. I grabbed a loose piece of metal, anger overpowering every other emotion and diverting all of that energy towards my arm.

Cool. Calm. Collec…

With a thrust, I bashed the metal husks in front of me. Then again. And again. And again. Still in my fit of rage, I turned around and hurled the rod across the yard as hard as I could.

She caught it.

“Are you calmed down now?” She asked. Her voice drifted across towards me, sinking into my head and echoing melodiously. She nonchalantly pushed the fringing tresses of her white hair behind her ear.

“Who are you?” The words rolled off my tongue yet I was sure I hadn’t said a thing. I could still feel a dull anger radiating through my twitching arm as she walked towards me, the metal pipe in her hand swinging lazily.

“Does it matter?” She asked. I shrugged. She shrugged back, mocking me. With a light chuckle ,she flitted about around me, bouncing on her toes with nails painted black. Her white hair flowed more than bounced with each skip she took, the cuffs of her grey sweat pants dragging across the floor. She smiled a devious smile, standing on the tips of her toes, holding the metal rod out towards me.

“Grab hold” she whispered. I tentatively reached out, grabbing hold of the steel rod. It was cool to the touch, tingling on the nerves; electrifying.

“I know what you seek…I know where you can find it…” she breathed. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end under her mischievous yet ethereal gaze; her eyes were gleaming dark orbs that pulled at me.

“This is the place…here on the Outer Edges. It is here where you will find what you are looking for…” The familiarity of her words struck a cord inside my mind, yet I could not pinpoint where exactly I’d heard them.

“…everything that you could possibly look for…”

Wait!… At the bar! My mind began to piece together the pieces. I tried to say something, but my voice died in my throat, coming out as nothing more than a raspy murmur.

” A haven… for people like you.” She grinned a devilish grin, pulling the metal rod out of my hands in a deliberate fashion. I stood transfixed as I was, watching a brilliant light emanate from behind her dark eyes. A whirring sound filled my ears as the rod slid out of my paralyzed hand.

“You are not hu…”

“No” She interjected, crackling mechanically while raising the metal bar above her head.

“And neither will you be” with a deft flick, she struck me across head. The pain shot through the side of my head, lodged itself right between my eyes in a searing hot flash. The world rotated.

Darkness.

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Thus begins my journey into a new genre, something different from the normal stuff I write. Sci-fi? Steam Punk? A combination of both? I’m not sure yet but the idea looping itself inside my mind sounds fun. If you have any ideas, see any loop holes or spot something I missed please let me know, comment and stuff I would really appreciate it!

In Need of a Saviour

A single plume of steam, slowly writhed its way up from the coffee mug, on the large wooden table she sat behind. Her hands were wrapped tightly around the mug, keeping her icy fingers warm. She sat silently, her convoluted thoughts bouncing back and forth in her mind. The kitchen was cold and gloomy. The winter sun remained hidden behind dark clouds yet letting in enough light, to illuminate the barren trees in the garden… and  the freshly dug hole. She’d been outside. Four in the morning. Robe and all. She’d held the cold steel handle of the shovel. With each hard thrust into the soft ground, her hair swung forward in disarray, swinging back as she threw dirt back behind her. Her once lime green robe turned a shade of brown, the same shade as her eyes, that stared blankly at the ground. Her mouth moved but no words formed as she ceaselessly worked the shovel into the soft earth. In her mind her past played out like a movie; the characters her family, friends and acquaintances, the protagonist herself and the story…her life. An endless loop of episodes past and present, all intermingled into one, making it difficult for her to distinguish between the time frames. There she was as a little girl, twirling in her yellow sun dress lined with white frills, her bare feet sweeping across the softness of the green grass below, the lace tied around her waist spinning along  behind her. The sun shone, making everything glimmer that fine spring afternoon. A shadow fell over her, making her look up to see who it was, squinting against the glare of the sun to see a manly figure. She could not make out the face of the man above her, but she knew it was her father..however, when she could make out features of his face…she became certain, that it was her husband. He proceeded to lift her up by the waist, making her giggle in glee then laughter as he spun her around..and around…and around until her twirling younger self spun fast enough to make the face of her father…husband… blur across her vision. Her laughter turned to screaming, the soft warm gleam of sun became the cold harsh beam of headlights and the crackle of bending, twisting metal swallowed up every other sound.

She raised the cup to her lips and took a sip of the bitter coffee. That seemed to soothe her slightly. Her thoughts began to dwindle into single occurrences, events that made her heart in her chest pang with regret and anguish. Her past was like a dark cave, hiding a malicious creature that thrived off the darkness in her heart. With each hurtful memory came that deep anguish, one that struck a cord so deep her whole body shivered; and that creature wallowed in her displeasure. She knew, wholeheartedly, that there was nothing she could do about those past events, no place to hide them both within her mind or in the world.  Even with her mud caked robe and dirt streaked face, even with all her husband’s possessions scattered haphazardly within the shallow grave, she would not be able to erase her past; she felt burdened and heavy-laden. Burdened and heavy-laden. The phrase sounded familiar, somewhat nostalgic yet foreign, like a familiar yet unrecognizable face in a dream. She grasped for it, something of it, yet her mind brought up blanks each time, no closer than she was when she started. She took another sip of her coffee, allowing the thought to filter out and into the dark abyss that was her mind. She was lost, well and truly lost.

Dennis van der Berg stood outside the large wooden door, smoothing his dark grey suit down with one hand. It was a habit he’d developed in the early years of his ministry, one he was yet to break. Nervousness, as usual before these kinds of works, filled his stomach with a queasiness that both excited him and made him sick. He recited his exhortation softly to himself, silently mouthing all the main keywords that would help direct his conversation. When he was satisfied, he raised his hand towards the doorbell and pressed it. Nothing. He waited a while, listening for any sort of sound that would let him know that someone had heard him. A full minute passed before he pressed the doorbell again. When no one opened the door he lightly rapped on the hard wood, knocking louder with each passing minute. Finally he heard the shuffle of feet behind the door and with practiced ease, placed a friendly smile on his face. The rattle of keys came from behind the door, followed by a soft cry of frustration, some more rattling and then the tell-tale click of a door unlocking. Dennis opened his mouth to greet, a smile still across his face, but instead of a greeting his mouth remained agape, his smile faltering then drooping into an “O” of shock at the figured that appeared before him. He quickly tried to cover the shock with a smile but he found it hard to smile at the ghastly, face that peered at him from behind the slightly ajar door. She was half hidden within the darkness of the house, yet he could make out the bedraggled locks of hair that draped wildly over her face, the streaks of dirt that lined her cheeks, broken by a clear trail leading down from what was most assuredly tears. The bags under her brown eyes added ages to what should have been a young face. Dennis’ face softened, the shock wearing off as quickly as it had appeared and in its place, sorrow took hold. He felt his heart drop in his chest, weighed heavily by emotion and without thinking reached towards the door and softly whispered within her hearing,

“You look burdened and heavy laden…come to the Lord for He will give you rest.”

One for the Kids!

Approved Workmen Are Not Ashamed.

2 Timothy 2:15 – Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who has no need to be ashamed, rightly handling the word of truth.

This is the verse that echoes through the church building Friday evenings, by a loud chorus of high-pitched individuals, ready for a great evening of fun and learning. Working with kids is such a blessing and I am indeed grateful to the Lord for having brought me to this ministry. At such a young and teachable age, kids are able to listen and take in what is being taught to them with a child like faith…don’t we sometimes wish we had that kind of faith: taking the truth at face value.

This blog post however is not about how teachable kids are or having a childlike faith, but rather on writing for kids as a means of reaching them without necessarily preaching to them. Writing stories for kids, stories that would contain biblical values, principles, truths, verses maybe even characters that the kids can embrace and relate to, all of whom would point to Christ and His work on the cross. Of course I would not want to minimize Christ nor His works, nor would I want to dumb down the gospel for the sake of my stories. However, I do want to reach the kids on a level that they can understand and grasp the crux of the stories, gaining some knowledge about the bible, about Christ, about the Holy Spirit and about God.

I found a great post  on writing biblical stories for children and its on par with what I am trying to achieve. It was written by Rose Ross Zediker who is a Christian author. The post below belongs to her and you can read the full article here: http://www.writing-world.com/children/bible.shtml

Biblical Retelling

A Biblical retelling must stay true to the Bible verse. Don’t add characters or character names if they aren’t in the Bible story. Choose a point of view and stick with it. Most Biblical retellings are in third person, but some can be told in first person.

Rephrasing the dialogue of a Bible verse can get tricky. The language must be kid friendly yet not change the meaning of what the character says. Keeping your target age group in mind, find and replace the difficult words in the text with simpler words. Look for words children may be familiar with but don’t really understand. Sin is a simple word yet children may not really grasp its meaning, try to define those types of words by inserting an explanation of the word.

Enrich your story with the addition of emotions, actions and setting details. A few simple words like water jars and robes transport the children into the Biblical life style and holds their attention.

The first paragraph of The Parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25 NIV) says:

On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

A retelling in the first person viewpoint of the expert in the law could begin:

Finally! I had a chance to test Jesus by asking a question. I knew the laws. I stood with my shoulders back and head held high. I looked into Jesus eyes. “Teacher,” I asked “what must I do now so someday I can live in Heaven?”

A third person viewpoint may be retold like this:

A smart man who knew the law wanted to test Jesus. The man smoothed his robes as he stood. He raised his eyebrows in question. “Teacher,” he asked, “what do I need to do now so I can live in Heaven when I die?”

In both retellings, actions were added to show the man’s confidence in his own knowledge. This makes the story more interesting for the child but doesn’t change the meaning of any of the original verse.

Contemporary Retelling

A contemporary retelling is a modern story with a beginning, middle and end. The theme of the contemporary Bible story retelling must reflect the lesson of the Bible verse. Apply the verse’s message to a real life situation. This real life situation must be believable so the child can apply the lesson to their daily lives. You can’t tag on the moral of the Bible verse at the end of the story. The lesson has to unfold during the story and the readers need to care about the characters and situation.

The following is a synopsis of a contemporary retelling of Luke 10:25:

A young girl and her mother wait at the bus stop. The young girl notices the people around her. She sees an old man in worn clothes and thick glasses approach the bench. The man politely asks a businessman for the time. The businessman frowns at the old man and refuses to tell him the time. The young girl can’t figure out why the businessman is being so mean to the old man. Two teen-age boys walk past the bus stop. Again, the old man politely asks for the time. One young boy looks at his watch but the other pulls him along, telling him not to talk to bums. The old man worries that he’s missed his bus. The old man looks sad and the young girl knows that Jesus would want her to help. She asks her mother if she can tell him the time. Her mother says yes and the young girl shows kindness to the old man by telling him the time so he doesn’t miss his bus.

This modern retelling synopsis is true to the Bible verse. Two sets of people won’t tell the elderly gentleman the time. However, an unlikely source, a young girl shows this stranger kindness. The theme of the Bible verse is shown in the last action of the contemporary story, the young girl helps the elderly man by telling him the time.

Copyright © 2007 Rose Ross Zediker

Lamentations

Rain drops keep falling on my head

Lam·en·ta·tion noun/lamənˈtāSHən/

~ The passionate expression of grief or sorrow; weeping.

         I think many can attest to the fact that, music can play on your emotions greatly, especially during certain periods in your life whether its a time of sorrow or joy. There is a song for each emotion and each situation we can find ourselves in. I found myself listening to the Gaither Vocal Band, which is one of my favourite A Capella groups ever. They were singing a slower version of “O Love That Will Not Let Me Go” (the only other version I know is sung at a faster pace by  Chris Rice) and I was actually overwhelmed by emotion at the words which go:

O Love that will not let me go, I rest my weary soul in thee;

I give thee back the life I owe, That in thine ocean depths its flow,

May richer, fuller be.

O light that followest all my way, I yield my flickering torch to thee;

My heart restores its borrowed ray, That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day

May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain, I cannot close my heart to thee;

 I trace the rainbow through the rain, And feel the promise is not vain,

That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head, I dare not ask to fly from thee;

I lay in dust life’s glory dead, And from the ground there blossoms red

Life that shall endless be.

Such powerful lyrics! What grace! What Mercy! Praise be to God and may His kingdom come!

Wages of Sin…

He leaned with his back against the wet bricks, watching the dark cloudy sky pour sheets of water down onto the city. The rather dim light above him, as he stood below the seedy canopy, illuminated his long pallid face and sunken cheekbones, the pale skin pulled taut giving him a ghastly skeletal look. He raised his slender hand up, the long, bony index and middle fingers raising half of a smoldering Pall Mall cigarette up to his thin cracked lips. A hissing sound echoed through the alleyway, above the sound of falling rain, as he took a long drag of the cigarette. With a loud sigh, he exhaled plumes of smoke up into the air. He ran his free hand through his dark, wiry hair as he dropped his cigarette. With a thump, he trampled it into the wet ground, the heel of his black boot swiveling from side to side. With one last glance up at the dark sky, he smiled a toothy grin, revealing perfectly straight yet yellowing teeth. He pushed open the door and stepped into the warm interior.

There were those who dwelt in darkness and in the shadow of death,
Prisoners in misery and chains, Because they had rebelled against the words of God
And spurned the counsel of the Most High. Therefore He humbled their heart with labor
They stumbled and there was none to help

Bright fluorescent lights lit up the narrow corridor that he had stepped into; the air smelt sterile, like a hospital. He walked through the corridor, walking past closed doors with various golden plaques on their glass panels, bearing names of various departments. He walked through an arch at the end of the corridor and into a large desk area that looked out through a thick glass-like panel. Behind the panel was a string of people waiting in line; old and young, rich and poor, of all races, nationalities, rank and status. They all looked haggard… drained… dying…and yet there was an uneasy eagerness that glistened in their eyes. A solemn silence hung heavy in the air, and underlying that solemness, was that air of anxiety from the people. They watched him pull a chair out from under the desk, sit down, then arrange the small note pad and pen that lay atop the otherwise bare desk. With his head down, a buzz began to emanate from behind the glass panel, low mumbling that began to rise until the whole building reverberated with echoes of cries and pleas from the multitude of people. He lifted his head up towards the people and with a toothy grin raised his arms wide, up above his head, the long fingers on his hands spread apart. Waving his hands back and forth, he gestured them to be silent. The mutterings died down until there was complete silence. With his arms still spread, he lowered them to shoulder height, turning his hands sideways into a gesture of welcome. With a clear smooth voice he spoke,

“Thank you for your patience. I know these are trying times for all of you, seeking your desires, regardless of the consequences that you know you will face…” His eyes shifted from face to face, each one dropping their heads as his eyes fell upon them.
“You hide from your spouses, parents, bosses, friends…separate yourselves willingly…and for what!” He chuckled softly, shaking his head slightly, with that grin still stuck on his face. His dark beady eyes swept through the room again, locking eyes with a selection of familiar faces. They looked away from those dark eyes, both from fear and from shame. Those dark eyes were emotionless, the eyes of one who had seen the depths of the human soul and the darkness that lies therein and found that “There is none good, none righteous, no not one”. The eyes that had sifted through the facade of righteousness and delved into the heart and found that “The heart is more deceitful than all else, and is desperately sick; Who can understand it?”. Indeed he knew what humans were capable of…and knew the price that they had to pay; he knew it well. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a name tag and clipped it across his chest.

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If you were to personify sin, what characteristics and persona would he/she have. Would we want to associate with them? From what we know about sin from the bible…we too would be in line at the Horror Affairs, either willingly or coaxed towards it by our own desires, wants or our pride… in short, ourselves. But sin wouldn’t just sit all day in the office, waiting for the willing to show up…oh no, sin would also invade houses and homes, stalking its occupants, waiting for moments of weakness, failure or even joy and excitement, for we don’t always sin on bad days do we? Oh but for those who have confronted sin, looked into the mirror and saw sin in themselves and turned towards the Saviour, for them there is hope. For them there is an alarm that goes off at the sign of the intruder and an armed response sends the intruder fleeing from the scene of the crime or a would be scene.

The truth is, as one of my favourite verses says: Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

Are you paying the wages of sin or are you turning to the Saviour who pays and has paid the debt you owe?

Grace Unbound

Josiah fell to his knees before Micah, his head hung low in shame, his heart heavy, his chest tight and his eyes glistening with approaching tears. It was an unavoidable situation and he knew it; his past had eventually caught up to him. All things in the end had led him to this point, in front of his master, on his knees, ready to accept his punishment. Micah looked down at the boy, an undeniable look of sorrow etched on Micah’s face, for it displeased him greatly to have to punish his servants. Yet it had to be done. Micah clasped the hilt of his sword and in one swift movement, released his sword from its sheath.

At the sound of the sword being unsheathed, Josiah’s body slumped in resignated defeat; this was it, the punishment he deserved. Death. Micah laid his hand upon the boy’s head, and uttered word’s that would resonate deeply within Josiah’s heart.

“I will have compassion on whom I will have compassion… mercy on whom I will have mercy.” Josiah lifted his head up to gaze at his master, suddenly filled with a deeper anguish at having disobeyed his gracious master. Yet no words would form on his quivering lips. A single tear trickled down his face as master and servant faced one another for a moment.

A moment later the sharp blade in Micah’s hand pierced the boy’s chest; straight into the heart.

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           Grace. Getting what you don’t deserve. What we don’t deserve….What I don’t deserve. Is each day not a manifestation of grace by the Almighty Father, who continues to give us a new day even though we use these days to dishonour Him. Surely that is grace unbound. Not restrained or tied down by bonds. Unchained. A merciful grace. It is this same grace that has taken our sins and placed them upon the head of Christ Jesus, the Messiah, the Saviour and took our Saviour’s righteousness and clothed us in it. Undeservedly! What grace! By Grace Alone! Is that not amazing? A quote from Richard Sibbes says “God knoweth we have nothing of ourselves, therefore in the covenant of grace he requireth no more than he giveth, and giveth what he requireth, and accepteth what he giveth.” Sola Gratia!

        How is all this related to my excerpt above from a story I am writing entitled Grace Unbound? Well apart from the fact that the title includes the word Grace, the concept of the story comes from the idea of grace. My Sunday mornings have been spent looking into the past, at a man who is a picture of our Lord Jesus Christ, who interceded for Israel; Moses. In Exodus 32 we see the Israelites worship a golden calf, disobeying God’s command to worship only Him. They then proceed to engage in immorality, having the audacity to place His holy name on the golden calf they had made, saying that it is what brought then up out of Egypt.  We then witness, in Exodus 33, God tell Moses and the Israelites that He will not go with them, though He will send an angel before them and He will drive out the tribes that occupy the land that God promised to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, which is the land flowing with milk and honey. This is distressing news to the Israelites for they realize that God’s presence is more important than the promised land. Moses meets with God in Moses’ tent pitched outside the camp and in there Moses intercedes for the Israelites. Moses then asks God to show him His glory. It is here where God says to Moses: Exodus 33:19 – And He said, “I Myself will make all My goodness pass before you, and will proclaim the name of the LORD before you; and I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and will show compassion on whom I will show compassion.” In my excerpt above, Micah tells Josiah (only he tells him in the New International Version way hehe) “I wil have mercy on whom I will have mercy…compassion on whom I will have compassion.” In Exodus 34 we see God re-establish His covenant and again write down His commandments for the Israelites. Is He not a gracious God? After all that happened with the golden calf and the revelry that occurred, blaspheming His holy name, He still remains loyal to them and proceeds to be among them with the tabernacle.  Is that not a picture of grace unbound? Indeed! I am hoping that my little story can reflect how God’s grace is without boundary how it truly is a grace unbound.