red

Angry gut-reaction. Flesh is weak. Assuming, misjudging, weary of giving, giving, giving. Cutting whispers creep from dark corners, “You get what you tolerate. Stand up for yourself, because no One else does.” Swirling vortex of circular argument. Biting, tearing, drawing blood. “I do not do what I want. I do what I do not want. Who will free me from this body of death!?”

Red-flashing prayer signals, “Help!”
Red-letter Bible says, “Come to Me.”

His blood encrusts the rough-hewn beam—poured out to save my neck from sin’s guillotine. Viscous liquid douses my fiery mood; smoothes the tatters of my war-torn heart; assures me that One does stand up for me, died for me, lives in me, rescues me.

Red, not white, means peace—with God, with man.
Praise the name of Christ, our Redeemer.



...written by my long-suffering roommate, Rose Ann, after having her first bridal breakdown yesterday...

(she looks stunning in red by the way...
...as does our living-room)