Divine Cliparts

Where do I go to see God's face?

Is it in the reflection from the stained glass windows of the ornate cathedral
Or in the rainbow after a summer evening's shower?

Is it in the wooden cross that hangs prominently in the front of a chapel
Or in the hand blistered from creating a home for one who had not?

Is it in the podium from which magnificent sermons are preached
Or in the fulfilled faces of children
Who won't go to bed hungry today for the first time in their lives?

Is it in the flickering candles in the front of the church
or in a friend's eyes as he wipes tears from your heart?

For God is not confined by adorned walls or symbols of His glory.
He cannot be described by an ancient relic or historical artifact.
His face is in all he created.



God's face is in the fading sunset over a wintry landscape.
God's face is the quiet meadow
As the three week old fawn nurses at her mother's breast.
God's face is the laughter of a little boy as he wobbles on his bicycle
Down the sidewalk for the first time without support.
God's face can be found when we open our hearts to His love.

Where do I go to hear God's voice?
Is it in the pipe organ that plays a solemn hymn
Or in the screams of a newborn baby as she sucks her first breath?

Is it in the words of a preacher as he pounds his fist on the pulpit
Or in the whisper of flapping butterfly wings
As a gentle breeze carries it over the rustling grass?

Is it in the chorus of a melody that is sung on the radio
Or in the quiet prayers of children kneeling beside their bed before sleep?

Is it in the typed text of a worn devotional book
or in the quietness of falling snow under a full moon at midnight?

For God's voice isn't limited to man's simple understanding,
But the awesome power of His genius.
God's voice is in all he gave voice to.
God's voice is heard in the whistle of wind
Through the willows on a country lake sheltered from civilization.
God's voice is heard in the clap of thunder during August storm.
God's voice is heard in the last serenade of the crickets
In the cool autumn air.
God's voice can be heard when we still our hearts to His love.

Where do I go to feel God's touch?

Is it in the embrace of a familiar stranger sitting next to you at church
Or in the soft stroke of a grandmother's weathered finger's
On her grandchild's cheek?

Is it the hand that distributes pamphlets
Proclaiming God's wrath on a street corner
Or in the grasp of a toddler
As he wraps his tiny hand around his father's finger to guide his first steps?

Is it in the statues and decorations that adorn a sanctuary
Or in the silent reward of an unseen kind act?

Is it in the lukewarm words spoken in a time of need
Or in the strength of another's shoulder
When yours are too weary from life's struggles?

For God's touch isn't felt in the objects or things that we fill our lives with,
But in the indescribable moments when His presence is near.
God's touch is in the painted face on a purple pansy
Waltzing with a gentle spring breeze.
God's touch is in the warmth of the sun shining through a frosted window
In the dead of winter.
God's touch is felt as He guides us through the deep valley
That lies in front of us.
God's touch is felt when He wraps His unconditional loving arms
Around the child in all of us that longs to call Him Daddy.

Angels Statues

A man's daughter had asked the local minister to come and pray with her father. When the minister arrived, he found the man lying in bed with his head propped up on two pillows. An empty chair sat beside his bed.

The minister assumed that the old fellow had been informed of his visit. "I guess you were expecting me," he said. "No, who are you?" said the father. "I'm the new minister at your church," he replied. "When I saw the empty chair, I figured you knew I was going to show up." "Oh yeah, the chair," said the bedridden man. "Would you mind closing the door?"

Puzzled, the minister shut the door. "I have never told anyone this, not even my daughter," said the man. "But all of my life I have never known how to pray. At church I used to hear the pastor talk about prayer, but it went right over my head." "I abandoned any attempt at prayer," the old man continued, "until one day about four years ago my best friend said to me, "Joe, prayer is just a simple matter of having a conversation with Jesus. Here is what I suggest. Sit down in a chair; place an empty chair in front of you, and in faith see Jesus on the chair. It's not spooky because he promised, "I'll be with you always." Then just speak to him in the same way you're doing with me right now."
So, I tried it and I've liked it so much that I do it a couple of hours every day. I'm careful though. If my daughter saw me talking to an empty chair, she'd either have a nervous breakdown or send me off to the funny farm."

The minister was deeply moved by the story and encouraged the old man to continue on the journey. Then he prayed with him, anointed him with oil, and returned to the church. Two nights later the daughter called to tell the minister that her daddy had died that afternoon.

"Did he die in peace?" he asked. "Yes, when I left the house about two o' clock, he called me over to his bedside, told me he loved me and kissed me on the cheek. When I got back from the store an hour later, I found him dead. But there was something strange about his death. Apparently, just before Daddy died, he leaned over and rested his head on the chair beside the bed. What do you make of that?" The minister wiped a tear from his eye and said, "I wish we could all go like that."

We live by faith, not by sight.

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