There was a time, in the not so distant past when the season of Harvest was met with a time of rest.  It was a time when giving thanks meant bestowing honor on the one you worked side by side with.  Blood, sweat and tears went into every seed, every till and every nail.  Swords turned to plow shears and sounds of war turned to drums and strings of celebration and of hope.

Over the many years that followed, and one by one, swords remained swords, seeds were lost, and the Three Nails that meant so much, were forgotten.  The skies stayed blue, the wind still blew, but the sound of the children was no more;  lost in the scurry of life and replaced by booms and shrills of pain, strife and the empty look of an eye that sees no longer.

Celebration and hope now replaced with the Blackness of Friday and a Name’s Day who no longer carries the Cross of Hope.  Who is to blame and to what do we owe the homage of the season?

Skies are still blue, the wind still moves upon our face, but the still quietness of Charity and Favor are but a distant memory… as in a myth?  No.  He is still here and has never moved.

Like a beacon of light, transfixed on a heart that still hopes, He died and rose again for all mankind.  This light is Jesus.  The nails left scars, His love for you tells His Spirit to do what man can never do; the Seed of Life has been planted.  Will you not enjoy the Harvest of plenty with Him?

He doesn’t ask for gifts of reckoning or lines of credit extended beyond means of repayment.  He invites you to His table of plenty; to give your best and honor Him who has given His best and all.

For in doing this, you have given the best gift of all, your surrender to the One who has given Eternal Life.  A gift that can neither be earned nor bought.  It is by faith.  Now pass this one on.
Photo flickr Creative Commons

Bendiciones,

Lance