September 23 – Streams In The Desert Devotional By Mrs. Lettie Cowman

He that believeth on me, as the scripture hath said, out of his inner being shall flow rivers of living water (John 7:38).

Some of us are shivering and wondering why the Holy Spirit does not fill us. We have plenty coming in, but we do not give it out. Give out the blessing that you have, start larger plans for service and blessing, and you will soon find that the Holy Ghost is before you, and He will present you with blessings for service, and give you all that He can trust you to give away to others.

There is a beautiful fact in nature which has its spiritual parallels. There is no music so heavenly as an Aeolian harp, and the Aeolian harp is nothing but a set of musical chords arranged in harmony, and then left to be touched by the unseen fingers of the wandering winds. And as the breath of heaven floats over the chords, it is said that notes almost Divine float out upon the air, as if a choir of angels were wandering around and touching the strings.

And so it is possible to keep our hearts so open to the touch of the Holy Spirit that He can play upon them at will, as we quietly wait in the pathway of His service.
–Days of Heaven upon Earth

When the apostles received the baptism with the Holy Ghost they did not rent the upper room and stay there to hold holiness meetings, but went everywhere preaching the gospel.
–Will Huff

“If I have eaten my morsel alone,”
The patriarch spoke with scorn;
What would he think of the Church were he shown
Heathendom-huge, forlorn,
Godless, Christless, with soul unfed,
While the Church’s ailment is fullness of bread,
Eating her morsel alone?
“Freely ye have received, so give,”
He bade, who hath given us all.
How shall the soul in us longer live
Deaf to their starving call,
For whom the blood of the Lord was shed,
And His body broken to give them. bread,
If we eat our morsel alone!”
–Archbishop Alexander

“Where is Abel thy brother?” (Gen. 4:9).

Happy Fall!


The Autumn Equinox is the 23rd this year, didn’t know that! Anyways, it’s not very he-beastly (sounds more manly than “manly” lol) to say this, but these flower photos are obviously beautiful, and worth recognition!

Originally posted on Friendly Fairy Tales:

Blooming Goldenrod

Goldenrod has grown long yellow fingers.
A crowd of eager mums are mid-laugh as
Hedgehogs nibble skunk cabbage.
Even white snakeroot,
Abloom at the wood’s edge,
Looks deceptively harmless,
But the deer leave it be.
Purple asters open wide, tiny but cheery.
Summer fairies line their beds with milkweed down,
Make quilts of hydrangea petals and
Dodge spiky, armoured chestnuts.
Dahlias bloom, large as dinner plates.

Purple Mums

Blooming White Snakeroot in MA

Blooming Purple Asters

Milkweed Seed

hydrangea blooming

Pink Dahlias in bloom

Happy Fall!

Note: The autumnal equinox is September 23, 2014, and this is the day summer changes to fall in the Northern Hemisphere, where I live in the USA. The earth is now tilting away from the sun and we will have shorter days and less warmth for 6 months.

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September 22 – Springs In The Valley / Streams In The Desert Devotionals By Mrs. Lettie Cowman

Himself took our infirmities. (Matt. 8:17)

I think perhaps the greatest of all hindrances in our getting hold of God for our bodies is the lack of knowing Him, for after all, in its deepest essence Divine healing is not a thing; it is not an experience; it is not an “it.” It is the revelation of Jesus Christ as a living, almighty Person, and then the union of this living Christ with your body, so that there becomes a tie, a bond, a living link by which His life keeps flowing into yours, and because He lives you shall live also. This is so very real to me that I groan in spirit for those who do not know Him in this blessed union, and I wonder sometimes why He has let me know Him in this gracious manner. There is not an hour of the day or night that I am not conscious of Someone who is closer to me than my heart or my brain. I know that He is living in me, and it is the continual inflowing of the life of Another. If I had not that I could not live. My old constitutional strength gave out long, long ago, but Someone breathed in me gently, with no violence, no strange thrills, but just His wholesome life.

I remember how once I was taken suddenly and seriously ill alone in my study. I dropped upon my knees and cried to God for help. Instantly all pain left me and I was perfectly well. It seems as if God stood right there, and had put out His hand and touched me. The joy of healing was not so great as the joy of meeting God.

She only touched the hem of His garment,
As to His side she stole,
Amid the throng that had gathered around Him
And straightway she was whole.

Oh, touch the hem of His garment,
And thou, too, shall be free;
His healing power this very hour,
Will bring new life to thee.

“Jesus…the same yesterday, and today, and for ever.”


“And the Lord said . . . Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you as wheat; but I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not” (Luke 22:31, 32).

Our faith is the center of the target at which God doth shoot when He tries us; and if any other grace shall escape untried, certainly faith shall not. There is no way of piercing faith to its very marrow like the sticking of the arrow of desertion into it; this finds it out whether it be of the immortals or no. Strip it of its armor of conscious enjoyment, and suffer the terrors of the Lord to set themselves in array against it; and that is faith indeed which can escape unhurt from the midst of the attack.

Faith must be tried, and seeming desertion is the furnace, heated seven times, into which it might be thrust. Blest the man who can endure the ordeal!
–C. H. Spurgeon.

Paul said, “I have kept the faith,” but he lost his head! They cut that off, but it didn’t touch his faith. He rejoiced in three things–this great Apostle to the Gentiles; he had “fought a good fight,” he had “finished his course,” he had “kept the faith.” What did all the rest amount to? St. Paul won the race; he gained the prize, and he has not only the admiration of earth today, but the admiration of Heaven. Why do we not act as if it paid to lose all to win Christ? Why are we not loyal to truth as he was? Ah, we haven’t his arithmetic. He counted differently from us; we count the things gain that he counted loss. We must have his faith, and keep it if we would wear the same crown.

The Stranger by Chris Van Allsburt (The 1986 Jack Frost Amnesiac)

The Stranger is a children’s picture book published in 1986 by the American author Chris Van Allsburg. It tells a story of a stranger with no memory of who he is or where he’s from. He recuperates in the home of a farmer and his family during the fall season. It was adapted into the short film below. I’ve only just now heard of it, and I haven’t watched the video. I will after I get back from getting coffee with my Stepfather.

It sounds a lot like this poem I wrote on September 7, 2013, about having been born on the last night of summer in 1986, about how I feel confused about who I really am. lol Maybe I am Jack Frost!

“My History Officially Started Right As The Seasons Changed,
When I Was Left To Confusion On The Bridge Of An Equinox”
by Ry Hakari

Two more lines of seven sunrises and sunsets left to trace
with rays of daylight–connecting the sun’s spot every hour,
I engrave imaginary bridges for crossing an autumnal equinox;
in twelve steps in fourteen sets my horizons will get stitched
together and I will turn twenty-seven at 9:21 PM on 9/21/13

I was born in another timezone, seven hours ahead of this one
in the city of Ulm, in the German state of Baden-Württemberg,
but the sun’s position in the sky when I was born was rising
over Russia at 7:21 AM, so I was really born the twenty-second
and wasn’t born on the International Day of Peace after all like

My grandma likes to say every year around this time when she
tells me everyone at the hospital I was born in kept calling me
“little prince”, I guess because my full first name translates to
“little king”, that I’ve parted in half like a sea, and kept the Ry…
“water”, is what it means, for my state is many, wont to change

I was born as the seasons changed, left on a Equinox’s bridge
Not one of the last children of 1986’s collapsing summer’s eve,
but one of the first children of 1986’s rising of the fall’s morn’
I was born the first of the official start of the harvest season
when we see the divided day and night find their equilibrium

Two more lines of seven sunrises and sunsets left to trace
with rays of daylight–connecting the sun’s spot every hour,
I engrave imaginary bridges for crossing an autumnal equinox;
in twelve steps in fourteen sets my horizons will get stitched
together and I will turn twenty-seven at 7:21 AM on 9/22/13

I was conceived in the womb of a Janet by a Daniel ingeniously
A seed planted in a January, my story sown in time perfectly
so when I was grown I could be reaped at the exact moment
Scales of Dark/Light found balance obscured in a Siberian sky
spread out over six more months of Chernobyl’s phoenix plume

My grandma likes to say our family’s descent is from Irish royalty,
chased from castle homes, our thrones stolen out from under us,
but I was born as an American citizen, amongst German tongues
calling me “a prince”, grew up told I was born on a Day of Peace
but actually one the season’s changed–I’m meant to be confused

I was conceived in the womb of mum’s denial of me da’s secrets–
not those kept from all, as eh’d sworn by oath when taking station,
but those mum knew as ah lass ‘fore swearin’ her own, yet ignored
I should never ‘ave been born, yet, was, of, alas, ‘er love, stubborn:
destinin’ me to ah life I’d love to quit, but shant–stubborn as mum

September 21 – Springs In The Valley / Streams In The Desert Devotionals By Mrs. Lettie Cowman


That ye present your bodies. (Rom. 12:1)

Lend Me thy body, our Lord says. For a few brief years, in the body that was prepared for Me I delighted to do My Father’s will. By means of that body I came into contact with the children of men—diseased, weary, sinsick, heavy-laden ones. Those feet carried Me to the homes where sorrow and death had entered; those hands touched leprous bodies, palsied limbs, sightless eyes; those lips told of My Father’s remedy for sin, His love for a prodigal world. In that body I bore the world’s sin upon the tree, and through its offering once for all My followers are sanctified.

But I need a body still; wilt thou not lend Me thine? Millions of hearts are longing, with an indescribable hunger, for Me. On that far-off shore are men, women, and little children sitting in darkness and in the shadow of death—men who have never yet heard of My love. Wilt thou not lend Me thy body, that I may cross the ocean and tell them that the light after which they are groping has at last reached them; that the bread for which they have so often hungered is now at their very door?

I want a heart, that I may fill it with Divine compassion; and lips, purged from all uncleanness, wherewith to tell the story that brings hope to the despairing, freedom to the bound, healing to the diseased, and life to the dead. Wilt thou lend Me thine?

Wilt thou not lend Me thy body?

All that we own is Thine alone,
A trust, O Lord, from Thee.

“Shroud Of Frost”
by Anathema

Undying odyssey… a myriad of times

The soul has seen
Through eyes of heaven
The imperium of earth
There’s nothing left to perceive

Help me to escape from this existence
I yearn for an answer… can you help me?
I’m drowning in a sea of abused visions and shattered dreams
In somnolent illusion… I’m paralyzed

Infinity distraction
A pious human disorder
Blind to passage of souls
Conclusion from one remembrance

Help me to escape…

Transfixed… I gaze through my window at a world lying under a shroud of
frost. In a forlorn stupor I feel the burning of staring eyes, yet no one
is here. Detached from reality, in the Knowing of dreams, we know the
entity of ensuing agony waits to clasp us in its cold breast, in an empty
room. We awake and it’s true…
I dreamt of the sun’s demise, awoke to a bleak
morning. In the emptiness I beheld fate for the dead light is a foretelling
of what will be… I saw a soul drift from life, through death, and arrive
at Elysian fields in welcoming song. Yet I stand in a dusk-filled room
despondently watching the passing of the kindred spirit… and there
is no song… just a delusion of silence.


“I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus, my Lord” (Phil. 3:8).

This is the happy season of ripening cornfields, of the merry song of the reapers, of the secured and garnered grain. But let me hearken to the sermon of the field. This is its solemn word to me. You must die in order to live. You must refuse to consult your own case and well-being. You must be crucified, not only in desires and habits which are sinful, but in many more which appear innocent and right. If you would save others, you cannot save yourself. If you would bear much fruit, you must be buried in darkness and solitude.

My heart fails me as I listen. But, when Jesus asks it, let me tell myself that it is my high dignity to enter into the fellowship of His sufferings; and thus I am in the best of company. And let me tell myself again that it is all meant to make me a vessel meet for His use. His own Calvary has blossomed into fertility; and so shall mine.

Plenty out of pain, life out of death: is it not the law of the Kingdom?
–In the Hour of Silence

Do we call it dying when the bud bursts into flower?

“Finding, following, keeping, struggling,
Is He sure to bless?
Saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs,
Answer, ‘Yes.”‘

“Last Snowstorm Of The Year”
by Low

When we were young
We wanted to die
But the sound of a drum
And the words of a child
Brought different light
Now no one can tell
The winter was nice
But the summer is hell

The ground was so hard
The nights were so long
But we suffered the dark
And we wrote all those songs
Still I was a fool
I covered my ears
No I would not face the last snowstorm of the year
No I would not face the last snowstorm of the year

Miracle Merle (Tanka) [0055-02] & E.B.B.’s 21st Sonnet

“Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outre results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.”
― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

To have struck a chord
of accordance with the world’s
synapses and nerves
like ley lines, cross purposes
ocean currents, shorelines nurse

The voiceless was heard,
as Merle — a blue-grey blackbird,
red wings burned noir, scourged —
thorn-torn heartstrings thrown backwards,
half-hardheartedly unfettered

“Sonnet 21″
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Say over again, and yet once over again,
That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated
Should seem ‘a cuckoo-song,’ as thou dost treat it,
Remember, never to the hill or plain,
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt’s pain
Cry, ‘Speak once more—thou lovest! ‘Who can fear
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me—toll
The silver iterance!—only minding, Dear,
To love me also in silence with thy soul.

The Northman


“…and remember my sentimental friend that a heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.”
― L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

Originally posted on Roxi St. Clair:


Lured by greed for silver and gold,
he journeyed far, like Sagas told,
against the wind and salt of sea,
that rocked his vessel endlessly.
His flaxen hair and bearded chin,
blue eyes soaked new horizons in,
he walked on soil of foreign land,
to claim his prize, at his demand.
With battle axe and bloody sword,
he took his share of Viking hoard,
war of Northmen and Kingdom throes,
both sides losing, the story goes.
Voyaging home, a gale storm sprung,
capsized his boat, iced water stung.
A Viking sleeps, ‘neath sea and sand,
his sword forever, clutched in hand.

© Roxi St. Clair

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