Be the Buttercup: John 15: 7 Abide in Me, and I in You.

Sunday, January 31, 2016

John 15: 7 Abide in Me, and I in You.

Sacred Heart of Jesus
This is the picture that hung in my grandparents home, my parents and now mine. It was brought from Poland by my great-grandmother Margaret Pollick.

In prayer before the commencement of the Sunday Holy Sacrifice, through prayerful imagination I placed myself within the shelter of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. In the same moment, in the blink of God's eye, Jesus and I sat together in one heart. Awed, I realized we were not resting in His heart, but mine. By stepping into the abode of Jesus' love, He entered my heart. And there was only room for two in the heart of this child. Servant and Master filled it completely.
I was reminded of that yesterday afternoon, my attention was pulled to the sky where I noticed the a cloud formation of a big heart and within it was a smaller heart. The small represented my broken, flawed, human heart longing to love with abandonment and beyound myself.
By seeking the divine protection of holy Trust in Jesus' teaching providence, I discover my heart is found both hidden and revealed.
With an unspoken prayer to love generously all the souls surrounding me; my meditation drew a picture of the sword piecing His heart through into my own. By abiding in Him, both our hearts are emptied down and out to the low world; a world hoping to be refreshed by Love.

See my illustration below. (I doubt I'll ever be this childlike again. I am publishing with out second thoughts for the 1st time.)

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Blessing on the hand of women! Angels guard its stregth and grace, In the palace, cottage, hovel, Oh, no matter where the place; Would that never storms assailed it, Rainbows ever gently curled; For the hand that rocks the cradle Is the hand that rules the world. Infancy's the tender fountain, Power may with beauty flow, Mother's first to guide the streamlets, From them souls unresting grow-- Grow on for the good or evil Sunshine streamed or evils hurled; For the hand that rocks the cradle Is the Hand that rules the world. Woman, how divin your mission Here upon our natal sod! Keep, oh, keep the youn heart open Always to the breath of GOD! All true trophies of the ages Are from the mother-love impearled; For the hand that rocks the cradle Is the hand that rules the world. Blessings on the hand of women! Fathers, sons, and daughters cry, And the sacred song is mingled withthe worship in the sky-- Mingles where no tempest darkens, Rainbows evermore are hurled; For the hand that rocks the cradle Is the hand that rules the world. William Ross Wallace (1819 - 1881)

Discontent, by Sarah Orne Jewett

Down in a field, one day in June,
The flowers all bloomed together,
Save one who tried to hide herself,
And drooped, that pleasant weather.

A robin who had flown too high
And felt a little lazy
Was resting near this buttercup
Who wished she were a daisy.

The daisies grow so trig and tall,-
She always had a passion
For wearing frills around her neck
In just the daisies' fashion.

And buttercups must always be
The same old tiresome color-
While daisies dress in gold and white,
Although their gold is duller.

'Dear robin,' said this sad young flower,
'Perhaps you'd not mind trying
To find a nice white frill for me
Some day when you are flying.'

'You silly thing!' the robin said,
'I think you must be crazy.
I'd rather be my honest self
Than any made-up daisy.

'You're nicer in your own bright gown,-
The little children love you.
Be the best buttercup you can,
And think no flower above you.

'Though swallows leave me out of sight,
We'd better keep our places;
Perhaps the world would all go wrong
With one too many daisies.

'Look bravely up into the sky
And be content with knowing
That God wished for a buttercup
Just here, where you are growing.'

Sarah Orne Jewett