Janet Benlien Reeves

I don’t want to worry anymore. Don’t want to fear the phone call, the bill, arriving unexpected by mail, the month left at the end of the money, the unseen predator, the crisis not mine, but mine to fix or forever wonder if my two mites could have made the difference after all, at last, the natural disaster, the unnatural disaster caused by consequences unintended, unforeseen. I don’t want to worry about any thing, any more. And so, I give all of this worry unworthy to You Who sees only and all real threats to me coming, no surprise, no problem, only gracious provision preprepared . * * * I wrote this post for the Five-Minute Friday Link-Up. Click  here  to read other writers' posts on today's prompt: anymore . Photo by Artem Kovalev on Unsplash

It’s a well-known fact that light from stars can take tens, hundreds, and even thousands of years to reach Earth, depending on how far away the star is from Earth. By the time we earthlings see the light of a star, that star may be long dead. The light we see comes to us as a message from the distant past. In their book, Tenth Stone , Bodie and Brock Thoene (p. 223) use this truth as a metaphor: To someone yet unborn you are a distant star. What good you do now may shine forth, yet it may not be seen or received by anyone during your lifetime. But then your act of kindness will someday change the destiny of someone far in the future. Just think, our actions today could possibly affect the lives of people who are not yet born, people who may not be born for decades or even centuries. We can see the proof of this through the work of people who lived before us. I doubt Peter, Paul, or James ever imagined that someone two thousand years in the future would be drinking coffee in front...

It’s 4:45 a.m. and the sky is a ribbon of flame burning horizontally—red, orange, yellow—behind the mountain silhouettes and topped by a solid grey block of not-yet-morning. Its boldness pulls my attention from my Bible. I sip my first cup of coffee and embrace the invitation to simply sit and watch. There was a time when I would have said God must have been feeling especially artistic on such a morning, painting yet another brilliant sunrise for early risers like me to see. But now I know better. God doesn’t paint the sunrise anew every morning for me or for you or for anyone else. Long ago, he created the heavens to produce a unique display of beauty every morning for his own pleasure. The beauty honors him, the Creator, by being what God created it to be. The skies only do what God created them to do. Now that God has created me and you and everyone else currently living, he invites us to enjoy the show with him. In fact, those of us who don’t rise early can catch the performanc...

I’ve silently participated in Writer’s Digest ’s poem-a-day challenges since November 2022. The magazine's online version holds these challenges twice a year, in April and November. Depending on life circumstances, I have approached these challenges either with diligence to write every day or hit or miss, doing my best. But this April, I decided to participate publicly for the first time. Each day, I posted my prompted poem in the comments on  Writer’s Digest ’s website and on my Facebook page . I quickly discovered that doing this dramatically changed the experience. First and most obviously, I found myself interacting with people. Other participants made comments and suggestions about my work; they cheered me on. I did the same for them, though I did more “liking” than commenting. Overall, the environment among participants was encouraging and celebratory. It was fun. Second, I found myself challenged to produce final drafts. In silent seasons, I could challenge myself t...

Rainy Day I stretch, toss Panda gently onto the wet grass, duck back under the eaves hoping my pup will do her business, meaning business, and come right back to me, so we can retreat to dry inside. Panda Girl doesn’t get it. Rather, she prances like the princess she is all the way across the yard, high-born head and flag tail regal both held high. She turns as if to summon me, What are you waiting for? “Panda, come,” I command. She tilts her head. No. You come, her stance manifests. She stays, tail wagging, sky leaking moisture all over her seven-pound self. Yesterday’s grass clippings cling to her black and white fur with leaves and other bits of yard debris. I sigh, start out with shoulders scrunched, head bowed to let my back take the brunt of today’s assault on earth. Panda sees and circles joyful, plants feet, barks, See! I told you! The water’s fine. I lift head, straighten shoulders, relax, and walk in the wonder: my rain-dancing dog’s right. * * * Photo by A A on Unsplash

Is something wrong with me that I struggle to write about Christian holidays for Christian holidays? It seems expected; prompts and requests abound. But somehow, I can’t bring myself to respond on paper or screen. Every attempt comes out artificial, strained, or stale. Morsels with wondrous potential seem only half-baked, far from ready for reader savoring. I ponder faith deeply during these times, seek fresh insights, talk them over with God. That when Jesus died on the cross, in that moment, He took all the sins of the whole world committed through all time right into His God-man Self, became a vacuum ingesting all heinous evil ever, then somehow said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:24, NIV). In that moment, His moment of greatest weakness, He revealed God’s power supreme to the world. Or that Jesus’ death wasn’t to appease the out-of-control anger of a wrathful god, but to pay death’s demanded ransom. Our one, true God loves us all so m...