They are weekend warriors, feinting, dodging, hiding, attacking. Their targets are friendly foes, bent on play mayhem; A few moments of mock war; shooting at and being shot, not with lead but with paint.
Words are like that. They splash against the hearer; Different colors, textures, weights, volumes.
Some are bright and cheerful; bating the hearer in a glow of well being and thoughtful joy. Others drag down, hang a cloud of gloom, turn on the melancholy switch.
Some lift the eyes toward Him Who is our helium for the spirit; Others drag us backwards, pulling us down toward earth-leaden weights too heavy to lift.
Some cover and clothe mankind with a dignity and respect borne of heaven; Others are slimy snotballs that remind of the old life of vomit and filth.
Some are bright with life; others desperately dark with death.
Then there is The Word; the ultimate paintball. He colors all life with love and joy and peace. When struck by Him, we are not just stained, but saturated with the crimson of His blood, that blood that cleanses and purifies; Red that bleaches white.
Deeper, deeper into that crimson flood, Lord immerse us please.
11/26/07
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