06/10/06 = 26

It's that time of year again, when I wake up to the sound of birdsong and telephone rings, family and friends singing songs over the phone and smsing to wish me a happy birthday...that's right it's my birthday today! 26 years old and going strong, I'm now on the serious side of 25 and feel that there's so much still to be done especially regarding the Kingdom, I do think that we fall into the mindset of "life is downhill from here". Man do I disagree with that!! Still so many battles to fight, victories to be won, hearts to show His love to, ears to tell the good news to and eyes to show His kindness to. There's much to be said for old age, and although I'm nowhere near that, I did stumble across this piece in my daily readings.

God Bless :)


"At evening time it shall be light." —Zechariah 14:7

Oftentimes we look forward with forebodings to the time of old age, forgetful that at eventide it shall be light. To many saints, old age is the choicest season in their lives. A balmier air fans the mariner's cheek as he nears the shore of immortality, fewer waves ruffle his sea, quiet reigns, deep, still and solemn. From the altar of age the flashes of the fire of youth are gone, but the more real flame of earnest feeling remains. The pilgrims have reached the land Beulah, that happy country, whose days are as the days of heaven upon earth. Angels visit it, celestial gales blow over it, flowers of paradise grow in it, and the air is filled with seraphic music. Some dwell here for years, and others come to it but a few hours before their departure, but it is an Eden on earth. We may well long for the time when we shall recline in its shady groves and be satisfied with hope until the time of fruition comes. The setting sun seems larger than when aloft in the sky, and a splendour of glory tinges all the clouds which surround his going down. Pain breaks not the calm of the sweet twilight of age, for strength made perfect in weakness bears up with patience under it all. Ripe fruits of choice experience are gathered as the rare repast of life's evening, and the soul prepares itself for rest.
-Charles Spurgeon