seagulls in a crepe fight.

There's a homeless man. Roaming the streets of Amsterdam. Stoned out of his mind. He walks around wearing wooden shoes, playing a classical guitar for the many tourists that come through the flourescently-lit area. In this case the tourists were Spanish-speaking. But he fails to feel acknowledged. As I walk away the last thing I hear him mutter is, "I can speak seven languages and it doesn't even matter."

We speak languages: We do ministry. We sing songs. We intercede. We learn. We travel. But what good is this if nothing is expressed in love? With love we can speak in a language of significance, a language that will translate a mind that is clouded with herb and the other fogginess that other forms of emptiness may bring about. This is a language I want to learn.

I thank you LORD that You are a rock when much else seems to have de-evolved into a gelatin-like consistency. Your faithfulness sets this servant to dance.