This site is dedicated to promoting an awareness of the second advent of Christ and the need to prepare for that event both physically, mentally and spiritually. It also contains the rough draft of the Portrait Gallery, a fictionalized account of the experiences of common people who are living at the time of the Second Advent. This multi-volume account is destined for publication in the near future, but it is available now free of charge for your reading pleasure. In the era of the men's movement and Promise Keepers, Dear Brothers will be welcomed by wives and mothers who desire to encourage their husbands and sons to live for Christ. Several daily devotional books are also included as an aid to the believer who desires to live closer to Christ and to reflect his glory which is his character.
This website contains hundreds of original and thousands of copies of beautiful images presented here for the glory of God. All of these images are family oriented and suitable for children's viewing. There is no adult-orineted content on this site.
As you browse through the thousands of pages
and images on this site, you may notice that I have avoided the
use of cartoon characters or images. Cartoons evoke a sence of
hillarity not appropriate to the subject matter contained in these
pages. Nothing must be allowed to belittle the tremendous themes
of Christ's Second Advent or the soul-stirring messages of righteousness
by faith that will lighten the earth with His glory and prepare
the saints for thier eternal home.
Navigating this site is simple. The table of contents is linked to each separate item which, in turn, is linked to every other folder by a series of links at the bottom of each page as well as being linked back to the contents page. You can't get lost!
The following parable is not strictly a second advent related story, but it does have practical significance for husbands and wives. It arose from a children's story I told several years ago in church. You may find it interesting as well as provocative.
High upon a hill, behind our house, stands a lofty oak tree, towering higher then the surrounding trees and spreading its branches over a wide area of the forest. It is an impressive tree, with a wide sturdy trunk, free of branches to a lofty height. It stands alone, among the other trees, as of stately appearance, grandeur, and nobility, straight of form and feature. Its branches form a perfect canopy for many birds in the spring: squirrels ramp and chatter among its branches and the eagle and other majestic birds find its great height and wide spreading bows a perfect resting place as they fly among the hills and mountains in search of their prey.
The Oak tree welcomes the visitation of these magnificent birds, for it is proud of its strength and lofty independence. The fierce thunderstorms of summer and the cold blasts of winter winds can seldom bend its mighty branches to their fierce determined will. It does not fear the lightening nor the heavy snows of winter; it was impervious to anything nature could fling at it for its roots went deep into the ground. It was strongly anchored to the rocks of the mountain, and the mighty sinews of its trunk and branches gave the old oak every reason to be proud, and even a little arrogant, when it considered the lowly pine trees, the quacking aspens, the poplars and even the sturdy maple trees with their flaming coat of red leaves in the fall that lent a gorgeous touch of beauty to the scene.
It was a clear blue day,
such as often graces the mountain forest on a summer afternoon.
Powder puff white clouds floated in the gentle breezes that barely
ruffled the small leaves at the ends of his twigs. The birds had
ceased their chattered and were quietly sheltered under the shade
of his leaves during the heat of the afternoon. An occasional
squirrel moved among the branches, peeking out in curiosity at
the speckled fawn almost hidden from view with its brown and white
leafy pattern nearly invisible among the roots of a near by pine
tree.
The oak, intent upon a moment of self-admiration, was idly watching the clouds as they lazily floated upon the blue of the sky. So self-absorbed was he, that at first he did not hear the soft notes of the melody as they ascended
on the warm air from the forest floor many hundreds of feet below. The melody was so sweet and soft, filled with such lovely twills and gentle variations upon the main theme, that only gradually did the sweet melodious voice penetrate his self-absorbed mind. At first, he thought it was a choir of birds, breaking forth in rapturous praise of the beauties of the day, but, he quickly realized that the song, for indeed he recognized it as a most lovely song, did not originate with his fine feathered friends
Looking about in the branches of the pines, and scanning the near by maple, he was unable to detect its source. As he listened more intently, in order to determine its true direction, a thrill of delight was awakened somewhere in his massive heart, and he strained to catch every chord and note of the delicate music. At last, he realized that the song was coming from the ground. Bending down, he moved several of his branches aside so that he could get a clear glimpse of the ground and, there, to his immediate consternation he saw a tiny red rose nestled among his massive, gnarled roots.
Anger immediately filled his heart and he was ashamed of the momentarily delight and joy that he felt when he first heart the melody.
“What are you doing here,” he bellowed, as only oak trees can bellow when they are enraged?
But the rose did not answer this most ungentlemanly response to her song. Rather, she gazed up at the oak, who was now glaring furiously down upon her, with a sweet smile and redoubled the joy of her soft melody.
“What are you doing there,” demanded the oak, “you have no business being here. You belong in that meadow over there,” he gestured furiously with one of his branches and, as he did so, a shower of leaves and twigs fell around the rose.
But again, she took no notice of his fury or the cascading leaves or twigs. She met his furious frown with the loveliest, sweetest smile he had ever seen. For a moment, his oak heart was softened, but then his pride reasserted itself, and he demanded, most imperiously, “I asked you a question. I demand that you leave this hilltop at once This area is reserved for the trees of the forest. You roses belong in the meadow down below,” he thundered, this time shaking even more of his branches in her direction.
Now he was thoroughly enraged at her refusal to answer his questions and her defiance, of his orders to leave the area, for she continued her sweet melody unaffected by his rage. Now he literally quivered from root to the highest twig, so furious was he with her for defying his orders. Seizing a particularly weak branch, he shook it with all his might, far greater then the summer storm could have shaken it. As he expected, it brook loose, and now a veritable storm of branches, twigs, leaves, and bark showered around and upon the rose. Freeing one of his gnarled roots from its stronghold upon the rock, he kicked mud and dirt into the face of the rose. So furious was his attack upon her that he did not at first realize that she had ceased her singing. Only when the cloud of dust, disturbed by his roots had settled, did he realize that the delicate rose was buried under a mound of mud, dirt, leaves, twigs, ranches, and bark. She had been crushed to the ground, her petals lay in disarray, strewn among the debris. Her stem was bruised and broken, but even among the debris of abuse heaped upon her, a beautiful fragrant scent seemed to ascend like perfume upon the gentle breeze, as if the very abuse itself had released this greatest outpouring of sweetest fragrance.
The forest was silent, the birds had ceased their noontime twitter; the breeze seemed to cease blowing and the leaves were silent, as if all nature were in sympathy with the rose. The sweet fragrance seemed to ascend in greater clouds of incense as a new and gentle breeze wafted it into the branches of the oak, who stood sullen and angry at the scene of desolation spread before him at his feet.
The gentle zephyr was speaking to him but, this most dull of hearing oak tree, was slow to recognize its voice. Softly the breeze whispered into its ear until the oak finally became aware of its presence.
“I love you,” it whispered most soothingly and with deep compassion.
“I love you,” it whispered again. “You are very precious to me,” it seemed to be saying to the oak.
Knowing what he had done, and the totally unprovoked nature of his deeds, the oak was taken totally by surprise at the words of the zephyr. He knew he was guilty, but his proud stubborn heart could never admit it. Secretly, he was ashamed of his behavior, and expected severe and immediate retribution for his acts. But this soft zephyr, with such soothing, caressing, loving words, was not what he expected. He looked for retribution from the lightening and fierce winds that he intuitively knew could destroy him if his creator choose to unleash them.
“I love you. I have not come to condemn you or to punish you breathed the zephyr.
“How can you love me,” sighed the oak tree, “when I have done this terrible dead to that lovely se?”
Rather then answering this question, the zephyr quietly changed the subject. “Do you know why I placed you upon this high hill top and gave you such strength in your roots and your trunk, and such large, widespreading branches,” inquired the zephyr in the most kindly and compassionate voice?
This question surprised the oak, and he pondered for a moment before answering. “I don’t know,” he frankly admitted.
“Do you believe I created you,” whispered the zephyr in such beautiful tones of love that the oak’s cold heart was momentarily warmed?
“I gave you your strength,” said the zephyr, “and your strong branches and I placed you upon this high hill top, and sunk your roots deep among the rocks that you might gain the strength of the mountains to perform a special work for me.” So gentle and merciful were these words that the oak, despite himself, could not help but listen with rapt attention.
“I gave you your strength so you could protect the animals of the forest, that the deer, fox, rabbits, and even the mighty bear could find shelter from the rain and the hot sun under branches and leaves. I created you and placed you here so that the deer could find safety under your bows from her many enemies. Your leaves form the perfect canopy over the nest of the baby robin and the squirrel can find many hiding placed among your gnarled roots for his nuts that are his food during the long winter months. The woodpecker can find grubs among your outer bark and the mighty eagle can find a nesting place in your high branches. Your roots, with their firm attachment to the rocks , prevent the soil from eroding and provide the perfect nursery for the young poplars and maples that, when they have grown to maturity, are your neighbors and friends in the forest. Without these trees, sheltering you from the storm of summer and the icy blasts of winter, you would have, long ago, fallen among the rocks at the base of the hillside.”
Gradually, as the sun guilds the early morning sky, the oak began to realize something he had never understood before. More intently now, then ever, he strained to hear the soft voice of the breeze that seemed to come from everywhere and yet from nowhere.
The oak sighed heavily, a sound that resembled the rustling of the leaves in a gentle breeze. “I didn’t understand these things,” he said to the zephyr.
Continuing, the zephyr seamed to fill his words with such sweetness and love that now the oak was thrilled to his very roots with her mercy and compassion with which the breeze seemed to fill the very air above his head. Subdued, with a mixture of terror over the consequences of his act and hope and delight that his creator was speaking with him, the oak bent in eager anticipation as he listened to the next words his creator spoke to him.
“I gave you my rose, my beautiful, red, fragrant, delicate rose, to bring joy, peace, and happiness to your heart,” he breathed in gentle admonishment. You needed a companion, someone who could soften and subdue your angry, proud heart. I gave you the best companion I could find among the forest and the mountains. She is the sweetest, most precious gift that I could give you.”
His words seemed to trail off, as if he were gazing in sadness at the battered rose far beneath them. Even the oak, now gazing in dismay upon the wreckage that he had inflicted upon the creators gift to him, began to realize how precious and beautiful and fragrant was the melody of the rose upon whom he had heaped such abuse.
In deep melancholy of spirit, the oak inquired of the breeze, “I didn’t realize how valuable a gift you had given me, can you forgive me?”
Immediately, and without hesitation, came the soft response, “thou art forgiven, my dearly beloved. Thou art fair my love, thou art all fair and precious in my sight.”
The oak was utterly taken aback by these words for he recognized in them the deepest strains of self-sacrificing love. He knew he was not precious, he knew he did not deserve forgiveness, he knew, in his own heart, that he was not dearly beloved, at least not by himself. And yet the breeze continued to breath such fragrance of love and joy and peace and forgiveness about him, that the oak began to take heart and to believe that he could be forgiven and cleansed from his anger, his resentment, his bitterness against all things sweet, and lovely, and beautifully.
“Dare I hope,” he said to himself, “that I can be forgiven?”
Instantly, in response to this unspoken prayer, came the soft answer upon the breeze, “thou art forgiven, my most precious, dearly beloved oak. Thou art forgiven and cleansed of your anger and bitterness. For I, your creator, have forgiven you and I have made an atonement for you with my Father in heaven.”
The oak was not truly a bad oak, he had only grown proud of his lofty height and grandeur, forgetting for the time, the reason for his existence. Now, in humbleness of heart, he inquired of the breeze, “can you restore my beautiful, fragrant rose, that she may sing joyful melodies again and fill the air with sweetest perfume? Is it too late for her, can you restore her unto me,” he pleaded most earnestly? “It isn’t too late,” he inquired earnestly?
Softly the answer came upon the breeze. “It is not too late, my dearly beloved, but thou must humble thyself and bend low to restore the beautiful gift that I gave you. Only humbleness of heart can restore her too you as your companion,” he sighed, “if you truly desire her.”
“I desire her,” said the oak quietly and in deep sincerity and humility of heart. “I will do anything to restore her to her rightful position in the forest that she may minister to all of the trees and animals as well as myself,” he said. And then, as if understanding something for the first time, he exclaimed, “and restore her too you, my creator, for I love you deeply, and desire that she shall minister her fragrance for your joy and happiness also.”
With this last utterance, the entire forest seemed to rejoice with the oak as he now understood not only his purpose for being but the purpose for the rose, which was to minister to the happiness of all the creatures, including that of the creator.
The oak bent his full gaze upon what was visible of the rose far, far below. Only a few, delicate red petals could be seen among the debris of mud and branches. Tears filled his eyes as he saw the full extent of his destruction and they fell like gentle rain onto the pile of debris far below.
It was hard for the oak to bend, so stiff had he become in his pride, but bend he did. Amidst the creaking of the branches as they were forced apart, he bent lower and lower still, every joint and ligament of his massive trunk now felt the pain as it was forced to bend in humility, lower and lower toward the ground. The lower he bent, and the harder the struggle, the greater was his desire to demonstrate his true repentance and love for the rose. Lower and lower he bent, his branches scarping the ground and yet he bent lower despite the pain shooting through his entire trunk. Nothing now could stop his desire to love his rose by making restitution to her for what he had done.
Finally, tears streaming from his eyes and filling the air like soft spring showers, he reached all the way down with one of his branches and very gently began scarping away the mud, the leaves, the twigs, and the large branches, being exceeding careful not to do any more damage then he had all ready inflicted upon her. Gently, with the greatest tenderness and care, he removed the last twigs, and with his own tears washed away the last trace of mud from the face of the beautiful rose. Heartbroken over the wreckage he surveyed, he now spoke to her of his love and repentance. Would she respond? Would she smile at him again? Would life revive in her bruised and battered body and would he ever again hear her delightful music and smell her sweet fragrance?
At first there was no response from the apparent lifeless body of his now dearly beloved little rose. His heart was thoroughly broken, pierced with remorse, and tears flowed from his eyes with greater intensity then before, bathing her in a bath of love and repentance.
Then, when he though all hope was abandoned, one of her delicately tinted red petals moved as she seemed to open her eyes and gazed upon him, now bent in humility to his fullest extent. She cast upon him a smile of the sweetest forgiveness, driving the last vestiges of cold heartedness out of his heart and filled it to capacity with tender love for his rose and his creator. Tenderly, with the greatest care, and using only the most delicate of his spring-grown twigs, he gently supported the head of his rose. Forgotten were his massive strength and mighty stature, forgotten were his towering trunk and widespreading branches, now, the only thing on his mind, was the desire to minister to this most precious and delicate flower that his creator had given especially for him.
Face to face, with tears still streaming from his eyes, the rose and the mighty oak gazed at each other with love and a new found respect and appreciation for each other. Never again would the oak boast in his might or his strength or his grand nobility, for all of these were forgotten. The only thing that filled his heart was gratitude to his creator for restoring his little rose to him and for humbling his heart. In grateful appreciation for his creator’s love and forgiveness, the mighty towering oak, broke forth in glorious song for the restoration of his rose and the forgiveness and love of his creator. His deep, booming base voice filled the mountains with echoes of praise and thanksgiving and gratitude and glory to his creator. The birds hushed their singing, the squirrels stopped their chattering, the deer and fox pricked up their ears, and the bear paused in his wanderings, and all creation listened to the triumphant notes of the oak, blended with the delicate strains of the rose as each, in their own way, praised the glories of their creator.