Promises

I suppose it's a blessing of experience, that of learning to weather the waitings . . discerning what is a promise and what isn't. I remember my father making promises that he rarely ever kept, and I made myself a promise that I would never promise others anything that had even the slightest risk of being thwarted. And almost everything can be . . so I promised very little. Ever.

Still, I tend to believe Promisers. I think because I want to believe them, and am still a small child at heart in more ways than I like to believe. I know it seems immature, childish, to want to turn a trusting face and heart towards their Promises, even though I know all too well that only One has ever been able to keep His promises, the only One who has the power to do so. Is it the beauty of the promise itself the thing that draws me to misplaced trusting? Or is it a portion of Him inside the promise that beckons inexplicably . .

Inveterate Promisers. Cease. Can't you see you will render the tenderest less flexibility to bend beneath the weight of future promises offered . . and when all around you are stiffened with wariness, the lack of fluidity will discolor your own world as well?

No, it is our own task to sift through the promises and test whether they are a part of His Best Will for us. I suppose in that, it is sin to believe them.