Mother and Child — A River That Never Runs Dry

A mother is the first sun we ever know,
the warm light that pours into our hearts
long before we have words to name it.
On the crimson land where winds whisper old stories through stone,
She walks with her child.
No need for words.
Only stillness,
and the rhythm of hearts beating in harmony.
The blanket she wraps around her daughter
is woven with the voices of ancestors—
a lullaby passed down through hands
that once danced beneath full moons.
The child leans into her—like stream to mountain,
like flame to the hand that guards it.
No explanations.
No conditions.
Only belonging.
She doesn’t teach strength through commands.
She lives it—
showing that strength can hold tears,
and gentleness is a kind of warrior's grace.
And when the child grows,
walking forward on her own path,
the mother stays behind—never holding,
only protecting with prayers whispered into the wind.
A prayer strong enough
to carry her child for a lifetime.

#nativeamericanwisdom

Rider of the Dusk

When the sun dips low and the sky turns red,
A silent rider lifts their head.
On a blue horse born of cloud and flame,
They ride the trail without a name.

The wind remembers where they roam,
Carving paths between stars and home.
Birds above cry songs once sung
By our ancestors when the world was young.

Each step echoes in the sacred land,
Where spirit walks with open hand.
The flowers bow, the grasses lean—
They know this one, the in-between.

Neither lost nor truly gone,
This rider waits till night is dawn.
For those who see with open eyes
Will ride with them beneath the skies.

Serin Alar

#nativeamericanwisdom

Woven in Color

Not just colors—
but prayers woven in red ochre,
stories told in turquoise light,
songs etched in the black of night
and the white of sacred snow.

Each thread is a direction.
Each hue is a spirit.
Yellow—the rising sun,
a path for beginnings.
Blue—the sky’s breath,
where eagles soar with names unspoken.
Red—the blood of earth and kin,
still pulsing in the drums.
Black—the depth of knowing,
the shadow that teaches.
White—the light of silence,
where ancestors sit and listen.

These are not ornaments—
they are memory.
They are warning.
They are blessing.
A cloak of cosmos,
wrapped around a people
who dance,
even when the world forgets their song.

#nativeamericanwisdom

Serin Alar

Baltimore Sun fires reporter for raising questions internally about news coverage under David Smith’s ownership
https://www.baltimorebrew.com/2024/09/12/baltimore-sun-fires-reporter-for-raising-questions-internally-about-news-coverage-under-david-smiths-ownership/

Spurgeon's Morning and Evening Devotions

Evening, July 24

"His camp is very great." Joel 2:11

Consider, my soul, the mightiness of the Lord who is thy glory and defence. He is a man of war, Jehovah is His name. All the forces of heaven are at His beck, legions wait at His door, cherubim and seraphim;, watchers and holy ones, principalities and powers, are all attentive to His will. If our eyes were not blinded by the ophthalmia of the flesh, we should see horses of fire and chariots of fire round about the Lord's beloved. The powers of nature are all subject to the absolute control of the Creator: stormy wind and tempest, lightning and rain, and snow, and hail, and the soft dews and cheering sunshine, come and go at His decree. The bands of Orion He looseth, and bindeth the sweet influences of the Pleiades. Earth, sea, and air, and the places under the earth, are the barracks for Jehovah's great armies; space is His camping ground, light is His banner, and flame is His sword. When He goeth forth to war, famine ravages the land, pestilence smites the nations, hurricane sweeps the sea, tornado shakes the mountains, and earthquake makes the solid world to tremble. As for animate creatures, they all own His dominion, and from the great fish which swallowed the prophet, down to "all manner of flies," which plagued the field of Zoan, all are His servants, and like the palmer-worm, the caterpillar, and the cankerworm, are squadrons of His great army, for His camp is very great. My soul, see to it that thou be at peace with this mighty King, yea, more, be sure to enlist under His banner, for to war against Him is madness, and to serve Him is glory. Jesus, Immanuel, God with us, is ready to receive recruits for the army of the Lord: if I am not already enlisted let me go to Him ere I sleep, and beg to be accepted through His merits; and if I be already, as I hope I am, a soldier of the cross, let me be of good courage; for the enemy is powerless compared with my Lord, whose camp is very great.

Whispers of the Wolf Spirit

As the sun sank into the cradle of the mountains, fire-kissing the lake with its final breath, a woman stood in stillness by the shore. Her name was Nayeli—“I love you” in the old tongue—and she was known as the Keeper of Echoes.

She wore robes etched with birds of the sky and dreams of the forest. Her heartbeat moved in rhythm with the earth, and her breath rose and fell with the wind. At her side stood the wolf—silent, fierce, eternal. His name was Shunkaha, the Spirit Who Walks Between.

Nayeli was born under a moon that wept rain and stars, a sign that she would speak not only with people but with the wild. From a young age, animals came to her like old friends returning home. The hawk circled above her. The deer bowed before her. And the wolf... the wolf never left her side.

It was said her voice could calm storms, and that when she closed her eyes at dusk, she listened to the voices of her ancestors through the howls of the pack. She did not command the wolf. She listened. She did not rule the wild. She walked with it.

One day, a drought came—drying rivers, silencing birdsong, cracking the land’s memory. While many prayed, Nayeli acted. With Shunkaha at her side, she followed the old canoe trails into forgotten forest paths. There, she sang the sacred songs—songs her grandmother once whispered over firelight.

And the land listened.

The rains returned. The lakes filled. The trees bowed low with new leaves. And on nights like this, when the sun melts into water and wolves stand guard at the edge of dreams, the elders smile and say:

“Nayeli walks with the wolf still. And in her silence, the world remembers how to breathe.”

#nativeamericanwisdom

Spurgeon's Morning and Evening Devotions

Evening, July 20

"And now what hast thou to do in the way of Egypt, to drink the waters of Sihor?" Jeremiah 2:18

By sundry miracles, by divers mercies, by strange deliverances Jehovah had proved Himself to be worthy of Israel's trust. Yet they broke down the hedges with which God had enclosed them as a sacred garden; they forsook their own true and living God, and followed after false gods. Constantly did the Lord reprove them for this infatuation, and our text contains one instance of God's expostulating with them, "What hast thou to do in the way of Egypt, to drink the waters of the muddy river?"- for so it may be translated. "Why dost thou wander afar and leave thine own cool stream from Lebanon? Why dost thou forsake Jerusalem to turn aside to Noph and to Tahapanes? Why art thou so strangely set on mischief, that thou canst not be content with the good and healthful, but wouldst follow after that which is evil and deceitful?" Is there not here a word of expostulation and warning to the Christian? O true believer, called by grace and washed in the precious blood of Jesus, thou hast tasted of better drink than the muddy river of this world's pleasure can give thee; thou hast had fellowship with Christ; thou hast obtained the joy of seeing Jesus, and leaning thine head upon His bosom. Do the trifles, the songs, the honours, the merriment of this earth content thee after that? Hast thou eaten the bread of angels, and canst thou live on husks? Good Rutherford once said, "I have tasted of Christ's own manna, and it hath put my mouth out of taste for the brown bread of this world's joys." Methinks it should be so with thee. If thou art wandering after the waters of Egypt, O return quickly to the one living fountain: the waters of Sihor may be sweet to the Egyptians, but they will prove only bitterness to thee. What hast thou to do with them? Jesus asks thee this question this evening- what wilt thou answer Him?

Rise with the Sun

Arms lifted to the breaking sky,
She calls not for herself,
But for the earth beneath her feet,
For the rivers, for the flowers in bloom.

The sun answers in colors—
Red, gold, violet, flame—
A promise that the land lives on,
As long as hearts remember.

Birds spiral in light,
Messengers of hope,
Carrying her song across the hills,
Across the cactus and stone.

No battle cry, no war drums—
Only quiet strength rising like dawn:
We are still here.
We will always be here.

#nativeamericanwisdom