Christian, when you are in need or in dire straits, or just in general, do you call out to God your Maker? Do you acknowledge Him as your Maker?

God is creator of all and by His will all things exist (Neh. 9:6; Rev. 4:11). The earth and all that is in it belong to Him (Deut. 10:14; Ps. 24:1). What shall man give to or do for God, or what do we have to offer Him that we did not first receive from Him (Acts 17:25; Rom. 11:34-35).

We are but vessels of clay, made for the Potter’s good pleasure (Rom. 9:19-24). Should we not then look to Him in and for all things? It is He who gives us joy. It is He who causes us to sing. It is He who gives songs in the night.

Let us lift up our voices with the songs He gives, that He might be glorified as He desires and deserves.

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Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening Devotions

Evening, October 19

“God, my Maker, who giveth songs in the night." Job 35:10

Any man can sing in the day. When the cup is full, man draws inspiration from it. When wealth rolls in abundance around him, any man can praise the God who gives a plenteous harvest or sends home a loaded argosy. It is easy enough for an Aeolian harp to whisper music when the winds blow- the difficulty is for music to swell forth when no wind is stirring. It is easy to sing when we can read the notes by daylight; but he is skilful who sings when there is not a ray of light to read by- who sings from his heart. No man can make a song in the night of himself; he may attempt it, but he will find that a song in the night must be divinely inspired. Let all things go well, I can weave songs, fashioning them wherever I go out of the flowers that grow upon my path; but put me in a desert, where no green thing grows, and wherewith shall I frame a hymn of praise to God? How shall a mortal man make a crown for the Lord where no jewels are? Let but this voice be clear, and this body full of health, and I can sing God's praise: silence my tongue, lay me upon the bed of languishing, and how shall I then chant God's high praises, unless He Himself give me the song? No, it is not in man's power to sing when all is adverse, unless an altar-coal shall touch his lip. It was a divine song, which Habakkuk sang, when in the night he said, "Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls: yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation." Then, since our Maker gives songs in the night, let us wait upon Him for the music. O Thou chief musician, let us not remain songless because affliction is upon us, but tune Thou our lips to the melody of thanksgiving.

Brothers and sisters, do you find yourself wrestling with sin and feeling sorrowful for it? Good! This means your conscience has not, as those who fall into deceit, been seared (1 Tim. 4:1-3).

Sin in our lives should cause us grief, as we know it causes God grief. And this grief should lead to repentance, and repentance the seeking of forgiveness. As God tells us, “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness”(1 Jn. 1:9). Of course, this requires us recognizing our own sin, which should be the case with all Christians (1 Jn. 1:9).

Yet despite our sorrow, we have hope. Though Paul himself exclaimed, “wretched man that I am! Who will set me free from the body of this death?”, he also proclaimed that in our minds, we still serve God, and there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ (Rom. 7:24-8:1).

Praise God for the sorrow that brings repentance!

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Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening Devotions

Morning, October 13

"Godly sorrow worketh repentance." 2 Corinthians 7:10

Genuine, spiritual mourning for sin is the work of the Spirit of God. Repentance is too choice a flower to grow in nature's garden. Pearls grow naturally in oysters, but penitence never shows itself in sinners except divine grace works it in them. If thou hast one particle of real hatred for sin, God must have given it thee, for human nature's thorns never produced a single fig. "That which is born of the flesh is flesh."

True repentance has a distinct reference to the Saviour. When we repent of sin, we must have one eye upon sin and another upon the cross, or it will be better still if we fix both our eyes upon Christ and see our transgressions only, in the light of His love.

True sorrow for sin is eminently practical. No man may say he hates sin, if he lives in it. Repentance makes us see the evil of sin, not merely as a theory, but experimentally- as a burnt child dreads fire. We shall be as much afraid of it, as a man who has lately been stopped and robbed is afraid of the thief upon the highway; and we shall shun it- shun it in everything- not in great things only, but in little things, as men shun little vipers as well as great snakes. True mourning for sin will make us very jealous over our tongue, lest it should say a wrong word; we shall be very watchful over our daily actions, lest in anything we offend, and each night we shall close the day with painful confessions of shortcoming, and each morning awaken with anxious prayers, that this day God would hold us up that we may not sin against Him.

Sincere repentance is continual. Believers repent until their dying day. This dropping well is not intermittent. Every other sorrow yields to time, but this dear sorrow grows with our growth, and it is so sweet a bitter, that we thank God we are permitted to enjoy and to suffer it until we enter our eternal rest.

A Monarch Butterfly (Danaus plexippus) visits a Zahara Sunburst flower (Zinnia elegans) for an afternoon lunch of nectar in a Virginia garden during his journey south to Mexico. #MonarchButterfly #Monarch #Butterfly #DanausPlexippus #ZaharaSunburst #ZinniaElegans #Flower #Nectar #JourneyToMexico #AmericanMeadows #Gardening #PlantBiology #AnimalBiology #Biology

Believer, there will come a day when “the stars of heaven and their constellations will not flash forth their light; the sun will be dark when it rises and the moon will not shed its light” (Isa. 13:10). This is the day of the Lord, when He returns in anger to “punish the world for its evil and the wicked for their iniquity” (Isa. 13:11). What an interesting picture that those who walk in darkness now will be in literal darkness then.

Yet we are told that after, we will have no need of these celestial bodies to provide us light. There “will no longer be any night” and we “will not have need of the light of a lamp nor the light of the sun, because the Lord God will illumine” us (Rev. 22:5). What glorious imagery! At that time, we will reign with Him forever (Rev. 4:5)!

Zechariah paints a similar picture, when he tells us, “In that day there will be no light; the luminaries will dwindle. For it will be a unique day which is known to the LORD, neither day nor night, but it will come about that at evening time there will be light” (Zech. 14:6-7).

We have a blessed future on which we focus and in which we have our hope. For we will be united with Him in glory, and be with Him forever. Let us make this our focus, as we keep in our minds that in that time of darkness, “at evening time there will be light.”

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Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening Devotions

Morning, October 4

"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.
The Lord's people shall also enjoy light in the hour of death. Unbelief laments; the shadows fall, the night is coming, existence is ending. Ah no, crieth faith, the night is far spent, the true day is at hand. Light is come, the light of immortality, the light of a Father's countenance. Gather up thy feet in the bed, see the waiting bands of spirits! Angels waft thee away. Farewell, beloved one, thou art gone, thou wavest thine hand. Ah, now it is light. The pearly gates are open, the golden streets shine in the jasper light. We cover our eyes, but thou beholdest the unseen; adieu, brother, thou hast light at even-tide, such as we have not yet.

Spirit of Stillness

In the quiet fold of the earth,
she stands—
not moving, yet moving the world.
The wind leans in to listen,
The grass bends as if in prayer.

Her gaze is a horizon,
endless and unbroken.
It holds the patience of stone,
and the tenderness of rain.

She does not chase the moment—
she becomes it,
letting silence bloom around her
like wildflowers after snow.

And in that stillness,
you feel it—
the pulse of a spirit
too vast to be held
and too gentle to break.

Serin Alar

Breath of Mother Earth

The girl lifts her face,
welcoming the pure breeze,
fragrance of flowers mingling with birdsong,
her heart beating gently with the rhythm of the earth.

Mother Earth extends unseen arms,
embracing each breath, each strand of drifting hair.
She listens to the whispers of streams,
to the forest calling from a thousand years past.

Each inhale — a gift of strength,
Each exhale — a prayer of gratitude.
She smiles.
as if she has become part of the soil,
part of the sky,
eternal, free.

Serin Alar

Whispers of Gratitude

She lays her cheek upon the ground,
where flowers bloom, where life is found.
Her breath becomes a gentle prayer,
a hymn of thanks for earth so fair.

The grass leans close to hear her song,
The blossoms nod and sway along.
In every leaf, in every hue,
She feels the world embrace her, too.

No gold, no crown could she demand,
for all she needs is in her hand—
the sky, the soil, the sun, the rain,
the sacred bond that shall remain.

And softly still, her spirit knows,
gratitude is the seed that grows.
For every whisper to the land,
returns as love from Mother’s hand.

Velin Rael

Song of a Hummingbird

I am but a flicker of wings,
a heartbeat carried on the wind.
Today, I fly not alone—
My brothers and sisters circle with me.

We find the blossom,
a crown of colors at the world’s center,
It's nectar sweet as morning rain,
Its fragrance is a hymn to the sky.

We do not quarrel,
Beauty is endless when shared.
One by one, we drink its light,
and in return, we give it flight—
a halo of shimmering feathers.

Listen: in our dance around the flower,
You may hear the secret of joy—
that even the smallest souls
can guard the universe with love.

Serin Alar

Spurgeon's Morning and Evening Devotions

Evening, August 28

"Sing, O barren." Isaiah 54:1

Though we have brought forth some fruit unto Christ, and have a joyful hope that we are "plants of His own right hand planting," yet there are times when we feel very barren. Prayer is lifeless, love is cold, faith is weak, each grace in the garden of our heart languishes and droops. We are like flowers in the hot sun, requiring the refreshing shower. In such a condition what are we to do? The text is addressed to us in just such a state. "Sing, O barren, break forth and cry aloud." But what can I sing about? I cannot talk about the present, and even the past looks full of barrenness. Ah! I can sing of Jesus Christ. I can talk of visits which the Redeemer has aforetimes paid to me; or if not of these, I can magnify the great love wherewith He loved His people when He came from the heights of heaven for their redemption. I will go to the cross again. Come, my soul, heavy laden thou wast once, and thou didst lose thy burden there. Go to Calvary again. Perhaps that very cross which gave thee life may give thee fruitfulness. What is my barrenness? It is the platform for His fruit-creating power. What is my desolation? It is the black setting for the sapphire of His everlasting love. I will go in poverty, I will go in helplessness, I will go in all my shame and backsliding, I will tell Him that I am still His child, and in confidence in His faithful heart, even I, the barren one, will sing and cry aloud.

Sing, believer, for it will cheer thine own heart, and the hearts of other desolate ones. Sing on, for now that thou art really ashamed of being barren, thou wilt be fruitful soon; now that God makes thee loath to be without fruit He will soon cover thee with clusters. The experience of our barrenness is painful, but the Lord's visitations are delightful. A sense of our own poverty drives us to Christ, and that is where we need to be, for in Him is our fruit found.

We are told in Scripture that "we have received not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit of God" (1 Cor. 2:12) and that "the Spirit of God dwells in us" (1 Cor. 3:16). But Christian, do you not realize that by this same Spirit, Christ dwells in our hearts through faith (Eph. 3:17)? Oh the glory of God's riches toward us to be strengthened with power through His Spirit so that we may have Jesus always with(in) us (Eph. 3:16)! How glorious to know the breadth and length and height and depth of the love of Christ which surpasses all knowledge (Eph. 3:18)!

That this indeed may be true, let us then say with the Apostle Paul, "...it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God who loved me and gave Himself up for me" (Gal. 2:20)!
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Spurgeon's Morning and Evening Devotions

Evening, August 23

"That Christ may dwell in your hearts by faith." Ephesians 3:17

Beyond measure it is desirable that we, as believers, should have the person of Jesus constantly before us, to inflame our love towards Him, and to increase our knowledge of Him. I would to God that my readers were all entered as diligent scholars in Jesus' college, students of Corpus Christi, or the body of Christ, resolved to attain unto a good degree in the learning of the cross. But to have Jesus ever near, the heart must be full of Him, welling up with His love, even to overrunning; hence the apostle prays "that Christ may dwell in your hearts." See how near he would have Jesus to be! You cannot get a subject closer to you than to have it in the heart itself. "That He may dwell"; not that He may call upon you sometimes, as a casual visitor enters into a house and tarries for a night, but that He may dwell"; that Jesus may become the Lord and Tenant of your inmost being, never more to go out.

Observe the words- that He may dwell in your heart, that best room of the house of manhood; not in your thoughts alone, but in your affections; not merely in the mind's meditations, but in the heart's emotions. We should pant after love to Christ of a most abiding character, not a love that flames up and then dies out into the darkness of a few embers, but a constant flame, fed by sacred fuel, like the fire upon the altar which never went out. This cannot be accomplished except by faith. Faith must be strong, or love will not be fervent; the root of the flower must be healthy, or we cannot expect the bloom to be sweet. Faith is the lily's root, and love is the lily's bloom. Now, reader, Jesus cannot be in your heart's love except you have a firm hold of Him by your heart's faith; and, therefore, pray that you may always trust Christ in order that you may always love Him. If love be cold, be sure that faith is drooping.

At one time or another in our lives, most of us have experienced what it is like to be lovesick, to long for the one with whom we wish to draw close. Believer, does your heart long for Jesus in this manner? Do you seek after him? Do you recruit others in your search? Brethren, let us not leave our first love, as did the Church at Ephesus (Rev. 2). Let us seek Him with all our hearts, for then we shall find Him (Deut. 4:29; Jer. 29:13).
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Spurgeon's Morning and Evening Devotions

Morning, August 22

"I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find my beloved, that ye tell him, that I am sick of love." Song of Solomon 5:8

Such is the language of the believer panting after present fellowship with Jesus, he is sick for his Lord. Gracious souls are never perfectly at ease except they are in a state of nearness to Christ; for when they are away from Him they lose their peace. The nearer to Him, the nearer to the perfect calm of heaven; the nearer to Him, the fuller the heart is, not only of peace, but of life, and vigour, and joy, for these all depend on constant intercourse with Jesus. What the sun is to the day, what the moon is to the night, what the dew is to the flower, such is Jesus Christ to us. What bread is to the hungry, clothing to the naked, the shadow of a great rock to the traveller in a weary land, such is Jesus Christ to us; and, therefore, if we are not consciously one with Him, little marvel if our spirit cries in the words of the Song, "I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find my beloved, tell Him that I am sick of love. "This earnest longing after Jesus has a blessing attending it: "Blessed are they that do hunger and thirst after righteousness"; and therefore, supremely blessed are they who thirst after the Righteous One. Blessed is that hunger, since it comes from God: if I may not have the full-blown blessedness of being filled, I would seek the same blessedness in its sweet bud-pining in emptiness and eagerness till I am filled with Christ. If I may not feed on Jesus, it shall be next door to heaven to hunger and thirst after Him. There is a hallowedness about that hunger, since it sparkles among the beatitudes of our Lord. But the blessing involves a promise. Such hungry ones "shall be filled" with what they are desiring. If Christ thus causes us to long after Himself, He will certainly satisfy those longings; and when He does come to us, as come He will, oh, how sweet it will be!

Oh saint, let us ever remember the mercies of God, the mercies without which no one would be saved. He tells us that "He did not save us on the basis of deeds which we have done in righteousness, but because of His mercy" (Titus 3:5). While we put behind us what is in the past, and press forward toward the goal, let us never forget His tender mercies by which we sinners were made saints and citizens of His kingdom. Let us think on and thank Him for the mercies he bestows on us daily and ever say with the Psalmist:

"The LORD is gracious and merciful;
Slow to anger and great in lovingkindness.
The LORD is good to all,
And His mercies are over all His works."
- Psalm 145:8-9
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Spurgeon's Morning and Evening Devotions

Morning, August 17

"The mercy of God." Psalm 52:8

Meditate a little on this mercy of the Lord. It is tender mercy. With gentle, loving touch, He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds. He is as gracious in the manner of His mercy as in the matter of it. It is great mercy. There is nothing little in God; His mercy is like Himself- it is infinite. You cannot measure it. His mercy is so great that it forgives great sins to great sinners, after great lengths of time, and then gives great favours and great privileges, and raises us up to great enjoyments in the great heaven of the great God. It is undeserved mercy, as indeed all true mercy must be, for deserved mercy is only a misnomer for justice. There was no right on the sinner's part to the kind consideration of the Most High; had the rebel been doomed at once to eternal fire he would have richly merited the doom, and if delivered from wrath, sovereign love alone has found a cause, for there was none in the sinner himself. It is rich mercy. Some things are great, but have little efficacy in them, but this mercy is a cordial to your drooping spirits; a golden ointment to your bleeding wounds; a heavenly bandage to your broken bones; a royal chariot for your weary feet; a bosom of love for your trembling heart. It is manifold mercy. As Bunyan says, "All the flowers in God's garden are double." There is no single mercy. You may think you have but one mercy, but you shall find it to be a whole cluster of mercies. It is abounding mercy. Millions have received it, yet far from its being exhausted; it is as fresh, as full, and as free as ever. It is unfailing mercy. It will never leave thee. If mercy be thy friend, mercy will be with thee in temptation to keep thee from yielding; with thee in trouble to prevent thee from sinking; with thee living to be the light and life of thy countenance; and with thee dying to be the joy of thy soul when earthly comfort is ebbing fast.

Spurgeon's Morning and Evening Devotions

Morning, August 8

"They weave the spider's web." Isaiah 59:5

See the spider's web, and behold in it a most suggestive picture of the hypocrite's religion. It is meant to catch his prey: the spider fattens himself on flies, and the Pharisee has his reward. Foolish persons are easily entrapped by the loud professions of pretenders, and even the more judicious cannot always escape. Philip baptized Simon Magus, whose guileful declaration of faith was so soon exploded by the stern rebuke of Peter. Custom, reputation, praise, advancement, and other flies, are the small game which hypocrites take in their nets. A spider's web is a marvel of skill: look at it and admire the cunning hunter's wiles. Is not a deceiver's religion equally wonderful? How does he make so barefaced a lie appear to be a truth? How can he make his tinsel answer so well the purpose of gold? A spider's web comes all from the creature's own bowels. The bee gathers her wax from flowers, the spider sucks no flowers, and yet she spins out her material to any length. Even so hypocrites find their trust and hope within themselves; their anchor was forged on their own anvil, and their cable twisted by their own hands. They lay their own foundation, and hew out the pillars of their own house, disdaining to be debtors to the sovereign grace of God. But a spider's web is very frail. It is curiously wrought, but not enduringly manufactured. It is no match for the servant's broom, or the traveller's staff. The hypocrite needs no battery of Armstrongs to blow his hope to pieces, a mere puff of wind will do it. Hypocritical cobwebs will soon come down when the besom of destruction begins its purifying work. Which reminds us of one more thought, viz., that such cobwebs are not to be endured in the Lord's house: He will see to it that they and those who spin them shall be destroyed for ever. O my soul, be thou resting on something better than a spider's web. Be the Lord Jesus thine eternal hiding-place.

Whisperwing, the Spirit of Night Blooms

Long ago, when the Earth was young and the stars were still learning to dance, there lived a guardian spirit named Whisperwing, a sacred night butterfly born of moonlight and flower dreams. Her wings shimmered with the glow of dusk, painted in deep blues and violets—colors only seen in the quietest part of night.

Whisperwing was created by Lunoma, the Moon Maiden, to carry messages between the spirit world and the dreams of the living. She fluttered through midnight meadows and across sleeping forests, her wings stirring wind that whispered secrets into flowers, guiding lost souls home.

Every petal she touched would bloom with sacred light, and every shadow she passed through would remember her path. The stars watched her in awe, calling her "The Silent Flame", for she burned with no fire, but illuminated hearts.

It was said that if you saw Whisperwing in your dreams, your soul was being chosen—for healing, for transformation, or for a journey. Elders taught that when the crescent moon rose high and the air smelled of wild lavender, you must leave a bowl of water and flowers by your door. If Whisperwing passed, the petals would float, and a new path would open in your life by morning.

To this day, her legend lives on. Many Native dreamweavers still embroider her wings onto their blankets and sing to her under starlit skies:

"Fly, Whisperwing, through sky and root,
Bearer of truth on violet flute.
Where moonlight dances, there you roam,
Guide our spirit gently home."

And so she flies—forever between the veil of night and bloom, unseen, yet always felt.

#nativeamericanwisdom

Whispers Beneath the Moon

In a meadow where the wildflowers glowed blue beneath the light of the full moon, two sisters stood side by side, their dark hair flowing like rivers of night. They were wrapped in sacred robes woven by their grandmother, stitched with strands of spirit and sky.

Their names were Taya and Suni, daughters of the Moonwatcher Clan, known for their wisdom in reading the stars and listening to the whispers of the land. Tonight was no ordinary night. It was the Night of Remembering, when the veil between the past and present grew thin and the voices of the ancestors could be heard in the rustle of pine and the shimmer of stardust.

As they gazed at the glowing moon, Taya whispered, “Can you hear them, Suni?”

The younger sister nodded slowly. “They are singing.”

The sky above swirled in purples and blues, the stars glittering like ancient eyes watching over them. A faint melody filled the air—not with instruments, but with memory. It was the song their mother used to sing at bedtime, the one passed down for generations. A lullaby of healing, of journeys across forests, of waiting under the moon for signs from the Great Spirit.

Taya closed her eyes and placed a hand over her heart. “They are guiding us,” she said softly. “We are not alone.”

Behind them, the forest stood like guardians, tall and silent. The sisters knew that tomorrow would bring challenges. The world outside their homeland was changing, forgetting, moving too fast. But here—beneath the moon—they remembered who they were.

Daughters of the Earth. Carriers of old songs. Watchers of the sky.

And in that sacred moment, the night sky pulsed with color, the stars danced a little brighter, and the spirits smiled—knowing that the story would live on through these two young souls.

#nativeamericanwisdom

Spurgeon's Morning and Evening Devotions

Evening, August 3

"But as He went." Luke 8:42

Jesus is passing through the throng to the house of Jairus, to raise the ruler's dead daughter; but He is so profuse in goodness that He works another miracle while upon the road. While yet this rod of Aaron bears the blossom of an unaccomplished wonder, it yields the ripe almonds of a perfect work of mercy. It is enough for us, if we have some one purpose, straightway to go and accomplish it; it were imprudent to expend our energies by the way. Hastening to the rescue of a drowning friend, we cannot afford to exhaust our strength upon another in like danger. It is enough for a tree to yield one sort of fruit, and for a man to fulfil his own peculiar calling. But our Master knows no limit of power or boundary of mission. He is so prolific of grace, that like the sun which shines as it rolls onward in its orbit, His path is radiant with lovingkindness. He is a swift arrow of love, which not only reaches its ordained target, but perfumes the air through which it flies. Virtue is evermore going out of Jesus, as sweet odours exhale from flowers; and it always will be emanating from Him, as water from a sparkling fountain. What delightful encouragement this truth affords us! If our Lord is so ready to heal the sick and bless the needy, then, my soul, be not thou slow to put thyself in His way, that He may smile on thee. Be not slack in asking, if He be so abundant in bestowing. Give earnest heed to His word now, and at all times, that Jesus may speak through it to thy heart. Where He is to be found there make thy resort, that thou mayst obtain His blessing. When He is present to heal, may He not heal thee? But surely He is present even now, for He always comes to hearts which need Him. And dost not thou need Him? Ah, He knows how much! Thou Son of David, turn Thine eye and look upon the distress which is now before Thee, and make Thy suppliant whole.

Hummingbird – The Spirit of Resilience and Light

You are not small.
You are the spark between heartbeats —
The swift flash of spirit that defies the weight of the world.
Born from the breath of the Sun and the whisper of flowers,
You fly not by force, but by faith.

You carry the memory of joy,
The reminder that sweetness can still be found,
Even in places where sorrow grows thick.
Your wings hum like ancient drums,
Beating the rhythm of life,
Of persistence,
Of returning — again and again — to what feeds the soul.

You are the guardian of fleeting moments,
The priestess of the now.
While others chase horizons,
You kiss the light that blooms in a single drop of morning dew.

You are not directionless —
You know exactly where to go.
Across vast distances and violent winds,
You return with purpose,
Bearing the invisible threads of home.

When grief has dulled the world’s colors,
It is you who comes —
A glimmer, a shimmer, a reminder
That beauty still exists
And hope can wear wings.

You do not battle —
You endure.
You do not conquer —
You bless.

To the People,
You were more than a bird.
You were a spirit —
A messenger of love,
A weaver of joy,
A sign that life endures, even in the smallest of forms.

You have never been merely “a hummingbird” —
You are the sacred flicker of resilience,
The bearer of light in darkened skies,
The breath of color in a gray world.

You remind us that gentleness is a kind of power,
And those who move lightly,
Move far.

#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

My Dad used to say, "that place is where people are just dying to get into". I miss him so much...

A Flowery Tale
https://terrylclark.substack.com/p/a-flowery-tale?img=https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0fe5e428-cf2f-4f38-aaee-1adfde5af15e_1242x1544.jpeg&open=false

White Clover Tea – How to Brew Tea from Clover Flowers
https://aproductivehousehold.com/white-clover-tea/

How to Make White Clover Tea (Hot or Iced)
https://dailyteatime.com/white-clover-tea/#:~:text=1%2F4%20Cup%20Fresh%20White%20Clover%20Blossoms&text=2%20Cups%20Water&text=Thoroughly%20rinse%20and%20check%20your%20flowers%20for%20any%20bugs%20or%20dirt&text=Warm%20up%20the%20teapot%20by%20bringing%20water%20to%20a%20boil%20on%20the%20stovetop%20or%20in%20an%20electric%20kettle

Clover Jelly
https://creativecanning.com/clover-jelly/#:~:text=4%20cups%20clover%20blossoms&text=4%20cups%20water&text=Harvest%204%20cups%20of%20clover%20blossoms%20from%20a%20clean%2C%20unsprayed%2C%20and%20unpolluted%20area&text=Pour%204%20cups%20boiling%20water%20over%20the%20top%20of%20the%20flower%20blossoms%20and%20allow%20the%20tea%20to%20infuse%20for%20about%2010%20minutes

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

Whispers Beneath the Moon

In a meadow where the wildflowers glowed blue beneath the light of the full moon, two sisters stood side by side, their dark hair flowing like rivers of night. They were wrapped in sacred robes woven by their grandmother, stitched with strands of spirit and sky.

Their names were Taya and Suni, daughters of the Moonwatcher Clan, known for their wisdom in reading the stars and listening to the whispers of the land. Tonight was no ordinary night. It was the Night of Remembering, when the veil between the past and present grew thin and the voices of the ancestors could be heard in the rustle of pine and the shimmer of stardust.

As they gazed at the glowing moon, Taya whispered, “Can you hear them, Suni?”

The younger sister nodded slowly. “They are singing.”

The sky above swirled in purples and blues, the stars glittering like ancient eyes watching over them. A faint melody filled the air—not with instruments, but with memory. It was the song their mother used to sing at bedtime, the one passed down for generations. A lullaby of healing, of journeys across forests, of waiting under the moon for signs from the Great Spirit.

Taya closed her eyes and placed a hand over her heart. “They are guiding us,” she said softly. “We are not alone.”

Behind them, the forest stood like guardians, tall and silent. The sisters knew that tomorrow would bring challenges. The world outside their homeland was changing, forgetting, moving too fast. But here—beneath the moon—they remembered who they were.

Daughters of the Earth. Carriers of old songs. Watchers of the sky.

And in that sacred moment, the night sky pulsed with color, the stars danced a little brighter, and the spirits smiled—knowing that the story would live on through these two young souls.

#nativeamericanwisdom