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

Spurgeon's Morning and Evening Devotions

Morning, August 5

"We know that all things work together for good to them that love God." Romans 8:28

Upon some points a believer is absolutely sure. He knows, for instance, that God sits in the stern-sheets of the vessel when it rocks most. He believes that an invisible hand is always on the world's tiller, and that wherever providence may drift, Jehovah steers it. That reassuring knowledge prepares him for everything. He looks over the raging waters and sees the spirit of Jesus treading the billows, and he hears a voice saying, "It is I, be not afraid." He knows too that God is always wise, and, knowing this, he is confident that there can be no accidents, no mistakes; that nothing can occur which ought not to arise. He can say, "If I should lose all I have, it is better that I should lose than have, if God so wills: the worst calamity is the wisest and the kindest thing that could befall to me if God ordains it." "We know that all things work together for good to them that love God." The Christian does not merely hold this as a theory, but he knows it as a matter of fact. Everything has worked for good as yet; the poisonous drugs mixed in fit proportions have worked the cure; the sharp cuts of the lancet have cleansed out the proud flesh and facilitated the healing. Every event as yet has worked out the most divinely blessed results; and so, believing that God rules all, that He governs wisely, that He brings good out of evil, the believer's heart is assured, and he is enabled calmly to meet each trial as it comes. The believer can in the spirit of true resignation pray, "Send me what thou wilt, my God, so long as it comes from Thee; never came there an ill portion from Thy table to any of Thy children."

"Say not my soul, 'From whence can God relieve my care?'
Remember that Omnipotence has servants everywhere.
His method is sublime, His heart profoundly kind,
God never is before His time, and never is behind."

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

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, July 1

"The voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day." Genesis 3:8

My soul, now that the cool of the day has come, retire awhile and hearken to the voice of thy God. He is always ready to speak with thee when thou art prepared to hear. If there be any slowness to commune it is not on His part, but altogether on thine own, for He stands at the door and knocks, and if His people will but open He rejoices to enter. But in what state is my heart, which is my Lord's garden? May I venture to hope that it is well trimmed and watered, and is bringing forth fruit fit for Him? If not, He will have much to reprove, but still I pray Him to come unto me, for nothing can so certainly bring my heart into a right condition as the presence of the Sun of Righteousness, who brings healing in His wings. Come, therefore, O Lord, my God, my soul invites Thee earnestly, and waits for Thee eagerly. Come to me, O Jesus, my well-beloved, and plant fresh flowers in my garden, such as I see blooming in such perfection in Thy matchless character! Come, O my Father, who art the Husbandman, and deal with me in Thy tenderness and prudence! Come, O Holy Spirit, and bedew my whole nature, as the herbs are now moistened with the evening dews. O that God would speak to me. Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth! O that He would walk with me; I am ready to give up my whole heart and mind to Him, and every other thought is hushed. I am only asking what He delights to give. I am sure that He will condescend to have fellowship with me, for He has given me His Holy Spirit to abide with me for ever. Sweet is the cool twilight, when every star seems like the eye of heaven, and the cool wind is as the breath of celestial love. My Father, my elder Brother, my sweet Comforter, speak now in lovingkindness, for Thou hast opened mine ear and I am not rebellious.

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Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening Devotions

Morning, April 13

"A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me." Song of Solomon 1:13

Myrrh may well be chosen as the type of Jesus on account of its preciousness, its perfume, its pleasantness, its healing, preserving, disinfecting qualities, and its connection with sacrifice. But why is He compared to "a bundle of myrrh"? First, for plenty. He is not a drop of it, He is a casket full. He is not a sprig or flower of it, but a whole bundle. There is enough in Christ for all my necessities; let me not be slow to avail myself of Him. Our well-beloved is compared to a "bundle" again, for variety: for there is in Christ not only the one thing needful, but in "Him dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead bodily," everything needful is in Him. Take Jesus in His different characters, and you will see a marvellous variety- Prophet, Priest, King, Husband, Friend, Shepherd. Consider Him in His life, death, resurrection, ascension, second advent; view Him in His virtue, gentleness, courage, self-denial, love, faithfulness, truth, righteousness- everywhere He is a bundle of preciousness. He is a "bundle of myrrh" for preservation- not loose myrrh tied up, myrrh to be stored in a casket. We must value Him as our best treasure; we must prize His words and His ordinances; and we must keep our thoughts of Him and knowledge of Him as under lock and key, lest the devil should steal anything from us. Moreover, Jesus is a "bundle of myrrh" for speciality. The emblem suggests the idea of distinguishing, discriminating grace. From before the foundation of the world, He was set apart for His people; and He gives forth His perfume only to those who understand how to enter into communion with Him, to have close dealings with Him. Oh! blessed people whom the Lord hath admitted into His secrets, and for whom He sets Himself apart. Oh! choice and happy who are thus made to say, "A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me."

Every one of us is guilty of sin. There isn’t one who walks among us who can claim perfection. Only one has ever held a right to that claim, Jesus, the Son of God, and He died on a cross so that, through faith, we who are imperfect can partake of His perfection.

Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening Devotions

Evening, April 3

"All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all." Isaiah 53:6

Here a confession of sin common to all the elect people of God. They have all fallen, and therefore, in common chorus, they all say, from the first who entered heaven to the last who shall enter there, "All we like sheep have gone astray." The confession, while thus unanimous, is also special and particular: "We have turned every one to his own way." There is a peculiar sinfulness about every one of the individuals; all are sinful, but each one with some special aggravation not found in his fellow. It is the mark of genuine repentance that while it naturally associates itself with other penitents, it also takes up a position of loneliness. "We have turned every one to his own way," is a confession that each man had sinned against light peculiar to himself, or sinned with an aggravation which he could not perceive in others. This confession is unreserved"; there is not a word to detract from its force, nor a syllable by way of excuse. The confession is a giving up of all pleas of self-righteousness. It is the declaration of men who are consciously guilty- guilty with aggravations, guilty without excuse: they stand with their weapons of rebellion broken in pieces, and cry, "All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way." Yet we hear no dolorous wailings attending this confession of sin; for the next sentence makes it almost a song. "The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all." It is the most grievous sentence of the three, but it overflows with comfort. Strange is it that where misery was concentrated mercy reigned; where sorrow reached her climax weary souls find rest. The Saviour bruised is the healing of bruised hearts. See how the lowliest penitence gives place to assured confidence through simply gazing at Christ on the cross!

Most go through life never acknowledging the spiritual sickness they suffer, the sin to which they are enslaved. It is easier to reject God or any moral responsibility to a higher authority. But God knows. God sees. And rather than leave us to wallow in our fallen state, in His love, He sent His Son, Jesus, to suffer a brutal death on a cross to bring us spiritual healing. Only through faith in Him may we receive this blessed benefit.

Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening Devotions

Morning, March 31

"With His stripes we are healed." Isaiah 53:5

Pilate delivered our Lord to the lictors to be scourged. The Roman scourge was a most dreadful instrument of torture. It was made of the sinews of oxen, and sharp bones were inter-twisted every here and there among the sinews; so that every time the lash came down these pieces of bone inflicted fearful laceration, and tore off the flesh from the bone. The Saviour was, no doubt, bound to the column, and thus beaten. He had been beaten before; but this of the Roman lictors was probably the most severe of His flagellations. My soul, stand here and weep over His poor stricken body.

Believer in Jesus, can you gaze upon Him without tears, as He stands before you the mirror of agonizing love? He is at once fair as the lily for innocence, and red as the rose with the crimson of His own blood. As we feel the sure and blessed healing which His stripes have wrought in us, does not our heart melt at once with love and grief? If ever we have loved our Lord Jesus, surely we must feel that affection glowing now within our bosoms.

"See how the patient Jesus stands,
Insulted in His lowest case!
Sinners have bound the Almighty's hands,
And spit in their Creator's face.
With thorns His temples gor'd and gash'd
Send streams of blood from every part;
His back's with knotted scourges lash'd.
But sharper scourges tear His heart."

We would fain go to our chambers and weep; but since our business calls us away, we will first pray our Beloved to print the image of His bleeding self upon the tablets of our hearts all the day, and at nightfall we will return to commune with Him, and sorrow that our sin should have cost Him so dear.