my Christian prose

The wrought-iron gate swung open, Father and I walk along the path up to the Rectory. A blue wren sings a sibilant note in the branches above. A book of homilies in my hand as My Father Jesus reads to me a verse. I read His love for me in every chapter of my Holy book. As I read to Him His living Word in the verses of my Bible, my Father reads me. I read His love for me in every chapter of my life. His gaze is loving and His countenance looks upon me. His words are soft and maniloquent and He speaks to my heart like a Romantic author and poet. He writes pages to me on our walk along the path and I hear His Word as promises…. to me in a love letter in Spirit. The birds sing songs of praise as I read His love letter to me as poetry and fidelity in Spirit. A love letter in Spirit, He tells me that He delights in me and that I am a sweet rose in bloom. Like the velvety red roses in the cultivated garden and like the climbing rose on the wall of the Parsonage. By Julie Ralphs 

a sweet little allegory By Julie Ralphs

' As the hart panteth after the water brooks,
 so panteth my soul after thee O'God.'  Psalm 42:1
 
The little blue and crimson finch sings in the boughs.  His sweet conversation to the deer as he pants at the water brooks, refreshing his spirit. His gentle eyes take in the hues of the Chapel-like forest, and the leaves of friendship fall about their timid love. The flowers, He fills with a fragrance in the grove.  I receive into my spirit faith that bears a flower and a life full of joy, peace, love, kindness and all the fruits of His nature.

 
A little butterfly with gossamer wings in a poetic dance of joy frolicks on the unfurling petals of a pink virgin rose. The little fawn sniffs delicately and she settles on it. ' By Julie Ralphs
 
This is a sweet allegory that discusses the fruit of the Holy Spirit, Galatians 5: 22-23.  THe fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, faith, meekness, temperance, and the nature of the little fawn.

my prose by Julie Ralphs

In the sitting room, Fanny sobs as she is read as a classical novelette by Natalie.  A nu-Bronte in ‘ Sence and Sensibility’, in the NEXT ROOM at the Grange.  Fanny’s fluffy compendium is left on the drawing table.  The diary opens a window to another worldly portrait of her as a modern day heroine and not a sketch of a lady of English middle class life as penned in the eighteenth century.

Its leafs are filled with the sweetness of countenance and her little love petal notelets that are tied together in a soft lace.  In her own private language- sweet pony prayers that belong to the language of the soul.  A canvas sketches her, where she sits there as though painted there.  Her black hair disposed in glossy ringlets falls softly abut her visage.

There are quiet conversations but it is only in the opening chapter of Jane Austen’s book.  Dining at Thrushcross Lodge are the Middletons, the analogy is taken indoors.  Fanny puts away her needlework, as her Gentleman caller arrives.  Holding out a hand in a long primrose- coloured  glove, there is a sweet but serious kiss.  And with a playful tone in her words, ‘ Must I pour out his tea, Papa’. Papa was impressed with her voice, look and air.  He smiled upon her,’My dear Fanny’.  A tray was brought of old Worcester porcelain.  The bourgeois cosiness and domesticity revisited.

Among the lace in the bosom of her silk dress.  Edward’s picture was in a tiny locket about her neck.  Fanny sits down to the pianoforte and plays something appropriate to love’s young dream, love’s ephemerioe.  He stood beside her in a cream waistcoat with gold and onyx buttons and took up his glasses, a little book of her nature poems in hand, came to life in her soft lyrics.

Aunt Anne looked up from her Romantic novel in her velvet chair.  She read the maniloquent words in the pages of her life.  Her cameo ring, reminded her so much of her mistress.  Fanny’s portrait next to the still-life’s seemed to stare back in astonishment.  A soft and tender smile seemed to come through the ether like the warmth and perfume of a flower.  The fictional young lady is re-invented by an authoress to be the heroine of something other than just her own life.  

Her  hands gloved in French grey, were crossed one over the other.  She blushed a smile so sweetly kind.  Edward interrupted her reverie. ‘ There is a painting in her face’ he writes.  And then his eyes fixed upon a portrait in the drawing room, which was filled with the rich odour of roses.  And they strolled towards the door that led down a path into the parsonage garden.  Two butterflies fluttered past them.  The wrought –iron gate, opens to Edward’s thought of an erotic plate of his mistress in a lacey frock swinging in a garden seat,  sat on the mantelpiece.

With her black ringlets streaming in the light summer breeze in sepia.  Edward slipped a notelet and key into the seam of her petticoat.  The flowers of the ephemeral  sewn into her panties.   A book in her hand, and a pony read of Fanny Hill.  He sees her, his mistress and governess in spirit at the Rector’s garden.  They meet in secret and walk through to the grove.  He meets her with a love letter in a dream.

 Fanny lies on the grass with the letters, and Edward makes her a bracelet out of the pink and white daisies.  She reads to him some nature verse  from a little book by  Emily Dickinson. In her lap lies Edward and  a soft embroidery of the Manor and the Estate. Her book of homilies.

Under the shady boughs and the pink laburnum and lengthening vistas, sits the realm Seamstress on the garden seat with her sketches of her, and Edward’s letters are tied in a religious lace in the pages of her diary as a kind of narrative coverture. By Julie Ralphs @ copyright 

Psalm 27:10

I remind myself that Jesus has a mother's heart, after my parent's abuse of me and the scripture verse ' When my mother or father forsake me, God will take care of me.' Psalm 27:10 ...exposition verse 10:-'When my father and my mother forsake me. These dear relations will be the last to desert me, but if the milk of human kindness should dry up even from their breasts, there is a Father who never forgets. Some of the greatest of the saints have been cast out by their families, and persecuted for righteousness' sake. Then the Lord will take me up. Will espouse my cause, will uplift me from my woes, will carry me in his arms, will elevate me above my enemies, will at last receive me to his eternal dwelling place.'