Tag Archives: eternity

by | January 21, 2025 · 8:54 am

The Abyss Before You

Standing upon the precipice means one has gained the height by some method of exertion. In the moment of laborious effort, the heart still pounding as the lungs attempt to regain their foothold on sequestering the precious air that spans the depths of the abyss spreading out before you, one cannot help to be taken aback. Suddenly, the breathtaking reality does something quite unnatural and unexpected in that its grandeur is absorbed into the consciousness of one’s soul, permeating that worldly layer of rationality and legalism to become one with the animated spirit within. For once we are afforded a glimpse beyond the veil to which beforehand we were excluded, partly of our own preemptive nature, but solely by God. It wasn’t until the ultimate sacrifice of His only Son that we were afforded access. Some look at that invitation with skeptical ineffability. As one might see the spectacular and dismiss it as just another canyon, others partake of that sustenance of incomprehensible serenity and sup it to the lips as one might communion. One is merely amused, while the other is changed.

So, at that moment, once more, we are given the opportunity to partake in something transcendent of our human nature, to peek into the chasm of eternity, and, if even for a brief second, sense something greater than anything we might imagine of our own accord. In this instance, God’s Word commends this vision as follows, “Do not be deceived. God is not mocked, for whatever a man sows, that he will also reap. For he who sows to his flesh will of the flesh reap corruption, but he who sows to the Spirit will of the Spirit reap everlasting life.”[1]

Thanks be to God.

[1] Galatians 6:7-8 KJV

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by | January 17, 2025 · 8:41 am

Glorified in Glory

“’ God,’ said Pascal, ‘instituted prayer in order to give his creatures the dignity of causality.”[1]

– C.S Lewis quoting Pascal

The thoughts of mortality and the subsequent departure of our soul from this earth came to mind. It wasn’t so much the morbidity of the subject that enticed my thinking to continue in this line of thought, but rather, what wonderous adventures await us in the eternal ethereal of existence. We are offered the image of the risen Christ as an example of the preeminent figure of the glorified body. The transition from this life to the next seems to be the greatest obstacle or fear of that imposed tragedy of situations.

The limitations of the finite mind relegate us to trepidation when considering the passing from one realm of existence into another. How much greater it will be when we are one step closer to our Creator, not as infinite, yet more so once we have shed this shell of decaying flesh and taken on our new body. In that moment of stepping onto the far distant shore, we will not only be changed in the twinkling of an eye, but in the exact moment, a new sense of being will overwhelm what we once saw through the limited perceptions of our finite soul’s blinders into one of trying to look into a blinding light of the realization of the expanse of eternity – the finite finally stepping from the terrestrial into the extraterrestrial.

With squinting vision, whatever that may be, we will peer into the vast illuminated abyss of the heavens, trying to make sense of what appears before us. As one trying to connect the imagery with known context, we’ll struggle to grasp what we find, yet we must also consider that we will not be the same as now. Even as I write this, one must keep reminding oneself that we will not have the same ocular abilities, and the same would hold true for all of the natural senses on which we came to rely on when living upon earth. No, in that heavenly realm, in the glorified body, not only will our ability to sense be changed, but the ability to comprehend will also take on an all-new quality never before imagined. It is here the joy of that which is to come should overtake us in the moment, perhaps making the tingling you feel when something spiritually grabs you and awakens something inherently built within us that allows for a moment, that split second when hit by an epiphany, you finally see the veil lifted and God’s treasure not built by hands, where no moth nor rust can reach, becomes a reality – existing in His presence the greatest gift of all.

[1] C.S. Lewis – The World’s Last Night, pg. 8

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by | December 31, 2024 · 2:46 pm

Live as it is to Dream

Arising in the morning, as if being cast out into life from beneath the warm covers of shielded dreams, one may find oneself struggling to clear one’s mind through the fog of slumber in a cold, foreign landscape. Yet, to consider one’s salvation and the journey to such a promised land, we can draw a direct correlation between the gentle demeanor of being conspicuously conscious or morbidly asleep; the distinction between the two is a determinate as to how aware we are of our soul’s mortality, whether to live is to die, or to die to oneself is to live. The discernment comes from realizing the truth and awakening to its sunrise of hope for one’s life therein.

“All the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come.” – Job 14:14

Struggling through the day-to-day hardships of one’s daily toil, it can seem as if we are on a never-ending merry-go-round, the escape only seen as a demise of career or character. The screenshots flicker as if watching some ancient film projected in black-and-white upon a roughly plastered wall, the cracks and crevices adding to the tumultuous torment. Seen from the future in which we inhabit later in life, we realize that the scope of our focus had been all for naught, had we only strove for those secular things of the world, trying to achieve but never reaching the highest pinnacle of success, waging a war against something we could alone, never defeat. Time, the master of all, eventually sees its victims succumb to the gravity of mortal existence. Meanwhile, each night, we seek to escape through those sparsely recalled dreams in which we fly into other worlds, void of the bondage upon which we have inflicted of our own desires.

How ironic then it is that when we reach the threshold of life’s journey, the sunset begins to shed light upon our pathway, and in reflection, we seek those dreams, to recall them forward in an effort to relieve the peace with which they brought; yet, never granted. In waking, we find that the eternal life we neglected now faces us head-on, a glaring prospect for which we have little preparation. Suddenly, we are not only confounded by our previous stupidity but rather sickened by our neglect of the consideration that was before us all along. We begin to awaken only to see that the eternity we face is the dream in which we shall forever embody, to the point it becomes reality. To seek that which we cannot see, but that which we accept on faith, is in a sense, dreaming while conscious, having hope in something that transcends what we can logically conceive. Herein is the meaning behind what George MacDonald wrote, “It may be notwithstanding, that when most awake, I am only dreaming the more!”[1]

To bring it back to something more perceptible, consider the phrase and what it means, “To live the American Dream.” Herein, we find the earthly essence of finding that perfect career, the perfect home, wife, and children, all in a sweet little package that we can envelop within the comprehension of our minds. To have a life free of persecution, torment, or strife, to not know suffering or pain, these are the idyllic visions we often are taught to impose upon ourselves in this life. Yet, there was never a promise as such granted by anyone or anything. Becoming a Christian does not take away the suffering or pain, nor does it guarantee a life void of persecution. If nothing else, it only promises that those torments will only be assured. If one were to consider the vision aspect, this perception would be more likely to be considered a nightmare than a dream.

Yet, we have drifted away from what it is to dream, meaning that the realities of living the “Dream” aren’t necessarily what we would accept as dreaming any more than one might consider holding one’s breath underwater and consider it breathing as a fish. To awaken from one’s sleep is to come to consciousness – knowing that the world you inhabit is one of concrete realities. But to awaken from the perception of something beyond this world is to awaken into something without form, void of the physical, and herein, we find ourselves awake while dreaming. As Novalis wrote, “Our life is no dream, but it should and will perhaps become one.”[2]

Herein lies the ultimate truth.

To consciously seek that which cannot be seen nor terrestrially found is to live in a state beyond the reality of now and to find hope in something beyond the natural, the eternal. By seeking context in the meaning, we can better understand the purpose of this discussion in the simple word “Salvation.” To know that God became flesh so that he might live as we live, to know the pain and sufferings of this conscious life, then to die an earthly death, to know the torment and anguish, taking upon himself the sins of the world, the one that knew no sin, so that we might be freed of our sin, our secular fleshly desires, if we confess our sins and accept Him into our hearts – that is what it is to awaken from the slumber of discontented pleasures, to understand who He was, and still is. God came to make it known to us that in the state of what may be considered to be dreaming, we, too, can find something beyond what our earthly existence would have us know.

Once finding salvation in the hope of life eternal, we can finally realize what it is to realize we are most awake when we are dreaming all the more.

Thanks be to God.

[1] George MacDonald, Lilith (London: Walter Scott Publishing, 1895)

[2] Novalis, Philosophical Writings, trans. Maurice B. Cramer (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1997)

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by | June 29, 2023 · 3:17 pm

Seek the White Stone…

Outside, the rain falls – a gray overcast day, perfect weather for sitting inside the coffee shop. Around us, brick walls bring the outdoors inside, giving a sense of rustic behavior among the amenities of one’s home. Here, among the public, one can catch the occasional glimpse of a writer, an artist, or just someone surfing the internet researching their next vacation. One can find motivation from those around you; it’s where the community comes into play. Yet, with regard to worship, being with others in the community isn’t only for the inspiration of seeing someone else seeking God; it’s the fact that together, we are united in our quest to call out to Abba, the Father, inviting the Holy Spirit to join. As Jesus told us, “For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I among them.”[1]

As my journey here in southern Indiana continues, I’m finding a perspective that’s probably more common than what I usually encounter. More and more I find those who are living life without any direction regarding their spiritual well-being. Unlike a college campus, their direction isn’t temporary; it’s long-term. Most people, but not all, go through the motions, living life day-to-day. For some, this struggle is real. Chronic ailments increase with age. There are doctor visits, medical concerns, and a host of other self-care requirements necessary just to make it through the day. The battle is real. Often, they feel that their prayers are the key to their spiritual health, disregarding studying and applying God’s word. They’ve read enough to believe in some greater power yet, seldom apply those concepts to more than just their own well-being. Trapped in their sole existence, they find little time or opportunity to share Christ with more than just a handful of people. They might as well be on a deserted island. Their world slowly closes in around them until the last. There, they come to that final rerun of their life’s journey, which left little trace showing the path to salvation. It is as if they never existed.

Then there are some, healthy, robust, living their life as if there would be an eternity to deal with those things of the spirit – putting off today what one can do tomorrow. Procrastination, Satan’s desire for each of us, lures one into a false sense of security. He [Satan] tries to keep our eye off those things of eternity, living for tomorrow instead of today. For if one were to live for the present, they would find eternity through Christ, which, if you think about it, is quite the irony.

Those baby steps of being pulled away from our focus on God become layers of distractions that build one upon another until one becomes buried beneath their burdens. C.S. Lewis wrote in the Screwtape Letters, “Finally, from the corner of the room, a small whisper came. It was one of the younger demons. Hesitantly, he suggested, “You’ve missed our most effective strategy… Just tell them they have all the time in the world to decide. Tell them it’s not that important. Tell them to wait another day…” Before you know it, you’re in the hospital facing mortality with little to nothing to show for all those years of working toward that worthless goal. You are overwhelmed with the reality that you spent your life chasing after silly treasures that do nothing more than collect dust on the shelf in your earthly home, the one you will soon be leaving. Meanwhile, your future home, if you have even chosen to go to that next place, is barren, the rooms empty – a hollow chamber of empty souls.

Although life can be busy, we must make a concerted effort to reach out to those around us, not just when we are on vacation. Daily, there is a battle going on in the world around us. It’s that person sitting next to you at the stop light. It’s that person at the other table in the coffee shop. It’s that stranger that opened the door for you at the library. They surround you every day of your life. The challenge is to find a way inside their world, to gain a foothold, to share something more than what the world has to feed them. This is where we must work the hardest –finding opportunities to share, for it is here in the chance encounter of life that we build the guest list for the Kingdom of God. The names written in the Lamb’s Book of Life become our neighbors in life eternal. “To him that overcometh, I will give a white stone, and in the stone, a new name written, which no man knoweth saving he that receiveth it.”

May you find someone today to share the Good News of Jesus, and in so doing, find the white stone with your new name in life eternal.

Thanks be to God.

[1] Matthew 18:20 KJV

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by | December 27, 2021 · 8:51 pm

A Man and his Bibs

The worn stretched to the point of threadbare T-shirt that he wore underneath his faded, denim bib overalls depicted the man. Victor Phillip Tron was a quiet man but labored as a farmer until the day he died. He never complained about his work, other than that last day, when he told Mildred, his endearing wife of 52 years, that he just didn’t feel well. She would later recall how grandpa seemed to drag about that day and that she told Victor couldn’t eat his supper until after he had fed the dogs. Begrudgingly, he obliged and returned to eat his last supper. He would die that night in his sleep.

Victor Phillip Tron, wearing his next favorite shirt, the winter flannel. Taken in the living room of the farm house, on the edge of New Harmony, Indiana. (note, the work boots, taken when he was preparing to head to the milk barn one chilly winter afternoon.)

To know my grandpa Tron, you would have to understand the schedule he kept. As a dairy farmer, working on K.D. Owens expansive farm, managing the milking barn, Victor kept a 4:00pm, and 4:00am milking pattern. This meant, when we saw him first thing in the morning when we children arose at the first light of dawn, Victor had already put in half a day’s work. Often, we sat while grandma prepared the morning meal at the breakfast table, us still in our night clothes, grandpa in his weary old T-shirt and overalls. The smell of bleach from cleaning up after the milking emanated from grandpa. He would always meticulously lather with Comet at the bathroom sink, from his hands up to his elbows. It was the same cleaning agent he would use at the barn where he processed the milk twice a day. The cleanser had soaked into his skin so that his calm demeanor was always acquainted in my mind with Comet. To this day, I cannot open a can of the cleaner without my mind immediately drifting back to that dairy barn and grandpa so many years ago.

The daily schedule, 365 days a year, twice a day, eventually would wear on him. By the time I had come around, grandpa was nearing his late sixties. He had a slight stroke at one point near the end so that his speech was hindered. A voice barely above a whisper, he would sit on the front porch after his afternoon nap in the living room and tell jokes. They still didn’t always seem funny when we could understand him, but it didn’t phase him one bit. He would carry on some tale, and when he got to the punch line, unbeknownst to the rest of us grandkids, he would rear back and slap his leg laughing hysterically while we grinned, trying to enjoy whatever grandpa was reveling in at the time. If nothing else, his jovial aspect of sharing was enough to make you grin ear to ear. But these moments were few and far between, for mostly grandpa Tron sat and listened, smiling or nodding. For this reason, those few times that we saw him joking were the precious jewels in our collective memory.

Doyle Hines (maternal grandfather) and grandson, Timothy W. Tron, 1963, New Harmony, Indiana – Doyle wearing the T-shirt and Overalls mentioned in this story.

When I was a small child, Victor would wear his overalls to church on Saturday morning. Grandpa and Grandma were Seventh Day Adventists and strictly adhered to the Sabbath, starting at sundown on Friday evening to dusk on Saturday. Later in my life, not many years before he passed, someone bought him a light brown suit which he traded in, at the bequest of my grandmother, to be sure, for his comfortable bibs. That was the same suit he would be buried in on December 2nd, 1977. That was the same year we lost my cousin Michael Kaiser to an accident. Michael was electrocuted to death when he, my other cousin David Paul, and his father, my Uncle David, were putting up a new T.V. antenna at my Uncle David’s house. Unfortunately, the antennae hit the power line before the transformer. Being the tallest of any family member, Michael took the lethal portion of the shock. His heart continued to beat all the way to the hospital in Evansville, pumping blood out the ends of his fingers and toes, which had burst because of the impact of the bolt of electricity. There was nothing they could do to stop it.

Grandpa was there to see Michael laid to rest, next to the spot where he and grandma had planned to be the first in Maple Hill Cemetery on the edge of New Harmony – “it wasn’t supposed to be this way,” he would whisper.

Michael was only 21.

Michael and my mother (Rita Hines Tron Wiscaver) in the kitchen of the old farm house on the edge of New Harmony, Indiana.

Michael’s death impacted all of us. Grandpa didn’t talk much after the passing of Michael. We all felt a sense of guilt, none more than Uncle David. But nobody blamed David, or his son, David Paul. But self-imposed blame can be like a cancer. Their lives would be touched with struggles that one has to wonder if they weren’t still carrying that burden all those many years since.

But, there were always fond memories of Grandpa. Like when he taught us how to milk the cows by hand. He would easily squeeze out a gentle handful of rich, creamy froth into the stainless-steel bucket. Occasionally, the odd barn cat sitting behind the cow would catch an unexpected mouthful and, satisfied, walk away, wiping their chin with tongue and paw. Grandpa would chuckle at the sight, and we kids would nearly roll with laughter.

Victor taught us that the cream that settled at the top of the glass jar of milk in the fridge was best when shaken before pouring into our drinking glasses. The Ovaltine was resting at the bottom, waiting to join the frothing liquid to make a treat nearly indescribable in earthly terms.

He would walk with us out into the lane and teach us to call his cattle – his girls, he would say. Grandma swore that he named after all of his old girlfriends. “Suuuuuuuuk-cow,” he would holler with a high tenor shout. His voice would echo off of Sled Hill and back, answered shortly by distant lowing. His girls never missed a beat to come to the milk barn. We would wait for them to wander down the long, tree-lined lane, and one by one, we would follow the parade, in tow behind grandpa. Each cow knew her stall and would go up to the concrete trough to wait for Victor to harness them into place. He would then pour a scoop full of the sweetest smelling feed imaginable in front of their muzzles, which they would instantly begin nuzzling their noses into the rich grain.

Tim at Denton Farm Park, May 2021 – seriously trying to be serious.

Victor was a man of few words, but he loved to whistle. We all knew when he had found the mother-lode of berry patches, though. Back in the day, we would all pile into the back of the pickup truck and head for the fields to pick blackberries. When Victor’s whistling stopped, we knew he had found more blackberries than he could gather. The trick was to find where he was hiding.

But the most cherished memory would be catching him and grandma sitting at the kitchen table before breakfast. There they would read the Bible together, sharing in God’s word, starting their day together in the Lord. It wasn’t something they advertised. It was who they were – people of God.

Not many days go by that I don’t think of those days more and more. Recently one of the students on campus asked me if I could be 20-something again, would I? Of course, my answer was no, thinking that they were attempting to portray me as someone at college, doing all the college things. But truthfully, if I could go back in time, it would be way before then, to those distant days of my youth when all my grandpas and grandmas were still alive. There, I would ask so many more questions. There, I would sit and record as much as was humanly possible for my age. There, I would cherish once more those words of wisdom and wit. There once more, I would ask them to lead me in the ways of the Lord evermore.

But to know all of this is to know that someday soon, I will be able to do just that, but for all of eternity.

And once more, that soul in the worn T-shirt and those bibs will be like an old friend greeting me home.

Thanks be to God.

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by | August 29, 2021 · 7:50 pm

Grandma’s Root Cellar

“[The demon Screwtape writes:] The humans live in time but our Enemy destines them to eternity. He therefore, I believe, wants them to attend chiefly to two things, to eternity itself, and to that point of time which they call the Present. For the Present is the point at which time touches eternity. Of the present moment, and of it only, humans have an experience analogous to the experience which our Enemy has of reality as a whole; in it alone freedom and actuality are offered them. He would therefore have them continually concerned either with eternity (which means being concerned with Him) or with the Present—either meditating on their eternal union with, or separation from, Himself, or else obeying the present voice of conscience, bearing the present cross, receiving the present grace, giving thanks for the present pleasure.

Our business is to get them away from the eternal, and from the Present. With this in view, we sometimes tempt a human (say a widow or a scholar) to live in the Past. But this is of limited value, for they have some real knowledge of the past and it has a determinate nature and, to that extent, resembles eternity. It is far better to make them live in the Future.

Biological necessity makes all their passions point in that direction already, so that thought about the Future inflames hope and fear. Also, it is unknown to them, so that in making them think about it we make them think of unrealities. In a word, the Future is, of all things, the thing least like eternity. It is the most completely temporal part of time—for the Past is frozen and no longer flows, and the Present is all lit up with eternal rays.”[1]

Natural food storage | Root cellar, Farm life, Cellar

After reading this excerpt from C.S. Lewis recently, it made me think of how my family all had the habit of putting up food for the future. Now you might ask, “How does reading Lewis’s commentary on living in the moment and focusing on eternity make you think of preserving food?” Herein lies the story of how preparing for future meals and prepping to survive come what may, you can better appreciate these comments.

My grandparents all canned and put up food, so that’s where we, their offspring, learned those survival skills. Not only were they all from Agrarian backgrounds, but they were also of the generation that had survived the Depression. My paternal grandparents were especially devoted to this lifestyle, seeing as my dad had six siblings. More than anything, it was a labor of necessity. But there was one elder in particular that made it more than just about food.

Grandma Tron was always preparing for the future by what seemed like a never-ending job of canning, tending the garden, and toiling on the farm. Yet, each morning, there alone in her later years after grandpa had passed, sitting at the end of the table closest to the stove, she could be found; Bible open, studying God’s word by the dim, soft glow of light from the overhead bulb in her kitchen. Before the light of dawn had lit the hills beyond the farm’s pastures, she was already preparing for the coming day – alone with God. It wasn’t an act of canning; it was preparing for the next meal to eat. It was much more.

“Labour not for the meat which perisheth, but for that meat which endureth unto everlasting life, which the Son of man shall give unto you:” – John 6:27

Outside her kitchen window was the “Kitchen Garden.” There were the foods necessary to season and allow for more flavorful meals, in addition to those plants that had a shorter shelf life and required closer attention. The other main and much larger garden was across the pasture behind Ms. Wolf’s house. That was where the bulk crops – corn, potatoes, tomatoes, and all the other canned goods that required an army of workers to process-were located. Here, we found that deep rich topsoil, black, rich dirt that could grow anything if only you dropped the seed into its berth.

Like those two gardens, Grandma used that never-ending seasonal flow of life to guide and teach her children, and then eventually us multitude of grandkids. Like her Kitchen Garden, her tattered, worn Bible was always close by. Although it was present, we rarely saw her open it, for there was no need. Those words within that weathered binding were no longer captive within its cover, for they were planted deep within her heart. In those daily routines, where some would find mundane, tedious actions that repeated into infinity, there was the conversations, the sharing of life over the snapping of beans, or the peeling of potatoes. In those moments, as your hands became numb from holding the paring knife as you tried to keep up with grandma’s aged agile movements, the scriptures would emerge through words of encouragement and loving-kindness. It seemed like you could never peel as thin nor as fast, no matter how hard your focus. And as she worked, she spoke to us, entreating a sense of wholesomeness that was never found on a T.V. show or in a book, other than the one she kept nearby. Although you might struggle with the physical act of trying to imitate her agile yet succinctly purposeful labor, you didn’t realize that like that rich, deep topsoil of the garden, we too were being implanted with something far greater. As she would tell us the words of Jesus, “And he said unto his disciples, Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat; neither for the body, what ye shall put on. The life is more than meat, and the body is more than raiment.”

As we lived in the present so long ago, we prepared for a future we did not know. Yet, through those agricultural experiences, we learned that planning and preparing for the future lessened the sense of worry of what was to come. Knowing that down in the root cellar, where we stored the canned goods, the potatoes, dried herb, and spices, there was a sense of accomplishment mixed with a feeling of security. So, while we worked with grandma, learning those agrarian skills, we also learned how to prepare for another future – a life eternal.  Likewise, in our hearts, we knew that if we allowed Him in, God was with us, giving us a sense of security like no other.

In that comfort of knowing for what we had collectively prepared, there seemed to be a never-ending supply. Each time we would go to visit grandpa and grandma Tron, we never left empty-handed. There was always that last trip down into the earthen root cellar beneath the back porch. There grandma would load us up with armloads of that delicious bounty from the warmer months. As we piled into the car to leave, crowded in amongst the jars of canned peaches, green beans, and corn, we felt as if part of our grandparents were with us. Waving goodbye, as we passed beneath those ancient oaks and sycamores that lined their short, curved driveway, one never thought that it would never end.

As time passed, so did those countless gardens. Like the autumn of life, the fields grew brown and withered. The seasons of harvest had ended, and the Lord eventually called our grandparents home. Grandma finally joined grandpa; their bodies were laid to rest up there in Maple Hill Cemetery, just over the holler from Sled Hill. Yet, while their physical remains have an ending point, their lives had only just begun. Somewhere in that land that is fairer than day, they will await us that received their counsel. Someday, with open arms, they will greet us in that Heavenly home. Like those tearful goodbyes off the tattered back porch of the humble farmhouse on the edge of New Harmony, there will someday be a joyful reunion that will surpass in feeling all of those emotions but in a joyous regard on the steps of that house of many mansions on high.

As the sun crests the ridge of the mountain this morning, that vision of that humble kitchen table with its worn Bible once more comes to mind. Across the decades, those lessons resonate even more today. In the moment of the past, where we prepared for a future in eternity, the seeds of faith had been planted, and with those tiny grains of hope, eternal life was given. Sitting around that battered kitchen table, we found peace in the present as we heard about how to find a life in time without end.

Like going down into grandma’s root cellar, we can reach into our hearts and retrieve those words which the Lord hath given. Live each day as if you are preparing for eternity, and let tomorrow worry about tomorrow. We have but one life to live here on earth. Make the most of what you have been given, and may your root cellar be filled to overflowing so that you may share with any and all who come in need.

In all these things, we can say with Blessed Assurance, “Thanks be to God.”

[1] The Screwtape Letters. Copyright © 1942, C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. Copyright restored © 1996 C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. All rights reserved. Used with permission of HarperCollins Publishers. Words to Live By: A Guide for the Merely Christian. Copyright © 2007 by C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. All rights reserved. Used with permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

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