Come Monday...Soul's Release: From Scotland, With His Love

“Come Monday…” is a weekly series that will involve a review of, or commentary about, websites, movies, documentaries, television shows, sports, music, and whatever else may tickle my fancy at the time. Be assured that these reviews will be generally positive, as in accordance to the Jimmy Buffett song “Come Monday.” This is subject to change, however. In fact, I would be most derelict in my duties to neglect going on a rant every once in a while. For rants promote change, and change can be good—right? Therefore, since good is generally considered as being a positive force in 99.3% of the parallel universes that I am aware of, even a rant could be considered as being something positive, and a genuine hissy-fit would be even better (so I’m told).

Several months ago, I received an especially great blessing from our Heavenly Father. For that is when He had my good friend, Lance Gargus of [Lance’s Soul Searching], email me about the wonderful poetry of the lovely Ms. Sandra Jane Mack of [Soul’s Release].

Not only has the poetry on her site been a blessing to me, she has become one, as well. For she is as sweet of a lady as our Heavenly Father has ever made, and I would like to think that she has kinda, sorta, maybe adopted me as being as one of her own.

Please do not hold that against her. For I am quite sure that it is all our Heavenly Father’s fault.

On the other hand, if you would ask Him, I am also quite sure that He would tell you that she has been a most willing participant in what He has wanted to accomplish in and through her. The following poem serves as a good example of that, as well as what can be found on her site. May she be as much of a blessing to you as she has been to me.

The Butterfly
Sandra Jane Mack
Above us sits the Father
There on Heavenly throne
And every drop of rain that falls
Is to the Father known

He knows when angry words are said
He knows when hearts are broken
He feels the fear within our souls
He hears the doubt that’s spoken

On windy days He sees the waves
On stormy seas that wreck
And keeps His hand upon the lives
Of sailors on the deck

And when the butterfly must hide
From birds in ever downward glide
Then knowing where their place should be
He places them on safer tree