Craig D. Lounsbrough

If I wholly unleash my imagination and forcefully stretch it out beyond its own edges, even at such a point I can only imagine a thin shard of this most immense God. And even though it is but a thin shard, it will nonetheless be mesmerizingly colossal.

Dream extravagantly, for God has imbued us with ample imagination to dream out to and across the very periphery of the impossible.

Impulsivity is something akin to spontaneously jumping out of an airplane and not realizing that you forgot something until about five seconds before impact.

I would suggest that our imagination is a tiny shard of God__ infinite genius that we have within us simply because we were created in God__ image.

I often wonder if my imagination is one of God__ choicest gifts bestowed upon me to deliberately break me free from the frequent doldrums of my humanity.

The greatest imagination in all of existence is one that would be able to take __othing_ and imagine __omething_ from __othing._ And that is God.

A lot of the situations that we put ourselves in are similar to a cat in a yard full of dogs. We rarely ask ourselves how we got here, (which doesn__ help with the question of how we get out of here), all of which rarely keeps us from finding ourselves in the next yard asking the same questions.

If you can get others to believe that your random guesses are actual answers, they__l never guess that you never understood the question in the first place.

So, there__ this hornet__ nest. And there__ this long stick. And then there__ me. How I walk away from all of this will depend on whether I realize that some things go together and some things don__ no matter how hard you try.

I'm in a hole because at some point I found a shovel and started digging. Maybe I should trade my shovels for ladders and start climbing.

At the end, a journey based on my imagination will leave me imagining that I should have engaged the very thing I used my imagination to avoid.

Our imagination is God__ ingenious gift that hands us the privilege of romping and playing in realities that we can__ see only because we__e yet to create them.

Christmas is God deciding to become what He never had been, so that we can become what we never could be. And so, God does the most improbable thing imaginable. He orchestrates His own birth.

In case you__e short on definitions, here__ one. Insanity: __estroying the very things that sustain us._ And if we__e so short-sighted so as to make such preposterous choices, then it__ not all that preposterous to believe that shortly our end will be in sight.

In the oddity or maybe the miracle of life, the roots of something new frequently lie in the decaying husks of something old.

We may find great relief and inexplicable solace in purposefully looking beyond grief in order to determine the provision made within it.

There__ something of a restorative quality about spring, where something whispers wild rumors of new beginnings arising from the seemingly dead seeds in our lives. There__ something almost cruel about it all, as if there might be some sort of truth about a new life actually being possible. Yet, maybe it is true.

We lose the understanding that death always begets life of some sort, and that life is always an opportunist, persistently standing ready to build something out of the smoldering ashes and raise something up out of the tangled carnage.