I want to speak of My love for you. My love is the purpose of My existence, as it is yours. My love loves to sing itself. And you are My song I sing.
You came from My throat. You flew out of My voice. You are still issuing from Me. You are My sound that never stops. Endless is My song, and endless are you. I call your name, and your name is love, and you answer. My call and your answer are the same. You echo Me. And that is your joy.
You are the flowers of My field.
You are My plantings.
You are My impulses impelled to return.
You are My return.
You are My response to Me.
You are of My making.
I am the Maker of you.
And you are what I have made.
How can you possibly think that I have made you or another amiss?
Because you do not see meaning does not mean that meaning is not.
You have meaning. You were meant to be. And you were meant for something, not for nothing.
If you were born on earth and breathed for only one moment, there was purpose in that moment. If you breathed for not even one moment, there was purpose. And if you breathed for 112 years, there was purpose. Whatever your conformities or deformities, there is purpose.
But you can never figure it out. Why do you try?
Accept that there is purpose, and the purpose is accomplished. Your reach is too small to grasp. You cannot even conceive your purpose or that of another. You have no clue as to what you are accomplishing by your presence on earth. You do not see far enough.
But you can see far enough to grasp Me. And you can accept, contrary to what your eyes may see, that I have laid out the cloth of you and cut it exactly right.
You are My idea. If I wanted you to be something else, I would have made you something else.
What you make of what I made is up to you. To that degree, you are of your making.
Stir yourself well.
Leap into the valley of life and scale the heights.
There is no up and there is no down.
You never were anywhere but with Me.
You wandered into a storybook, and thought you existed in those pages.
You exist in more than the book of pages.
You are also pageless.
From great vastness, a short story was pulled. The story is short and by no means complete.
The complete story of you takes but a minute of eternity. Eternity does not have minutes, so your complete story is the story of the ocean. Your whole story is deeper than the ocean. And it is higher than the sky. It reaches to Heaven.
You are not your story at all. You are beyond story.
You doodle a picture on a pad of paper. You do not call that doodle you. You certainly know you are not that doodle on the scrap of paper. It may represent you at a given moment, but it is not representative of you.
No doodle is great enough for you. No act in life is great enough for you. You burst your shell long ago, and you became the very breath of the universe, the breath and breadth. You are My voice on the waves of earth and are contained no where. You are contained only in Me. And that is not containment. Use your freedom to sound Me on Earth.