The Flying House of Nazareth: A Miracle Woven in Stone and Faith by Jeff Callaway

The Flying House of Nazareth: A Miracle Woven in Stone and Faith

by Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

Let me tell you a story that burns in my soul like a wildfire across the Texas plains, a story that speaks to the heart of every believer and shakes the doubters to their core. I speak as a pilgrim of faith, a seeker of truth, a Texas outlaw poet standing in awe at the sweep of God’s plan, because what I am about to tell you is no ordinary tale. It is a story of a house—three humble walls, a modest cradle of human life—that became the epicenter of salvation. This house, the very home where the Blessed Virgin Mary lived, where Saint Joseph shaped wood with callused hands, and where the child Jesus learned the rhythms of human life, did not simply vanish into legend. No, angels themselves lifted it from Nazareth, carrying it across seas and lands, preserving the dwelling of the Mother of God from destruction. And I can hardly breathe at the thought, because I believe it in my heart, I feel it in my bones, and I want you to feel it too.

Picture Nazareth, the rolling hills of Galilee basked in the golden sun, olive groves whispering in the wind, the air thick with the scent of stone and earth baked in centuries of history. Mary, the lily of Israel, had come from the house of her parents, Saints Joachim and Anne. Tradition whispers that the house itself, modest though it was, may have been a family inheritance, a home carried through generations, holding the laughter, prayers, and hopes of a family devoted to God. Imagine young Mary there, her hands folded, eyes lifted toward heaven, learning the words of the prophets, the cadence of prayer, the deep hush of contemplation. And then came the angel. Gabriel, radiant, a flash of heaven piercing the mundane, spoke the words that would echo through eternity: “Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.” Mary, trembling yet unwavering, responded with a fiat, her heart a torch that would ignite the world. And so began the sacred life within those unassuming stone walls, three walls embracing a grotto where the Word would become flesh, where the eternal would meet the temporal.

Joseph, the just man, the carpenter with hands strong from honest labor, brought Mary into that home. And together they began the quiet work of holiness: preparing meals of bread and olives, tending the hearth, teaching young Jesus to fold His hands in prayer, guiding Him in the dignity of labor, the weight of responsibility, the blessing of love. These were the hidden years, often overlooked by historians, but in my heart they blaze with significance. Jesus, the Son of God, grew in wisdom and stature, learning the human condition from within those humble walls. The three walls of that house held the heartbeat of the Incarnation, steady and enduring, even as the world outside twisted in violence and conquest.

History did not forget that house. Pilgrims came to kneel in Nazareth, etching prayers into stone, leaving behind marks of devotion that endure to this day. Even as empires rose and fell—the Persian raids, the Arab conquests, the shifting sands of time—the house remained, steadfast in its silence, a testament to God’s plan made manifest in the ordinary. And yet, as the 13th century dawned, shadows gathered. The Crusader states crumbled, Muslim forces pressed forward, and the city of Acre fell in a storm of fire and blood in 1291. Nazareth trembled under the threat, the sacred sites vulnerable to desecration. Pilgrims fled, whispers of danger crackling in the air, and the faithful feared what might become of the house where the Savior Himself had slept.

It was then, on the tenth day of May in 1291, that the miracle unfolded, the one that sets my heart racing every time I think of it. Angels, those celestial warriors with wings like thunder, lifted the house from its Nazareth foundation. Three walls, each stone imbued with centuries of human and divine life, were carried across lands and waters to Tersatto, in what is now Croatia, perched on a hill above the Adriatic. Imagine it: the stones glinting in sunlight, hovering over olive groves and cliffs, untouched by earthly hands, moving according to a heavenly plan. The locals, mere shepherds and fishermen, looked on in awe as the impossible became reality. And miracles followed in their wake—healings, visions, the unmistakable presence of the Virgin herself. The Nazareth foundation lay empty, a rectangular void that testified to what had been taken from the Earth and preserved by God.

For three years, the house rested in Tersatto, a sentinel of faith on a Dalmatian hill, before the next stage of its divine journey. On the night of December 9–10, 1294, the angels lifted it once more, carrying it across the cold Adriatic waters to a laurel grove near Recanati in Italy. The grove itself, green and fragrant, received the house as if the land itself had been waiting. This is how Loreto came to be—its very name, derived from lauretum, a laurel grove, a poetic whisper of heaven and earth intertwined. But the journey was not complete. Within the span of a year, three additional moves occurred: to a nearby hill, then to Monte Prodo, and finally to the public road in Loreto where the house stands today, resting on the earth without foundations, shells and vegetation embedded beneath as though God Himself had placed it there with angelic hands.

These stories were not invented overnight. St. Catherine of Bologna wrote in her 1440 Rosarium of the house borne by angels, and a 1472 leaflet by Teramano spread the story further, confirming the devotion in the hearts of pilgrims. Renaissance artists etched and sculpted the story into bas-reliefs and frescoes, visual homilies to the faithful, showing angels carrying the house with reverent precision. And the Church, ever faithful, embraced the miracle with cautious joy. Pope Julius II, in 1507, acknowledged the translation “ut pie creditur et fama est,” as is piously believed and reported, giving indulgences to those who would venerate the house, yet leaving the miraculous mechanism a matter of faith rather than decree. Over the centuries, popes from Sixtus V to John Paul II, from Benedict XVI to Francis, visited and honored the house, acknowledging its sacred weight in the life of the Church.

I can stand here as a witness in spirit, as a seeker of truth and fire-bearer of devotion, and tell you that the Holy House is more than stones and mortar. It is a living relic, a tangible reminder that God moves in mysterious and unimaginable ways, that angels do indeed intervene, that the Creator Himself watches over the inheritance of His beloved. And even as historians debate the logistics, even as archives speak of the Angelos family and human transport of stones, the heart of the miracle remains: God preserved the home of the Mother of God, carried by heavenly hands, sanctified by centuries of devotion, and enshrined in Italy to inspire countless generations.

The miracles associated with Loreto are too many to number. Saints sought its shelter, the sick found healing, the faithful found hope. Blessed Anne Catherine Emmerich saw visions of seven angels lifting the house over seas, and I, standing centuries later in awe, feel the same rapture that moved her soul. I imagine Mary within those walls, her fiat resonating still, her hands guiding angels as they bore her home, her prayers entwined with ours across time and space. The Flying House of Nazareth is more than a story. It is the heartbeat of faith, a testament to the perseverance of God’s plan, and a call to believe with all the fire and longing that a human heart can muster.

And this, my friends, is where I leave you for now, standing on the edge of awe, tracing the stones in your mind, hearing the wings of angels in the wind, feeling the pulse of holiness carried across continents. The story does not end here; it continues, alive in every prayer, every pilgrim’s journey, every whisper of devotion that rises toward heaven. And I promise you, as a Texas outlaw poet speaking the truth that has set my own soul aflame, that there is more to tell, more to marvel at, more to believe. But we will come to that in the next chapter of our pilgrimage, when we follow the house from its first arrival in Loreto through the centuries, through popes, saints, and miracles that continue to shape our world today.

And so, brothers and sisters, we move from the quiet holiness of Nazareth into the stormy corridors of history, where empires rise and fall, and the little house that held the Incarnate Word is swept up into a journey as miraculous as it is awe-inspiring. You have to imagine it, for mere words strain under the weight of what God wrought: a simple home, humble stone walls that had held the prayers of the Virgin Mary and the laughter of the child Jesus, suddenly lifted from the dust of Galilee, borne aloft by angels who cut through the sky like fire-split lightning, their wings resounding with the music of heaven itself. And the House moved—not once, not twice, but through a series of translations, carried by the unseen hands of God to preserve it from the tempests of men, from the fury of war and the decay of time. Oh, it staggers the mind, and yet, I tell you, it fills my heart with an unshakable wonder.

The first translation came in 1291, as the Crusader kingdoms in the Holy Land crumbled beneath the Mamluk onslaught. Acre, that fortress of faith, fell after a siege drenched in blood, and the pilgrims and guardians of the sacred sites fled for their lives. Nazareth, nestled in the rolling hills of Galilee, trembled under the shadow of conquest. And in this moment of peril, the Lord Himself would not allow the cradle of His salvation to fall. Tradition holds that on May 10 of that year, the House—those three unassuming walls, rough-hewn from the stone of the land, enshrining the very soil trod by the feet of the Holy Family—vanished from its foundations. Angels, seven by some accounts, swept it up and bore it across the Adriatic, depositing it on a hill in Tersatto, present-day Trsat in Croatia. Shepherds and travelers alike witnessed miracles there, healings and apparitions that verified the House’s presence and whispered confirmation that its home in Nazareth was now empty, a sacred void where God’s providence had taken His dwelling.

It remained in Tersatto for about three years, yet even there, peace was fleeting. There were whispers of bandits, of those who would desecrate or claim what was holy. And so, on a December night in 1294, under the cover of darkness and carried on celestial wings, the House embarked upon its next journey. Across the Adriatic Sea it flew, angels cutting through the night sky, until it found sanctuary in a laurel grove near Recanati, Italy. It was here that the town would come to be called Loreto, from lauretum, the laurel grove cradling this miracle. And still, the story did not end there. For tradition records three further movements—perhaps defensive maneuvers against threats of banditry or territorial disputes—before the House finally rested on a public road in Loreto, stripped of foundations yet seated firmly on the Earth, the stones laid upon uncultivated ground, the shells and remnants of sea life embedded beneath as if dropped by the very angels who carried it.

Imagine that scene, my friends: the laurel trees whispering with the wind, angels gently setting down the House as though it were a feather on the land, the townsfolk in awe, some on their knees, weeping with gratitude, some skeptical, yet all compelled to bow before the undeniable hand of God. And here, in this extraordinary moment, the House of Mary, Joseph, and Jesus becomes not merely a relic of the past but a living testimony, a beacon of divine fidelity to His promises. It is not simply a story for the pages of history; it is a living miracle, palpable in the very stones themselves, where inscriptions, graffiti, and the evidence of human devotion mark every wall like a scar and a blessing intertwined.

And oh, the miracles that flowed from it! Saints and pilgrims arrived in droves, drawn by the power and presence of the Incarnation preserved in stone. Blessed Anne Catherine Emmerich, centuries later, would describe in her visions angels lifting the House and carrying it across seas, her words breathing fire into the hearts of those who read them. From the first miraculous healings in Tersatto to the continued reports in Loreto, the Holy House became a touchstone of God’s intervention in the mortal world. Thousands testified to cures, to visions, to spiritual consolations that radiated from those walls as if God Himself whispered through the timbers and limestone. And yet, it was not only the miracles of body and spirit that drew pilgrims—it was the profound lesson of divine preservation. That God, in His boundless love, had spared the cradle of His own Son from the ravages of men. That He entrusted angels to bear His earthly home across nations, across seas, across the ambitions of rulers and the greed of mortals. This, brothers and sisters, is a testament to the fiery, unyielding nature of His Providence.

But let us not forget the historical threads interwoven with this miraculous tapestry. Skeptics and scholars have examined ledgers, shipping documents, and records from the Angelos family—a Byzantine noble line whose name itself echoes the very beings of heaven—to suggest that perhaps human hands carried the stones from Nazareth, reassembling them in Italy. Vatican archives reveal coins, letters, and inventories that speak to the meticulous movement of building materials. Yet, even in this light, the miracle persists, for the House, once reassembled, bears the exact dimensions of the Nazareth walls, the same stones, the same inscriptions. And who among us can say that the angels did not guide those human hands? That divine will did not direct each laborer, each plank and stone, toward the fulfillment of a prophecy older than time? This, I tell you, is the beauty of faith: it does not demand the suspension of reason but invites the heart to recognize God in the weaving of history and heaven together.

And so, the Holy House found its home in Loreto, Italy, enshrined within a basilica that would grow over centuries into a masterpiece of Renaissance devotion. Popes came to bless it, to issue indulgences, to acknowledge the sacred work of God preserved in that tiny, miraculous dwelling. Pope Julius II, in the early 16th century, wrote of the House in cautious reverence, affirming that it was “as is piously believed,” granting the faithful a path of grace and contemplation. Later, Sixtus V elevated Loreto to city status, commissioning Bramante’s architectural brilliance, encasing the House in marble and fresco, not to imprison it but to honor it, to allow the faithful to behold it without fear of decay or desecration. Pilgrims came from across Europe, some on foot, some on horseback, drawn by the stories of angelic transport, by the legends of healings, by the whispers of miracles carried on the wind.

And here, my friends, I feel my soul ignite in wonder as I recount it, for we are not speaking of a simple artifact or relic, but a home that cradled the Word made flesh. A home that carried the prayers of Mary, the labor of Joseph, the laughter and cries of the child Jesus. A home that angels themselves bore across the earth to preserve His legacy and sanctity. This is the very embodiment of God’s care, of His refusal to allow the world’s violence to trample the beginnings of salvation. And as I stand in awe, recounting each translation, each miraculous transport, each sacred encounter along the way, I am compelled to fall to my knees in reverence, to marvel at a God who moves houses as easily as hearts, who bends the laws of nature to preserve love incarnate, who whispers to us through stone and timber and legend alike: “Behold, I am with you, always, even to the end of the age.”

In that Holy House, the faithful found more than stories; they found the pulse of heaven. They found a tangible witness that God acts in history, that He intervenes in the world He loves, that He values the small and the humble because He values the Word made flesh who first walked among us there. Angels, history, devotion, scholarship, pious tradition, and the heart’s fire converge in that story, creating a testament to faith that cannot be contained in books alone. It must be spoken, lived, and felt. And oh, how I feel it now, sitting here, telling you this tale, my brothers and sisters, as if I too am breathing in the very incense of those centuries, as if the stones hum beneath my fingertips across time and space.

I can feel it in my bones, in the marrow of this Texas outlaw heart, the way a story like this grabs you and refuses to let go. Imagine, if you will, that modest, sacred house, lifted by angels from the hills of Nazareth, carried across seas under the cloak of night to lands strangers to its stones, yet touched by the same divine presence. I have never set foot on those floors myself—yet I close my eyes and step into imagination, and my soul rushes with the same fire that must have ignited the hearts of those first pilgrims, centuries ago. I can picture the three walls, simple and unassuming, standing without foundations, resting on earth that had been untouched by human hands, shells embedded beneath like traces of some holy voyage. To think, the house that cradled the very Son of God, where Mary whispered prayers to her infant child, was not torn apart or lost in the chaos of war, but preserved by God’s own hand—or at least by the angels He sent to guard it.

After the first miraculous flight, deposited on the Dalmatian coast at Tersatto, the house stayed there only for a handful of years, long enough for locals to witness miracles and for word to spread that something truly holy had appeared in their hills. Cures of the sick, visions of the Blessed Virgin, pilgrimages from nearby villages—these were the whispers that grew into a chorus of awe. And then, as the legend tells us, the angels moved it again, across the Adriatic, to that laurel grove near Recanati, Italy. Loreto was born of that grove, its very name a tribute to the trees that sheltered the Holy House. I imagine the angels in the night sky, carrying the stones with a quiet strength, the wind rushing past as if the world itself held its breath, the stars trembling in the wake of holiness in motion. Three additional local moves followed in the decade afterward, each short, yet each essential, as the house finally found its home on the public road in Loreto around 1296. The Basilica della Santa Casa would rise to encase it centuries later, but the house itself, the stones themselves, are the true relic, untouched and extraordinary.

I can almost see it from here, as if my spirit has flown across time and sea. I imagine stepping into the piazza of Loreto, the hum of pilgrims in the air, voices murmuring prayers in languages that span the world—Italian, Spanish, Polish, English, Latin. And there, at the heart of it all, the house. I have not been there, yet my imagination fills in every crack in the wall, every carved letter, every scratch of devotion left by hands desperate to leave a piece of themselves with the Holy Family. I feel my knees bend, my eyes widen, imagining the floor beneath me as the same floor upon which Mary had walked, upon which Jesus had toddled, played, and prayed. The sense of continuity, of connection across nearly two thousand years, is almost unbearable in its intensity. This is more than a building. This is God’s chosen vessel, carried by His messengers, preserved through time for our eyes, our hearts, our faith.

Through the centuries, Loreto became a beacon of devotion, a magnet for souls seeking grace. Popes traveled from Rome to kneel before the house, granting indulgences, issuing bulls, and planting the Church’s authority firmly upon its hallowed walls. Pope Julius II spoke of it “as is piously believed and reported,” acknowledging its miraculous journey while leaving room for the faithful to wonder at the mystery of the angels’ work. Sixtus V, in the late 16th century, elevated Loreto to the status of city, surrounding the house with the Renaissance splendor it deserved, Bramante’s dome crowning the sky above, marble screens of Sansovino’s craft framing its sacred stones. I imagine those popes stepping carefully through the Basilica, their prayers whispered through corridors heavy with incense, yet their hearts perhaps as overwhelmed as mine would be if I could stand there.

And the miracles—the astonishing cascade of grace that seems to pour from those walls even now! Stories recorded from centuries past speak of the lame walking, the blind seeing, the hearts of the faithful restored. Saints and holy men—Ignatius of Loyola, Alphonsus Liguori, Maximilian Kolbe, Thérèse of Lisieux—all drawn, in their time, to the aura that still hangs around Loreto like sunlight around a cloud. Blessed Anne Catherine Emmerich, in her visionary writings, described seven angels lifting the house over the sea, the wind whistling with the power of God. Even imagining it today, my heart races. I picture the angels’ wings, the divine fire in their eyes, the miraculous suspension between heaven and earth, moving what no human hands could have preserved.

Yet, the story is not just for awe; it is for understanding, for truth-seeking hearts. Scholars have traced archival evidence suggesting that the Angelos family—Byzantine nobles whose very name means “angels”—may have been the earthly hands that transported the stones, numbering and shipping them from Nazareth to Dalmatia, and from there to Italy, perhaps as part of a dowry. Coins and ledgers found centuries later point to human agency, and yes, the historian in me nods at the plausibility. But does this diminish the miracle? Not in my heart, outlaw poet that I am. The Church has not defined the angelic translation as dogma, yet it encourages devotion, allowing the faithful to stand at the crossroads of history and mystery, where faith and reason meet in reverent awe. The stones speak, whether lifted by wings or by hands, and the story—the story itself—is what lifts the soul.

Even today, the Holy House remains enshrined in the Basilica della Santa Casa, drawing millions of pilgrims from every corner of the earth. I imagine walking those streets someday, breathing in the air heavy with incense and history, peering through the gates at the small, unassuming house, and feeling the centuries press against me like a tide. Aviators honor Our Lady of Loreto, her feast day celebrated since 1920, and the faithful come to her with every petition, from the most humble prayer to the boldest plea. Replicas of the Holy House have sprung up across the world—from Prague to California—yet nothing can replace the gravity of the original, the miracle that has survived sieges, wars, skepticism, and time itself.

In my mind’s eye, I can see the floorboards where Jesus learned the rhythm of human life, the walls where Mary’s prayers echoed, the stone corners that held the Holy Family’s love. I imagine tracing them with reverent fingers, feeling the pulse of history in every crack, the heartbeat of faith in every stone. It is a pilgrimage of imagination and devotion, and even without my feet on that sacred floor, I am transported. The story—the miracle, the devotion, the awe—is alive in me, and I feel it in the same way a pilgrim must have felt centuries ago, standing in the shadow of angels and saints, staring at the house that God Himself preserved.

And so, I sit here, telling you the tale as it has been handed down through faith and history, through legend and devotion, through scholarship and mystery. The house of Mary, Joseph, and Jesus—the humble cradle of the Incarnation—survived the tides of history, carried by angels or guided by human hands, arriving finally in the hills of Loreto, Italy. Today, it stands, enshrined, honored, loved, a testament to God’s providence and the enduring power of faith. I cannot claim to have stood upon its floor, but I can dream, imagine, and believe, and perhaps in that dreaming and believing, I am closer to the miracle than I have ever been before. And when the world seems cold and faith is scarce, I return to that vision, that story, that fiery truth: that God, in His infinite love, preserved a home for His Son, and in doing so, left us a miracle to cherish for all time.

I want to be honest with you, pilgrim-style, heart open. Angels—yes, tradition holds that angels moved the house—but the story has layers, and the historical trail adds depth to the miracle. After leaving Nazareth, the house was first reported on the coast of Dalmatia at Tersatto (modern-day Croatia). Church documents record miracles, and local records mention pilgrims arriving there to witness healings attributed to Mary’s presence. The House didn’t linger long; it seems the need to preserve it from Muslim invasions prompted another miraculous translation—this time across the Adriatic to Italy, landing in a forested area near Recanati. By around 1296, it had arrived in Loreto, where a small chapel was built to protect the walls.

Here’s where scholarship intersects with devotion. Historians note that the stones’ journey could align with Byzantine trade networks. Some documents suggest that the “translation” may have been assisted by the Angelo family, who had both the means and incentive to transport sacred relics for the protection of the Church. Yet, at every stage, witnesses—pilgrims, clergy, chroniclers—testified that the house arrived intact and unaltered, its stones unbroken despite the long and perilous journey. The Church itself has allowed devotion to this story without formally defining it as dogma. Pope Sixtus V authorized the basilica to enclose the house in the late 16th century, commissioning architects like Bramante and builders like Sansovino.

Archaeological study of the stones reveals a mix of limestone consistent with Nazareth quarries, confirming that at least some elements are from the Holy Land. Carbon dating and architectural analysis suggest that walls, windows, and foundations predate their Italian context, supporting the theory that the structure originated in the first century. Some scholars argue that these could have been salvaged or replicated locally, yet faithful pilgrims report an undeniable aura of sanctity. Pilgrimage registers from the 15th century onward show thousands arriving annually, many documenting miraculous healings and answered prayers.

Even as a Texan, imagining the house today, I can feel its historical gravity. The Holy House is enclosed within the Basilica della Santa Casa, a Renaissance marvel with a domed ceiling, marble floors, and elaborate altars, yet inside the walls remain simple, humble, and unchanged—Mary’s home in all its ordinary, miraculous glory. Popes from Julius II to Francis have recognized it as a place of pilgrimage, granting indulgences and papal blessings. Aviators honor Mary of Loreto as the patroness of air travel, connecting the miraculous journey of the house to the modern world’s own travels across sky and sea.

And yet, I am careful. I have not visited. I do not claim firsthand experience. But I study, imagine, and marvel. I trace the path on maps: Nazareth to Tersatto to Recanati to Loreto. I follow the footnotes of chroniclers: Emmerich’s visions, 17th-century Italian annals, letters from popes and bishops. The story is rich, layered, and astonishing, not only for its mystical elements but for the tangible traces of history it left behind.

It’s a miracle, yes, but also a bridge: between first-century Nazareth, medieval Europe, and the world today. Every brick, every scratch on the wood, every fossil in the limestone tells a story. And in that story, I see faith preserved, devotion carried across continents, and a tangible reminder that the Holy Family’s life on earth was not lost to time but lovingly protected—by angels, perhaps, or by providential human hands, or both.

And now, pilgrim, hear me: sit with the weight of this miracle in your chest, feel it pressing into your bones, because if God could orchestrate angels to lift a house—a home where His own Mother and the Savior Himself lived—from the hills of Nazareth across the seas to protect it from the violence of men, then what, I ask you, is impossible for Him? If He can do that for stones, for walls, for a house… how much more can He do for you? You. Yes, you, sitting there with every flaw, every failure, every sin pressing down like a millstone around your neck. You who have screamed at the heavens, who have walked in darkness, who have offended Him with thoughts, words, and deeds that make your soul ache even now. You who feel unworthy, unclean, unseen.

Listen close. That same God, the Creator of heaven and earth, the Author of the angels’ wings that bore the Holy House across oceans, sent His Son to die for your sorry butt. Think about that for a moment. Not someone else—you. Jesus of Nazareth, God incarnate, the Lamb without blemish, laid down His life on a wooden cross, the wood splintered beneath His weight, the nails driven through His hands and feet, the crown of thorns digging into His holy head, all for you. Every lie you’ve told, every betrayal, every moment you chose yourself over Him, every time you spat in the face of His law and mercy—He died for it. He took it all. And not because you deserved it, but because He loved you.

Do you hear me? His blood is that powerful. It is rivers of mercy, oceans of grace, fire hotter than the fiercest brimstone, enough to wash clean every soul that ever existed, every soul that ever drew breath and walked the earth. Every murderer, every thief, every liar, every proud, every broken-hearted, every sinner too ashamed to lift their eyes—the blood of Jesus flows over it all. The house of Mary, carried by angels to preserve the cradle of the Incarnation, is a whisper of His love. The incarnation itself is a declaration of His obsession with humanity, His relentless pursuit of you even when you do not seek Him.

And I’ll tell you something, outlaw poet to wandering soul: the time is now. God is not waiting for tomorrow, for some nebulous “someday” when you might feel ready, when the world might align in your favor, when your heart might stop trembling with fear and pride. He is here. He is calling. Right now, He is saying: Come. Turn. Believe. Be saved. There is no greater power, no greater hope, than to throw yourself fully into His arms, to say: Jesus, I am yours. Forgive me. Change me. Live in me.

I see you, struggling, thinking maybe you can fix yourself, maybe you can earn it, maybe you can pay your own way back into favor. Let me save you the trouble: you can’t. The Holy House itself, cradling the Son of God, moved by angels, is proof enough that human hands cannot protect what God desires to save. You are the child of a Father who bends the laws of heaven, who moves the impossible into the possible, who stands at the edge of eternity with His arms outstretched, waiting for you to leap. Don’t hesitate. Don’t bargain. Don’t stall. Today is the day of salvation. Today is the hour of mercy. Today, for the first and maybe the last time, you can surrender fully and find the grace your soul has been starving for.

Feel that fire, pilgrim. The fire of a God who loves recklessly, who moves mountains, who commands angels to carry homes to keep a promise. That fire is in your chest now if you open your heart to Him. Let it consume the doubt, the fear, the pride, the bitterness. Let it burn away the lies you tell yourself about being too far gone, too dirty, too broken. His blood covers it all. His love raises you from the ashes. His mercy is a hammer shattering every chain that binds your spirit.

And so, make the choice. Choose Him. Choose life over death, light over darkness, salvation over sin. Cry out to Jesus right now, wherever you are, and say: Jesus, I believe. Save me. Come into my life. Make me Yours. Step into the story of His love, the story that began in Nazareth, cradled in the Holy House, carried by angels, and still echoes through time like the wings of heaven itself. Stand, pilgrim, and be transformed. Stand, sinner, and be washed. Stand, lost soul, and be found.

And know this as you make your choice, as you surrender and rise and walk in the newness of life: “For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.” Let that stand as the final trumpet call to your spirit. That is the last word, the final truth, the declaration that the God who moved a house for His beloved Mother moves hearts for His beloved children. And you, pilgrim, are His.

~ by Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

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