|Thursday, June 16, 2022|
It’s become a morning ritual. Yawning in the kitchen, my wife and I ask each other, How did you sleep? Often, the answer is, “Not so good.” For many of us, there’s a story that usually tumbles out—accompanied by a complaint:
Now, I like (and need) sleep as much as the next person. A European study of almost 25,000 people demonstrated that sleeping six hours or less was associated with a 40 percent increased risk of developing cancer compared to folks getting seven hours of sleep or more. But where do any of us get the notion that we somehow deserve good sleep?
Ecclesiastes 5:12 comments, “Sweet is the sleep of a laborer.” That generalization is true, but there’s no promise implied. Psalm 4:8 remarks, "In peace, I will both lie down and sleep, for you alone O Lord, make me dwell in safety." Lovely testimony—but again, no bulletproof guarantees.
Here’s what I think. Sleep is a gift. It’s always been a gift. And because we’ve enjoyed so much of it for so many years, we’ve come to view sleep as an entitlement: We should experience sleep whenever we want, as much as we want, as often as we want. But maybe we need to learn to see sleep as the gracious gift of a merciful Creator rather than an inherent right.
The truth is, you and I live in a fallen world. Sin has impacted everything—including our quality of sleep. How could that not be so? Why, then, should we complain when we don’t get as much as we think we need?
What if we turned our daily whining into daily gratitude toward God? Example: Thanks for the sleep I DID enjoy. I had no right to a single snore—but thank you for your kindness, Lord.
We are forgiven sinners, you and I, indebted forever to a merciful God. Which means sleep is not a right—it’s a gift.
|Seeing, But Not Seeing
|Thursday, June 09, 2022|
The day was gray and unseasonably cold. On my hurried walk from the train station to Moody Radio’s studios, I saw a small bird trembling on the sidewalk.
As I approached, the bird should have flown away or attempted to run away. It did neither. Was it sick? Injured? Born with a flying disability? I have no idea. He appeared well-fed. But if a bird can seem dejected, she/he certainly did, quivering on the cold cement.
How like our world. Day after day, you and I go about our lives—typically in a hurry. Meaning that we walk past people—lots of them. And some of those we pass, like that little bird, are just not right.
Just like that bird, these people were designed to fly, but now they’re grounded. Quivering. Shivering in the cold.
The problem: We see them, but we don’t see them. At least not enough to care or help.
But wouldn’t Jesus see them? Wouldn’t Jesus help them?
And if He could, shouldn’t we?
Couldn’t we at least start there?
Today, keep your eyes open and your heart soft. There’s a flightless bird on the path ahead. Our broken world is full of them.
|Dare You to Pray Differently
|Thursday, June 02, 2022|
When you pray at mealtimes, do you say the same things the same way? My guess is many of us tend to pray the same way—ad infinitum.
But how would you feel if you were God and you heard, “Bless this meal to our body’s use” a hundred times in a row from the same person? Wouldn’t it begin to feel more like an automated phone message—your call is important to us—rather than the honest expression of a grateful heart? Considering the many ways the Lord has blessed, provided, rescued—and fed us, don’t you think we could invest just a tad more effort in our prayers—and not just at mealtime?
I can hear someone say, “Hey, don’t judge my prayer life!” I’m not. Just thinking out loud here. Remember, I struggle, too. But would we really think we’ve done right if we said to our five-year-old son, "I love you," but never shared why? What if we never once bothered to explain why we love our eight-year-old daughter? Never mentioned a thing we appreciated about her, like her kindness or helpful spirit. Wouldn’t our words sound hollow?
Pastor Michael Easley once challenged us, "I dare you to say grace differently today than yesterday. I dare you to pray differently in your devotional time today than yesterday." His words still confront me.
At a recent breakfast, five-year-old Ava volunteered to pray for the meal. But her three-year-old sister, Emma, was certainly not to be outdone. She insisted on adding a double blessing. Her prayer ended with, "Thank you for the great food. Thanks—(giggle)—Amen."
How refreshing to hear that word, thanks, in back-to-back sentences. I’m not sure I’ve ever giggled for joy while praying, but I’m guessing God found Emma’s giggle real—and refreshing.
I dare you to pray differently.
|Thursday, May 26, 2022|
While plopped on the couch one night, I placed an Amazon order for a ceiling fan. Would you believe it was perched on our porch the next morning at 6:30? Another time I ordered some office supplies at 11:00 am. By 3:00 that afternoon, guess what was waiting on our porch?
Boy! Wasn’t all that long ago when TV marketers urged us, “Allow six to eight weeks for delivery.”
But now, second-day-air is ancient history, and Fed-Ex overnight has ceased to dazzle. We have tasted—indeed, increasingly expect—same-day delivery.
Yet, I wonder. Does all this click-today-get-today consumerism school us in unholy expectations? Does our immediate acquisition of stuff create a sense of “give it to me now” when it comes to the spiritual life?
We’re told to pray without ceasing. But prayer is not a portal to instant answers.
Don’t get me wrong. I want answers to my prayers as fast as the next person. But maybe we need to be reminded that there are schedules more important than ours.
Assuredly, things in the storehouses of heaven run on a different timetable—God’s.
|Just in Case
|Thursday, May 19, 2022|
While still a tadpole himself, our son Tim liked fishing. Whenever we camped, Tim wanted to fish. But we were not always prepared. With two young kids in a pop-up camper, Diana and I thought we were doing great just to remember the cooler and the clothes, let alone bait for the fish.
One unprepared weekend, we were desperate and asked George—whose trailer was next to ours—if by any chance he had any nightcrawlers we could “borrow.” He did and was only too glad to share.
On another occasion, a fish swallowed Tim’s hook, and we had no extras. Would George have one? Of course. Years rolled by, and we realized that whatever I'd forgotten, George usually stocked—and was kind enough to share: bobbers, weights, worms, whatever.
Only when Tim was grown up did we learn the rest of the story. Diana and I took George and his wife, Julie, out to dinner, and we swapped stories about kids and camping. Eventually, the conversation turned to our many ill-stocked fishing expeditions—and George's routine rescues.
Julie smiled and squeezed her husband's hand, saying, "You know, George stocked up on worms just for you guys. Every week." The man actually bought worms "just in case."
Last weekend, we attended a memorial service for George, and lots of folks shared lots of memories. Me? I’ll never forget the kindness of that quiet friend who seemed determined that our little boy had a good time at the lake.
Know anybody who seems unprepared for the curveball life has thrown their way? They’re hurting, and feeling helpless—maybe even hopeless. I bet you’ve got something they could use: a meal, a hand, a card, a call, a smile.
Better stock up—just in case.
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