In the last month, I've been privileged to participate in two remarkable reunions. The first was with my Junior High band director, now in his upper 80s. Then came an invitation to participate in a “Marching Mustangs” high school band event.

Our high school band director, also in his late 80s, flew in from Arizona, and we had dinner together. Then, we alumni rehearsed with the current band, marched out onto the field, and played the school fight song for the homecoming game. Under the bright lights, it felt like a time warp—like I was back decades ago.

What a blast sharing the evening with my brother, Tom—who played trumpet—and sister, Susan—who played flute and was the drum major in her senior year. The thing that shocked me was…. Okay, I’ll just say it.   Everybody looked old. Really old.

Granted, I hadn’t seen most of these people since Ronald Reagan was president, but still, I was caught off guard. (And just think, they all said the same thing about me!).

My state of melancholy morphed into full-blown sadness when I pondered the cause of all this—the lingering effects of sin. Not one hunky football player, not one cute cheerleader, not one homecoming queen escapes the reach of its wrinkle-making, hair-thinning, life-choking grasp. And then we die!

Ah, but for the believer, there's more to the story. There's a better reunion coming. In heaven, our lives will be restored, our bodies will be new, and—best of all—"so shall we ever be with the Lord."

Will you be at that reunion?

For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the voice of an archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will always be with the Lord. Therefore, encourage one another with these words.

-1 Thessalonians 4:16-18

I suffer from an addiction.

Books.

I love the way they look, the way they feel—even the way they smell. I cannot pass up a bookstore, book stall, or library without perusing. And my biggest distraction at any airport is the spinning rack or sprawling stack of books.

Don't get me wrong. A Kindle is fun—and mighty handy. But there's something profound about cradling a beautifully crafted volume.

Likely, that's why Psalm 139:16 arrested my attention. David writes, "Your eyes have seen my formless substance; and in Your book were written all the days that were ordained for me when as yet there was not one of them."

Consider: your days are all ordained. Which means there's a plan for your life, a story arc. And if our days are ordained, it means Someone is doing the ordaining—God.

When you write a book, the publisher assigns you an editor who has the last word on everything: content, style, deadline, and even the cover. David reminds us that not only is God our Maker, but He's also our Editor.

Regarding the number of our days, there was a time when “there was not one of them.” Likewise, there will be a time when our days are no longer.

I have yet to read a book that doesn't have a front cover—and a back, a beginning—and an end. Likewise, in the plot line of your life, God will, at some point, say, "This is the end." And it will be.

Yet, in another sense, that moment will only be the beginning of eternity. For believers, eternity is our “story after the story.” But we have only a relatively few chapters here on earth to make a difference in that unending adventure.

I don't know how many pages remain in your narrative—or mine. But shouldn't those pages—every single one of them—be inked, underlined, and highlighted with stories of our courage, compassion, and Christ-exalting service?

Do you merely dislike sin—or do you hate sin? The question is about much more than semantics.

In Psalm 101:3, David pledges, “I will set no worthless thing before my eyes; I hate the work of those who fall away; It shall not cling to me.”

Notice that David didn’t say he “disliked” sin. The word here is hate. And God uses that same word—hate—to describe a long list of sins He despises.

The big deal? When we simply “dislike” sin, we inevitably tolerate it—and even toy with it. It gains a toehold, if not a foothold, in our lives.

I dislike my messy office desk, but apparently, I don’t hate it because I tolerate piles on my desk and even piles on the floor. If I truly hated it, I would get rid of the mess. This is nothing less than the sin of laziness or lack of self-discipline.

Spurgeon says, “What fascinates the eye is very apt to gain admission into the heart.”

Many are driven by lust—which certainly fascinates the eye—and so, at some level, we engage it. Others of us toy with greed, laziness, or extreme ambition. On good days, we avoid these sins (we dislike them). But at other times, we engage them (down deep, we like them). So, we feed them and give them lodging in our hearts.

In other words, we are part-time sin-haters. Which is another way of saying we are part-time sin lovers. But John Owen's warning still shouts about the fray: “Be killing sin, or sin will be killing you!” 

I say again, a part-time sin hater is also a part-time sin lover. Then what’s the way out? How do we learn the art of “killing sin?”

Matthew Henry advises, "In all our worldly business, we must see that what we set our eyes upon be right and good and not any forbidden fruit, and that we never seek that which we cannot have without sin. It is the character of a good man that he shuts his eyes from seeing evil." 

All of this sounds remarkably similar to Philippians 4:8: "...whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, think about these things."

But I leave the final word with Spurgeon, who offers this succinct advice: “Hatred of sin is a good sentinel for the door of virtue.”

Lord,

Help us lock the door on sin—and throw away the key. Help us stop being part-time sin-haters. We want to love you more —and love you only.

Amen!

The immersive green textures drenched us in beauty as the tractor hauled us deeper into the woods. I suggested to five-year-old Emma that we have a “looking party,” pausing to notice and thank God for all His creation. We did.

But why isn’t this a way of life for us grownups? I’m convinced there’s a price we pay for not really looking. First, we cease to be thankful. Second, we cease even to notice the magic. Doubt my claim?

When was the last time you looked up at the sliver-cratered moon of ours and whispered, “Praise God!”

Do we see those geese honking overhead during their formation flights? Even if they’re not honking, the sound of their wind-whipped wings is awesome.

When did we last inhale the fragrance that only autumn unbottles?

And how does God paint such bombastic shades of red on the tree leaves?

When was the last time you stood reverently in a field of corn and enjoyed the symphony of an early morning breeze making music in the drying stalks?

God's creation offers a staggering amount of beauty—yet much of it passes by daily without our thanks. Worse, we fail even to notice it.

But what if we chose differently? What if we scheduled a daily "looking party" —a moment when we chose to notice—and thank God—for His creative touches?

Our cloud-crafting, moon-making, sky-painting, God generates an original never-to-be-repeated show every single day. And night. A “looking party” might be just what you need to notice—and thank Him for it!

It is I who made the earth and created mankind on it. My own hands stretched out the heavens; I marshaled their starry hosts.

-Isaiah 45:12

Are you a conversational narcissist?

Most of us are good talkers but lousy listeners. So, here's how to know if your conversations are consistently more about you than anyone you're talking with:

• You give little or no focus to what other people tell you.
• Your undying preoccupation is laser-locked on what you're going to say next.
• You habitually hijack conversational subjects and steer them toward your own interests and experiences.
• Your stories are always "better" or "more important" than anyone else's—therefore, more worthy of airtime.

Most of us love to talk more than listen. That’s garden variety selfishness. But conversational narcissists are me-monster addicts. They’ve never encountered a chat that couldn’t become all about them. Protest all you like, but if that’s really you, your friends and family already know.

I'm reading a book called How to Listen with Intention. Author Patrick King points out, "Conversational narcissism may look on its surface like a regular conversation, but on closer inspection, it actually resembles two people spouting monologues"—and they're right next to each other!

The problem is as old and knotty as sin itself. The answer? Patrick King suggests, "Listening well requires that you suspend your own self-interest and ego and gracefully allow someone else to shine." This sounds remarkably like Philippians 2:4--

Do not merely look out for your own personal interests, but also for the interests of others.

Our conversations say everything about our interests in others, our Savior—and ourselves. Maybe a good next step for all of us is to simply say less—much less—and listen more. Much more!

Understand this, my dear brothers and sisters: You must all be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to get angry

- James 1:19