Being an older sibling has its advantages.

Disadvantages, too.

Take Caleb and Lucy.

He’s two-and-a-half.  She’s one-and-a-half.

 In an early march toward the “terrible twos” Lucy has chosen to resolve sibling conflict utilizing her teeth.  Her well exercised jaws (Lucy is an eager eater) and full set of teeth are formidable weapons.

As Caleb is her most frequent playmate, he is also the most frequent recipient of her biting.  Lucy’s parents are doing a terrific job of discipline.  Yet Lucy is of the strong-willed stripe.  If she feels a bite comin’ on…woe be to you if your finger should get near her mouth.

But if Lucy’s mouth leaves a red mark, Caleb’s mouth is leaving an impression all his own. His weapons are words.

To any guest—friend or stranger—who enters their home, Caleb will gladly march up, point to his little sister Lucy and proclaim with gravitas: “Hers a biter.”

Like you, I laughed when I first heard about Caleb’s preemptive strike.  In three unflattering words, he defines the universe of all you need to know about his little sister: “Hers a biter.”

Missing from his three word assessment is that Lucy also has a love of books, a tender heart, and a way of putting her head on your shoulder that makes you melt.

We laugh at Lucy and Caleb (hey, they’re our grandkids!)…but you and I do the same thing: paint a person, or entire culture, with one broad brush—and two or three unflattering words:

• “They’re snobby…”
• “They’re lazy…”
• “They’re untrustworthy…

In so doing, we shut down dialogue, tear down bridges, and violate Scripture.  Ephesians 4:32: “Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving each other, just as God in Christ also has forgiven you.”

Let’s stop with the two-year-old behavior.

After all, grown-ups should know better.

If I twist my neck hard enough, I can see the disappearing shores of Lake Michigan out the window of our aircraft.  Frankly, I've had to discipline myself to take in the view.  That's right; force myself to gaze down on the majesty of a spring morning from 20,000 feet.

Bombastic clouds throw mottled patterns on the landscape below.  The green of the young season is so intense as to appear unnaturally tweaked in Photoshop.  Yet I scarcely notice any of it.

 Is it tiredness?  Perhaps. But the truth is much worse.  I'm no longer in awe.  Too many early morning plane rides.

I'm reminded of another early morning jet flight, my first.  Dad took me with him on a business trip up to Michigan. I remember every exquisite detail: the sounds, the smells, the clack of the seat buckle.

Dad had described the take-off experience so vividly, I wanted more than anything to feel the sensation of the nose lifting up higher than the rest of the aircraft. The take-off did not disappoint but my fellow passengers did.   The guy across the aisle read a magazine, bored.  Many others were lost in newspapers, and still more trying to doze off.  All of this while amazing scenery rushed by outside the window. How could they? I thought.  Mystery and marvel were there for the taking, but alas, went unspoken for.

I swore then and there I would never let that happen to me—that I would remain wide-eyed and in awe of the experience.  If a yawn is the currency of boredom, familiarity asks too high a price.   Yet here I am.  Weary and wonderless.

 As repetition dulls the edge of wonder, the sharper-than-any-two-edged-Sword

offers a focal point for restoration: “God thunders with His voice wondrously, doing great things which we cannot comprehend” (Job 37:5).

Look out your window.  Look now.  There's wonder out there!

Have you ever had a book reach out and grab you?
 
It happened to me recently in the library at Moody Bible Institute. Walking past shelves of missionary volumes, I was unable to resist their siren call.  I made the mistake of slowing down long enough to pick up a few of the wonderful books reaching out to me.   The covers were mesmerizing: 
 

• Amid Artic Snows--A Story of Gospel Pioneers in Iceland

• The Martyrs of Blantyre

• James Harrington--The Merchant’s Son Who was Martyred for Africa

• In Leper land—A Record of my 7,000 Miles among Indian lepers

 
Many of the books included subtitles speaking of longevity in the field: “My thirty years in the jungle” or “Forty years of desert ministry.”
 
The longer I spent pondering these volumes of valor, the more a question nagged at me.  Are we as fully committed and fully engaged in the missionary movement today as were the Martyrs of Blantyre or The Merchant’s Son Who was Martyred for Africa?
 
It seems like in America, more and more people do a “short term missionary project”…yet fewer consider full time missionary service.  I know a number of missionaries who went to the field for a few years and called it quits. 
 
Sure, God might well call someone to a career change.  Still, I wonder.  Has missions lost its mojo?  Is our zeal for the Great Commission…less than great?
 
I’m all for “short term missions”…but not at the expense of long term missions.
Let’s resist the urge to say, “I’ve been to Africa.  I did my missions thing.” Why not, instead, ask God if His adventure for your life might well be somewhere “over there” rather than here?
 
If the fields were “white unto harvest” in Jesus’ day, surely they are no less ready for harvest in ours!

“Honestly, I'd pretty much given up,” said my friend, Jack, boring a hole through me with his intense look. 

“You can't mean that,” I countered.

“I do.  We'd been trying and trying to get together with Bud and his wife for months.”  (Bud is Jack's unsaved friend, whom Jack has been praying for more than 30 years.  Yet Bud still hasn't received Christ).  Jack went on.

“We've called them, invited them to dinner repeatedly (our treat of course).  But it's somehow never been 'the right time.'”

“Well maybe it wasn't,” I agreed.

“Maybe.  But as my wife pointed out, it's a two-way street.  Bud could just as easily call us, if he was interested.”  Jack had me there.  He went on.

“That's why I finally prayed and said to God, 'Look, maybe this chapter in our lives is over.  Maybe this thing with Bud is done.  That's okay.  I won't force this.  I just ask that you have someone else around Bud and his wife who knows Jesus and is really caring for Bud, praying for him.”  Jack's pause indicated he wanted me to ask him what happened next.

“So what happened next?”

“Well, my son and I were at Home Depot shortly after that prayer, looking for lumber.  Inside of 30 seconds, you'll never guess who snuck up behind us?”

“Bud?” I asked.

“Exactly!”  Jack had this big ol' smile on his face.  “He gave us all kinds of advice for our building project—advice we frankly needed. He even told us the specific hardware we needed to get...walked us over to the aisle where we could find it.  Then he was gone—stocking up on materials for his own job.”

“So how'd that make you feel?”

“Incredible.  Like...I was seeing the hand of God...as if the Almighty was suggesting that maybe this thing with Bud was not 'over.'  I wonder if God has another chapter He wants to write.  Not trying to go too crazy with this, of course.  But the timing is just too weird to dismiss as coincidence.”

Hearing all this makes me believe there really is a place for bold praying.  Like Jack's.   Maybe I'm praying “too small.”

You?

You've seen funnel clouds.

You've seen tornadoes.

But imagine a path of destruction more than 20 miles long.

Such a tornado touched down recently in north central Illinois, not far from where my wife and I often visit on weekends.   Cruising through this rural area is no longer a peaceful drive.  A restaurant we've eaten at was leveled by the storm.  So were dozens of homes and farms.   We managed to get up close to some of the wreckage and I snapped some pictures--a soul-darkening experience.

The photos don't begin to do justice to the violence: mangled farm implements, trucks tossed onto their backs... scraps of insulation, chunks of wood, metal fragments jammed at obtuse angles into the ground.  The odd assortment of upright fragments made front yards appear like cemeteries to the dead and dismembered homes all around. 

In a scene recalling the planting of the American flag on Iwo Jima, I saw one worker atop a knocked over grain silo, seemingly determined to get the thing set up right. Most shocking of all were the eerily clean cement slabs where houses had stood— driveways now leading to nowhere. 

There was one (literal) bright spot in all of this destruction: Samaritan's Purse, Franklin Graham's relief organization.  The orange tee-shirts of the volunteer workers were impossible to miss.  The workers cleared trees, hauled wheelbarrows and moved mountains of debris.

By contrast, I didn't happen to see any volunteers from the American Civil Liberties Union or Americans United for Separation of Church and State.  No, the people digging through the mud were followers of Jesus, serving as His hands and feet.  A reminder that rescue is never far from the heart of Christ.

Psalm 147:3, “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”