In my line of work, projects come and projects go. I’m blessed that some make it my way, and in hindsight, I’m blessed that others did not.

A professor once told me, “If you are good at your job, you will land about 10% of what you bid. And for you math majors out there, that means you have a 90% failure rate.” A tough pill for a wide-eyed college student to swallow, but it has proved to be true.

One such project came along, but I spent more time being a guess-itmator than estimator. After months of negotiation – add this, subtract that, and an endless pile of what-ifs, we got the nod.

Woo-hoo. Celebrate.

Everywhere but on my desk.
My notes were a disaster.

I expect I had some control of the chaos at the time, but I’ve slept a night or two since then. I still needed to force it all into a box and tie a pretty bow on top.

Retracing the steps I could decipher, I added and subtracted, striking through each number as I went, leaving breadcrumbs as it were. If it didn’t match up, I had a clean back up and could start again.

Numbers had been highlighted, check marks had been rechecked, and it was time for the all-important… recalculation.

I stopped.
Closed my eyes.
Said a prayer.
And pressed the button.

Opening only one eye, as if that would make a difference, the total had come within three hundred dollars on a multi million-dollar contract. I pointed to the heavens like an athlete in the end zone and said,

“You, Lord, are perfection.”

Now I claim be a math-elite at times, but I couldn’t have come that close without the One Who numbers my days and counts the very hairs on my head (though lately, that has been an easier task).

All the questions, all the doubts, and the piles of paper I drudged through, were but puzzle pieces in the Hands of the Almighty, perfectly formed to fit when and where He needed them.

Perfection in chaos.
Order in disorder.

We, as imperfect beings, are very much the same, lost in a crowd, our voices fading into the noise, until we are put into the place God needs us to be.

Father, please grant me strength to be ready and the patience to wait until You move me.

Amen…

Blessed is the one who does not walk in step with the wicked or stand in the way that sinners take or sit in the company of mockers, but whose delight is in the law of the Lord, and who meditates on his law day and night. Psalm 1

I was there, walking down that road, in step with the mockers. I try to avoid those situations and delight in the law of the Lord, but today, circumstances were beyond my control. A few bawdy jokes, and questionable language and I was looking for an easy exit.

A bit of locker room humor is not so bad, or so I thought. But as we parted ways, less than ideal conversation didn’t just fade into the background. My thoughts were consumed by it, until I was drawn into places I did not want to be.

It is said, “The eyes are the window to the soul” which means they reveal what is deep inside, yet a window opens both ways. Light shining in can illuminate our inner spaces. Darkness does quite the opposite.

On an artist’s palette, Titanium White is pure and brilliant, but the slightest touch of black can turn the canvas into a gray, muddy mess.

Such was my heart.

I tried to pass the blame, but it was I who stumbled into a battle without armor, unprepared. Paths I’d long since traveled still remained, overgrown but not erased, and it was far too easy to drift back in that direction.

Blessed is the one…  whose delight is in the law of the Lord, and who meditates on his law day and night. That person is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither—whatever they do prospers. Psalm 1

Yet, finding my way back to those waters can be daunting when mud and tangled vines of the past wrap my heart in chains.

Then, a whisper in my ear:

… There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit who gives life has set you free from the law of sin and death. Romans 8:1-2

Jesus breaks the chains of regret
And leads us through the change of repentance
And redemption.

I am grateful.

Amen.

I have a friend whose husband had heart problems. We prayed for strength and healing. He did regain his strength, but so was tired. He ultimately was healed, just not this side of heaven. He’d said he was ready, but God was not ready for him, yet. He was at peace. He fell asleep at her side and woke up in the arms of Jesus. Hallelujah.

His wife is one to over-react to everything, but that morning, there was none of that… just peace. She calmly told her family, “He left in the night.”

It’s hard to find the right words, as if there truly are any. A hug was the best I could do. I fumbled with, “I’m sorry to hear it, but not sorry for the way God called him home.”

She said he had a relaxed look on his face.
That must be what heaven is like.

Outside, there were butterflies. And being a big fan of the Grinch, her husband had given her a flag to fly during the holidays. Then, a butterfly landed on the Grinch’s nose. She smiled.  Everything was alright.

Her children asked if she was going to church Sunday morning. She said, “If nothing else, she was going to church.” Taking labored steps out the door, she saw a red bird perched on his truck.
“Okay, okay, I’m going.”

When our hearts are crushed, eloquent words or grand gestures have little effect. Its then God holds us closer and sends something as simple as a butterfly or a red bird to remind us. He is there. He is always there.

My heart is broken for my friend.

I went by to check on her.
She smiled and waved.

Today, she will:
Wake up, again.
Take a breath, again.
Thank God for another day.
And take that day
One day at a time.

Sound advice for those of us still here, until the day we are reunited.

I have a friend whose wife has been in poor health for some time. Recent events and the resulting stress landed her in the ICU. With nothing to do but watch and wait, his mind searched for someone to blame for the pain, hers and his.

There is another whose husband needed a heart procedure. Thankfully, it was fairly routine, but there are some underlying problems and he is just tired.

I did what I could to lift them up and prayed for strength and healing. One is showing improvement, the other? Still waiting.

Simply saying, “I know what you’re going through, and God has this under control” seem like empty platitudes, but I have been there, alone in a cold hospital room, listening to beeps and buzzers and watching to make sure they’re still breathing. I have felt the same frustrations and cried, “God, why did this happen and why haven’t You healed it yet?”

In exhaustion, I finally closed my eyes.

Then, He whispered things that had no words, only that He is God, Creator of all things, Gracious Healer, lover of our souls. And I slept, if only for a moment.

In the deepest corners of my mind, my imagination can take me to wondrous places or if left unchecked, down a rabbit-hole. Today was one of those days.

I considered avoiding one friend, afraid she would not be at her appointed post, and things had not turned out as we had prayed for. Thankfully, she was there, but I could see the weight in her eyes.

I shuddered at each phone call dreading bad news and the “what-if” monster came out to play. What if this or that and I dragged myself into a dark place.

Then God caught my heart and said:

This is not your battle to fight.
It’s Mine.
And I’ve already won.
Trust Me.

As I began to climb out of the rabbit-hole, I could hear the Queen of Hearts and the Mad Hatter laughing as if I were the fool. However,

… the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God.  1 Corinthians 1:18

The Power of God.

If you have an extra moment today, please pray for my friends and family. God knows who and why.

Blessed are You, Lord God, King of Creation. I know You can and I know You will. I just don’t know when or where. Grant us peace, the patience to wait, and the strength to endure until then.

May You be glorified.

Amen …

Rain. Blessed rain.

I spent most of the morning escorting folks through the downpour into church. We had waited so long that most everyone was in a good mood, and it was contagious.

Settling into a pew, still a bit wet from sharing umbrellas, I read through the scriptures for the day. The Gospel recounted Jesus’ last words on the cross, one criminal mocking Him, the other asking to be remembered when Jesus comes into His Kingdom. “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do,” and it was finished.

Glancing at my hands, the surrounding joy faded into an awkward silence. I was covered in black crud, undoubtedly from umbrellas that hadn’t seen rain in a really long time. But there was more there than soap and water could wash away.

Was I the mocking thief, or the begging thief, or one in the crowd shouting, “Crucify Him?” The dirt I saw behind the dirt told the story. My sin is why He was there.

Our communion wafers are thinly pressed into perfect circles, and before I receive it, I break it half. Jesus said to “do this in remembrance” and I remember He was broken for me.

A scene from Shakespeare came to mind where Lady Macbeth had urged her husband to kill the king. When her guilt took hold, she’d rub her hands trying to wash off blood that wasn’t there. She would cry, “Out, damned spot! Out I say.” The filth on my hands garnered a similar reaction.

A leftover drop of rain ran cold down my neck as Jesus said, “Truly I tell you. Today you will be with me in paradise.” Forgiven. Welcomed into Glory.

The dirt behind the dirt faded into blood that wasn’t really there… His blood. Cleansed. Washed white as snow.

The world will rub and rub, scrape and claw, but will never remove these blood stains. The ones that set me free.

Thank you, Jesus.

The pre-dawn sky was crisp and clear, every star on full display. But in my heart, fog clouded my vision. The weekend prior had been a time of recovery and restoration, both body and soul.

Retreating to quiet spaces, the Lord invited me to walk and talk like old friends do. The sharing of bread and wine nourished my aching soul and I rose again, ready to face the days ahead.

It must’ve struck a nerve, because evil came at me hard, striking heavy blows against the rock I stand upon. The constant barrage un-steadied my footing. Doubt and fear crept in. I sought the Lord with more tears than words, because He knows my heart and the Spirit intercedes on my behalf when I’ve nothing left to pray.

A full moon commanded the night sky, yet the weight on my shoulders kept my eyes from lifting upwards. Then an Air-Life helicopter flew past carrying someone in greater need of Grace, so I paused, and poured out all I had left… for them.

I couldn’t catch my breath. I fought. I pushed. Through a mixture of tears and sweat, I was broken.

A dear friend pointed out how the moon had turned from a brilliant white to fiery orange, magnificent in color, but lacking in warmth or solace. As it descended, it turned to blood red, dragging my heart along into the darkness.

Then a cool breeze blew across my face, re-framing what I had just seen.

The bright moon that had ruled the night faded to a single flame, then a glowing ember before disappearing beneath the horizon. Over my shoulder, alternating hues of pinks and golds ignited the eastern sky. The long, dark night had come to an end.

The promise of a new day drew me from the mire. My feet were a little faster, my arms a little stronger, my heart, a lot lighter. I found my second wind (as if I ever had a first), and I could breathe again.

Father, I give You thanks and praise for the blessings You have in store. May You be glorified in all You will do today.

Amen…

A book shop owner asked me who I was as a Christian Author and it caught me a little off guard. I am a Christian, and I am an author (though sometimes I wonder), but a Christian Author? I had never considered the title.

Rich Mullins was once asked his approach to writing Christian music. He said he just tried to write good music and if the Spirit was willing, it would find a way to breathe into your song.

When I first started playing, I was more musician than Christian. I took piano lessons at my mother’s urging (thanks Mom). In college, I learned to play the guitar to impress the ladies. I guess it worked at least once because I played at my own wedding. Now my wife says I don’t play for her anymore (I need to work on that).

When the opportunity arose to play in church or at youth group, something changed. It seemed to make a difference.

Writing was similar. I didn’t set out to be a “Christian author,” I just wrote and things began to make sense. It was like God had been showing me answers all my life, just waiting for me to ask the questions.

Somewhere along the way, it seemed to make a difference, but not by anything I did. God has a way of taking the clay that we are and molding us into something He can use for His Glory.

In one difficult season, I had prayed for help with certain tasks measured by this world. God called me to trust and follow His path, no matter how unpopular it was. But a day came where impatience outweighed my faith and I spiraled deeply into worry.

I’ve prayed for miracles, both of health and heart. Some have been answered immediately (thank You, Jesus) and some… I’m still waiting on. But I had never prayed for success in this earthly venture. Then God asked me, “Why not? Do you doubt Me?”

Ouch.

So, I asked for a breakthrough. Then more doors opened than I could’ve expected and I felt foolish for not asking sooner. Perhaps those doors would’ve opened anyway or maybe God was just waiting for me to ask. I don’t know. But it was a lesson.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in ALL your ways, submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight. Proverbs 3:5-6

I wonder how many other blessings are answers to questions I’ve never asked?

I intend to find out.

The full moon pierced early morning cloud cover, slightly illuminating a long black rope across the blacktop. My task was to pull the rope while another gladiator held the other end. Then we traded positions and the battle continued. The first round was fairly even, both pulling our share, but by the fifth challenge, I was convinced he’d picked up an anchor along the way. Then he dragged me across the parking lot like a ragdoll.

Many times, the Lord allows words to explain my feelings, but today was not one of those days, until I got pulled through the fog.

Later, stepping through an office door, I faced a barrage of phone calls and emails like I usually do, but this week, I was pulled in every direction except the one I needed to go in. Like a marionette, one person controlled my left hand, one my right, and still another making my feet dance like a fool in this never ending puppet show.

Yet it took being dragged around to stop and really see who was pulling the strings. Every cry, concern or supposed “emergency” tugged until it had stretched my reach beyond its capacity.

With my arms spread wide, struggling to breathe, a heavenly voice whispered:

I’ve been there too.
I took it on so you wouldn’t have to.
Trust me, I can carry the weight.
You just have to let go.

Tears ran down my face as the strings loosened their grip. Jesus took my hands and led me forward, dragging all the “puppet masters” behind.

They still pull and prod, command and complain, but their strength is nothing compared to the Hands that hold me.

In this broken world, we’ll always be dragged and distracted… stretched to our limits.
But it is most important to know Who is pulling the strings.

Waking to an Autumn morning, somewhere between a long summer and a short winter, the heat of August had not released its grip on October. Longing for the hope in a sunrise, I emerged to find a layer of mist hovering thirty feet in the air, just enough to obscure the treetops. It lay in stillness between a clearing sky and a parched landscape, enough to see the moisture, but not close enough to be a life-giving dew.

A kinship grew in my vision as my lower extremities moved in their appointed roles, yet my mind floated in a fog. Somewhere between clarity and reality, there were a million things to do, yet the passion to do none of them.

Jesus whispered, “My sheep listen to my voice; I know them and they follow Me.” John 10:27

But a restless night had my head spinning and my ears consumed by nothing but noise. Standing at the sink, with a mouthful of toothpaste, I sought the Lord. A scene from “The Chosen” by Dallas Jenkins came to mind. Matthew said, “All I have to do is follow.”

A simplicity of peace covered me like warm water on my face. That’s all I have to do. The million other things fell behind the one, just to follow Him.

But then the world found me, my phone had divulged my hiding place. Whatever was on their desk had to be dealt with immediately as to not impede “their” day. My gut was churning, not as much with anger as disgust in that their task was important enough to invade my quiet moment. Yet, I continued my journey. All I had to do was follow.

One call became two, then three. Adrenaline began to surge through my veins and my heart pounded with the weight of it.

The Lord repeated :

All you have to do is follow.

Father, I listen to Your voice; You know me; I will follow.

Shadows faded into the long-awaited sunshine, its warmth a welcome feeling in an otherwise difficult day. Distractions still pressed in from all sides, yet You, Lord, are a mighty shield.

The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in Him, and He helps me. My heart leaps for joy and with my song I will praise Him. Psalm 28:7

I know your voice, and You know me.

All I have to do is follow.

Sunday was the day you woke up early on purpose, dressed in stuffy clothes, and got to the car just in time to not get fussed. Sitting in the front row, singing songs you didn’t know and a man in a fancy robe talking on and on about God or something. Your only job was to sit still even when your brother was poking you or whispering, “I’m not touching him” until Dad’s hand squeezed your knee, telling you to behave. If we were good, we went to a restaurant for lunch before the football game. We always had to wait for the preacher to say the blessing, and if he was at your table, you better not act up. He was God’s watchman, the closest we knew.

There was Jesus. There was you. And distance.

At a friend’s church, Jesus hung on the wall, and they said His body and blood lived in a little gold box on the altar, and only really special people could touch it. When you got old enough, you could taste it, unless you weren’t a member, then it didn’t matter what age you were.

There was Jesus. There was you. And distance.

The Bible says God would walk in the Garden of Eden and talk to Adam and Eve like family. At least until sin snuck in. Then they were kicked out. Distance.

Moses asked to see God’s face but man could not see His face and live. The Israelites could not even step foot on God’s holy mountain. Distance.

The Ark of the Covenant was believed to hold God’s presence, and no one was allowed to touch it. One man did and died on the spot.

There was God. There was everyone else. And distance.

Then, Jesus was born. He was cuddled and held. The shepherds and the wisemen saw His face. He looked people in the eyes, spoke to them, touched and healed them. He hugged people. There was no more distance.

But then there’s me.

My heart wanders. Every time I get close, temptation tries harder to maintain the distance, if not increase it. I wish I could say it doesn’t happen anymore, but the harder I fight, the harder it fights back.

There is Jesus. There is me. And the distance comes and goes like Grover teaching us about near and far (if you know, you know).

I think God missed the connection, so He built a bridge across the distance through Jesus. It took a cross, nails, and His precious blood to draw us near again, to walk… like in the garden.

I’ve found it is best to stand on that bridge when arrows fly and darkness flows underneath. Jesus lifts me when I don’t have the strength to stand on my own. No more distance.

And if I wasn’t so stubborn, I’d stay there. But I foolishly climb down when trouble passes, only to find myself knee deep in it, again.

 

Father, please guard my heart,
guide my feet,
be my strength,
stay close.

Amen…

 

A special thanks to Jim Henson and Sesame Street, for Grover.