Hang On Little Buddy

As I left the store today, I saw something hanging beneath the bottom of my side-mirror and for a moment, thought someone had stuck gum on my precious bug! I could feel myself begin to boil at the thought . . .

However, as I approached the car, I flipped my head upside-down to get a better look and saw this teeny snail, hanging on for dear life. (I'm sure there were a few people cracking blonde jokes at the sight of me). I wasn't too sure what to do with him, so I decided to leave him to meet his fate.

As I drove home on the freeway at a fairly good clip, I found myself praying for the little guy. I was elated when I pulled in the driveway and he was still clinging. Amazing!

Which got me to thinking about how hard I cling to the Lord.

Yikes.

Reality is, this past year has shown me how shaky my walk with the Lord can be. Sometimes I was amazed at the strength He gave me. Walking through Don's heart attack, surgery and recovery, I was filled with a deep peace and was so aware of His presence.

But then there are days when I find myself "losing it" and yelling at the dog, the cat, and various inanimate objects for the stupidest reasons. (And I don't even own a cat).

They say you can judge the size of a person by the size of the things that make them mad. Well, I don't see that in my own life. Besides, I know my true size —I joined weight watchers last week and became sorrowfully aware.

No, much like my weight, the size of my Christian character can fluctuate madly.

It appears that the Lord gives me an extra measure of grace when I am called to walk through fire, but when it comes to something silly—like thinking someone stuck gum to my car—I believe my off-the-chart, emotional reaction relates more to the size of my morning devotional than to the size of me. How much time I have spent at His feet, getting a fresh filling of the Holy Spirit and yielding myself to Him before starting my day is what makes all the difference in how I react to the bumps along the way.

Anyhow, these are the random thoughts that came to me as I hung my head upside down, snapping a few shots of my tenacious, tiny friend.

Is it just me? Or do you too struggle with being a bit of a flake . . . or even a fake? As I write this, I am repenting and filled with complete awe that the Lord chooses to use me in all of my imperfection.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, it's okay. Life's a bumpy journey and none of us are "there" yet. We're just cruising down the highway of life, clinging to the Lord for dear life.

Just Hang on Little Buddy. Just hang on.

Exhausted Grace

It was one of those days where you wake up being more tired than when you went to bed. I will never understand what goes on in the night that makes me feel so exhausted the next day. If there was a party going on, I sure wish I could remember it.

I stumbled through my morning just dying to drop into bed; and it was only 10AM. Functioning in a fog, I dropped my brand new Samsung Note 2 instead, shattering the screen.

But, the day was not over yet. There was more to be done. Problem was, I was done. Kaput, wasted . . . way past my best before date.

By 5PM the couch had swallowed my face as I passed out before dinner. Woken up by the sweet smell of barbequed chicken and fresh corn on the cob, I begrudgingly agreed to keep my appointment to do some filming of my feet for a new promo video on the topic, ‘Walk a Mile in Her Shoes’.

I figured I could fake happy feet and my daughter and cinematographer promised to keep the camera low and not capture my grumpy scowl.

Three hours later I stood in the grocery store trying to read the scrawled list; my daughter had informed me just before bed that the milk had expired. A few aisles over an obviously tired toddler was whining and crying. The noise irritated my already shot nerves. Just as the nasty thoughts began to rise in my head--the critical tisk tisk voice of, ‘Why do people drag their tired children out’--I suddenly remembered the script for my video talk. About how we don’t know the journey others are on and to give Grace.

I threw a handful of ‘emotional eating’ colourful, sweet candy onto the top of the overflowing cart. Saying a quick prayer for the exasperated mother who was now dragging her child out of the store, I made a mental note to do an edit for the video and add a scene with a woman pushing a baby buggy. I had missed that whole season of life in our film.

We do take a lot of steps in our journey with the Lord and it can get just plain exhausting, but our friends, coworkers and other late night random shoppers are tired too. We need to plug into His Grace daily in order to pour out on others.

Thankfully His Grace doesn’t have an expiry date!

Brennan Manning

I had never heard of this man until tonight; when I went to close down my computer and saw numerous tweets about his passing.

Always curious, a few clicks later I was sitting in the dark, moved to tears about this man's honesty in his writing. The confession of his faith and his desperate need of his Savior and His Grace.

An excerpt from his latest book is below. Normally I do not promote something or someone without doing a boatload of research, but for this passage alone I just had to share. Plus, his face . . . especially his eyes, remind me of my Dad. Also Irish, perhaps we're related somehow waaaay back?


Some have labeled my message one of "cheap grace."  In my younger days, their accusations were a gauntlet thrown down, a challenge.  But I'm an old man now and I don't care.  My friend Mike Yaconelli used the phrase unfair grace, and I like that, but I've come across another I would like to leave with you.  I believe Mike would like it; I know I do. I found it in the writings of the Episcopal priest Robert Farrar Capon. He calls it vulgar grace…

My life is a witness to vulgar grace—a grace that amazes as it offends.  A grace that pays the eager beaver who works all day long the same wages as the grinning drunk who shows up at ten till five. A grace that hikes up the robe and runs breakneck toward the prodigal reeking of sin and wraps him up and decides to throw a party no ifs, ands, or buts.  A grace that raises bloodshot eyes to a dying thief’s request—“Please remember me”—and assures him, “You bet!”  A grace that is the pleasure of the Father, fleshed out in the carpenter Messiah, Jesus the Christ, who left His Father’s side not for heaven’s sake but for our sakes, yours and mine.  This vulgar grace is indiscriminate compassion.  It works without asking anything of us.  It’s not cheap.  It’s free, and as such will always be a banana peel for the orthodox foot and a fairy tale for the grown-up sensibility.  Grace is sufficient even though we huff and puff with all our might to try to find something or someone it cannot cover.  Grace is enough. He is enough.  Jesus is enough. 

Joseph of Arimathaea

I'm sitting in semi-darkness weeping over Joseph of Arimathaea and the conviction I am under this morning as I examine my own life.

He took Jesus down.

How many times have I read this passage and just skipped over this man's sacrifice? This man's bravery? His dedication to do a job that nobody would have signed up for. 

To approach Pilate was somewhat crazy enough, but then it says he begged . . . Mark's version said he 'craved' the body of Christ. This morning, in the privacy that can only be found at the crack of dawn, I sit and cry, well aware that I am such a comfort seeker had I been there at the cross I most likely would not have volunteered to take on the dirty task. 

I picture Joseph prying Christ's hands and feet free. The open wound on His side oozing blood mingled with water . . . the stickiness staining Joseph's hands and clothes. The discomfort of exposure. To see His Savior naked. People were with Joseph; he had an audience of mourners during this most intimate exercise.

If you recall, Christ's accusers would not enter the governor's residence because they did not want to be defiled (that would mean they would have to miss the Passover meal). By this same Law, touching a dead body meant Joseph was disqualified for the yearly feast. For us today it would be like missing our Christmas or Thanksgiving meal. I don't think it was even on his mind. At that moment, his actions were being driven by his heart, not his stomach.

Brokenhearted, he took Jesus down. 

He laid him in his own new tomb. Yet another sacrifice, this time one of financial nature.

So here I sit. Walking through my mind again and again the steps of Joseph of Arimathaea; keenly aware of how many times I stumble in my own devotion to the One who loves me most.

God forgive me. Help me to fully live a life of love-driven sacrifice.