The Return of Fullness

Wooden floorboards creak under my bare feet. The sound should be comforting, but it’s not how I remember it. There’s hollowness where there used to be richness.


I look around the living room of my childhood home. My reading chair is gone. So is the grandfather clock that sat behind it. My parents haven’t sold the house yet, but it’s on the market.


So the house sits quietly. It waits for the return of fullness.


And, as I stand in the stillness, so do I.


There’s an emptiness in my chest. A longing for a relationship I don’t have. A lament for ones I’ve had to let go of.


I look at the mantle above the fireplace. The dark marble is bare, but it’s solid and strong—like the rest of this nineteenth-century house. The house was here long before my family filled it, and it will stand long after we have left. I know this room won’t be empty forever. It will be filled with laughter again. It will echo with music.


If I can trust the solidity of this house, how much more can I trust the solidity of the One who created me?


I close my eyes and breathe deeply.


“Lord,” I pray. “Restore me to fullness. In a way that you see fit. In your timing.”


I open my eyes. The room is still sparse. The ache inside of me is still heavy. But I trust that God is greater.

Inextricable

I’m helping my parents with yard work. The ground under my shoes is soft from May rain. The weeds have taken advantage of that. They’ve claimed sidewalk cracks and flower beds.  I crouch down and pull a handful of leafy green from where it does not belong.

“Would you mind trimming the vine on the arbor?” my mom asks. She’s raking up the remnants of fall's leaves. “You always do a great job with it.”

I throw the weeds into the wheelbarrow, then find a pair of hedge clippers. I look at the arbor. It’s covered by a tangled mess. I can see coarse, brown vines on the inside of the arbor. They are thick from years of growth. But on the outside of the arbor, hundreds of thin green shoots have grown in every direction.

“Whoa,” I say. “This trumpet vine is out of control.”

“It’s unruly,” my mom says. “Remember when I first planted it? You trained the vines around the arbor as they grew.”

I nod. Then I begin to prune. Wild vines fall to my clippers.

As I choose which shoots should stay and which should go, the iron arbor begins to show through. The metal was once black, but now it’s pocked with rust. I reach a place where part of the arbor has completely rusted away.

“Uh, Mom,” I say. “This arbor is standing on three legs.”

She peers into the opening I’ve uncovered. “You’re right. But look why it’s still standing.”  She points at the old, brown vine that is twined around the post. It is wound so tightly that it holds the broken arbor in place.

After years of wrapping around the arbor, the vine has become a permanent part of it. The vine is inextricable.

That is how I want Christ in my life. I want Him to be incorporated into everything I do. I want Him to be apparent in the words I speak, the actions I take, and the thoughts I think. I want Him to be inextricable from me. Because I know that when things fall apart, only His strength can bind me together and keep me whole.

I set the clippers down. “I'm going to let this vine grow,” I say. “The arbor’s stronger this way.

Then, instead of trimming vines, I begin to weave them in and out of the arbor.

The Weight of Words

“I’ve been to every thrift store in town,” I say. I lean on the kitchen counter. “I can’t find an old Scrabble game anywhere.”

“Why are you looking for Scrabble?” my mom asks.

“I want to put magnets on the back of the tiles and use them to write quotes on my fridge.”

“Hold on,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

She leaves the room. When she comes back, she’s carrying a dark red Scrabble box. She sets it on the counter. The top of the box is layered with dust, save for the places her hands held it.

“This is yours,” she says.

“That’s the game Grandma Mary gave me,” I say. I shake my head. “I can’t use those tiles. I don’t want to ruin them.”

“Grandma Mary loved words,” my mom says. “I know she’d be happy for you to use the game this way.”

I open the box.

The wooden squares inside bring back memories of ninety-year-old Great Grandma Mary teaching me how to play Scrabble. Her hands shook from the Parkinson’s as she placed tiles on the board. Grandma Mary was brittle but brilliant. Her vocabulary was unmatched. She could play words far beyond the comprehension of my ten-year-old mind.

But the best part about Grandma Mary wasn’t the words she played on the board. It was the words she spoke to me.

Grandma Mary was an encourager. She spoke words that built me up. Words that made me feel special. Words that let me know I was loved.

Grandma Mary has been gone for over a decade now. But what she taught me about encouraging others will always be with me.

I close the lid to the box.

“You know, I think I will use this set for my magnets,” I say.

Because every morning, when I open my fridge, the Scrabble tiles will be a reminder for me.

A reminder of a kind lady who loved others.

And a reminder to use my own words to build people up.

* * *

1 Thessalonians 5:11 (NIV) "Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing."

Words from the Cross Part II: I Thirst

I’m preparing to dye Easter eggs with my family.

My mom is boiling water in her stock pot. Cardboard cartons of eggs sit nearby.

I help the younger boys set an assortment of cups on the table—juice glasses, tumblers, and coffee mugs. We fill them with vinegar, and the boys drop dye tablets into each one. The tablets fizzle while color stretches through clear liquid.

Isaiah drops a tablet into a Superman mug. He leans over it, sniffs, then crinkles his face.

“This stinks,” he says. “Why does the dye smell like that?”

“It’s the vinegar,” I say. I lift the mug up and hold it out to him. “Want a sip?”

“No thanks,” he says. He sticks out his tongue.  “What do people use vinegar for anyway?”

“Cooking and cleaning.”

But, as I set the mug down, I think of One who did drink vinegar. While Christ hung on the cross, He asked for a drink.

I thirst.

After thirty-two years in a human body, the Son of God had one last request—a sip of water. But instead of giving Him that, the guards offered Him a sponge full of vinegar. He had come to die for them, and they refused to meet His most basic need.

How striking that Christ gave all for those who would give nothing.

I am like those guards. I have nothing to offer Christ but bitter imperfection. I was clearly and completely undeserving.

How striking that Christ would save me despite my sin.

So I lift a prayer to the King who was crowned with thorns.

Jesus, thank you for giving eternal life to those who only offered you vinegar. And thank you for giving me undeserved grace.

The Way God Sees Me (Guest Post)

Recently, I had the opportunity to collaborate with a new friend, Joyell. She’s a fellow blogger, and her blog,  Small World, Big God, shares stories of how God shows up in everyday life. I’m honored that she invited me to be a guest writer this week. You can read my post here: https://swbgblog.wordpress.com/2019/04/10/the-way-god-sees-me/

Words from the Cross Part I: Why Have You Forsaken Me?

I’m at the rock-climbing gym with my friend, Xuan. He’s been teaching me everything from technique to climbing lingo.

“This is great,” I say. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“I enjoy unusual hobbies,” he says. “Climbing, spelunking, stuff like that.”

My chest locks up.

“Have you ever been spelunking before?” he asks.

He doesn’t know. He hasn’t heard that I once spent over twenty hours trapped in a cave.

“Once or twice,” I say.

It’s warm in the gym, but I shiver.

For a moment, I’m back in the cave. My body is pressed between cold, slick stone walls. My face is caked with mud. I struggle to unpin myself. My muscles burn, but I go nowhere. I’m utterly, completely alone.

It’s been seven years. But there are still things I don’t understand.

Why did God allow me to be trapped?

Why did He wait almost a day to rescue me?

Where was He in those hours of darkness?

Those questions bring to mind some of the last words of Christ.

My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?

I’m immediately humbled. 

Because I was never alone in that cave. And, in the end, God rescued me.

But when Christ uttered that cry, He was completely alone. His Father had turned His face away. He did not rescue His Son.

All of that was necessary for my salvation. Christ had to bear the full punishment for my sin—complete separation from God.

So why can’t I trust that the One who gave all would never abandon me? Why do I carry around these doubts years after my rescue?

“You should try to climb this route again,” Xuan says.

I dust my hands with chalk and approach the wall.

As I grip the rough handholds, I thank God for remaining with me while I was pinned against those smooth walls years ago. And I thank Jesus for dying on the cross two millennia ago so that I will never be separated from God.

Fouls and Forgiveness

My Dad and I are at the NCAA tournament. Nevada is playing Florida. We’re only four rows from the court—close enough to hear sneakers squeak against the wooden floor.

“Close game,” my dad says. “Either team could win this.”

The clock continues to count down. As it does, the crowd tenses, and the players get more aggressive. Their movements are sharper, and their plays are quicker.

Florida has the ball. The players pass it amongst each other, circling the basket. Then, the ball is passed to the player closest to the hoop. He springs into the air to make the shot, and his defender mirrors him.

The two players come in contact mid-air, and a whistle pierces through the stadium.

“That’s a foul,” my dad says. “It might cost Nevada the game.”

The players begin preparing for the free throw. They form lines of alternating blue and white jerseys.

Foul.

I can’t help but think about that word. In the context of basketball, the word foul has been stripped of its power. It’s synonomous with “contact between the players.”

But in any other context, the word carries weight. Foul is used to describe things that are rancid, filthy, and rank. It isn’t a term we throw around lightly. It describes the worst of the worst.

The word foul reminds me of sin. Sin is everything that is impure, unclean, and immoral. But how often do I sanitize sin? How often do I justify my wrong thoughts and actions?

My sins aren’t as bad as other people’s.

Nobody’s perfect.

I’m a good person.

I diminish my own wrong until my sin has lost its weight. But minimizing the weight of my sin diminishes the saving grace of Christ. Jesus didn’t die because I make little mistakes. He died for me because the penalty for my sin was complete separation from God. He cleansed me of all foulness and made me righteous.

The ball arcs through the air and into the basket. The free throw was perfect. My dad was right—the foul might cost Nevada the game.

But I’m so glad that, because of the sacrifice of Christ, my sin won’t cost me a thing.

The Battle Within

It’s Saturday. I’m sitting in my recliner, reading a book. It’s raining outside. I’m glad I can stay inside this morning and keep dry.

I set my book down and look at my window. Water droplets weave their way down the glass, following invisible paths.

Beyond the window, the weather is changing. The rain is falling slower and slower. Soon, the raindrops transition to snowflakes. They drift toward the ground—a swamp of slush and runoff. The snowflakes disappear on contact.

This is March. Winter and spring are locked in battle. The sludgy mess outside is no-mans-land.

The scene resonates with me.

Sometimes, my spiritual life resembles March. Sometimes, I struggle against God. Instead of fully committing my life to Him, I hold pieces back for myself. Instead of allowing Him to show me new ways to grow, I fight for what is comfortable and familiar.

And instead of experiencing the goodness of spring, I get stuck in the March muck.

God wants good things for me. But I can’t move toward those good things if I fight against Him.

I need to learn to relinquish control.

So, as I watch the seasons battle each other outside, I pray that the battle inside me would cease.

Lord, You are God, and I am only a man. Help me to submit my whole life to You. Let me hold nothing back. And lead me into the newness of spring.

I open my eyes. The seasons continue to wage war. But I begin to feel at peace.

A Bridge Between Worlds

I’m trekking through the skywalk in downtown Des Moines. The network of glass bridges runs from building to building. It’s a bizarre experience for me, walking over full city blocks without touching the ground.

There are shops and businesses on the skywalk level of each building. I pass smoothie bars. Boutiques. An art studio. Many of the people here wear suits and carry briefcases. The air smells antiseptic, like a hospital.

The whole scene is too ritzy for me. I feel overstimulated, so I decide to take an elevator down to the street level.

I walk through automatic doors, expecting to be refreshed by cool spring air.

Instead, I breathe in car exhaust.

I look around. Everything is different here. The streets are lined with grey March slush. The businesses are fast food restaurants and drug stores.

For the most part, the people are different too. They wear Levis instead of Armani. A disheveled man holds up a cardboard sign that says “Hungry Veteran.” A young woman sits cross-legged against a building as she smokes a cigarette.

I can’t believe that the skywalk is directly above me. This is a different world. I wonder if the people above are even aware of it.

But I know that Christ is. While on earth, Jesus taught fishermen and scholars. He healed Jews and Gentiles. He died for shepherds and kings. Christ’s love was the bridge between worlds.

I want to be like Christ. I want to show love to all people, even those who lead different lives than mine. I want to see them as my Savior does.

So, as I walk down the sidewalk, I meet the eyes of each person I pass. I want them to know I see them. Later, I’ll do the same on the skywalk. Because Christ’s love extends to all.

A Gift of Connection

It’s Saturday morning, and my brother Sam and I are getting haircuts. I step out of the barber chair and run a hand through my hair. It feels neat and even, not like the wild tangle I’m used to. I walk out to the seating area and motion to Sam that it’s his turn.

“Do you have my book?” I ask him. I’m looking forward to having a few minutes to read a novel. I’m busy all the time, and I need a brief escape.

“I left it on the chair,” he says. “But you won’t get a chance to read it,” he whispers. “That lady’s a talker.”

He nods toward an older lady sitting in the chair next to my book.  She’s smiling and taking in everything around her. She taps her foot as if she’s keeping time to a beat that only she hears.

“Hello,” I say as I sit down. I crack open my book.

“You must be Sam’s brother,” she says.

I close my book.

“I had such a nice time talking with him,” she says. “We actually have a lot in common. I have four siblings as well. I’m the baby of my family.”

I was not prepared for this level of conversation this morning.  I just wanted some quiet.  But I also don’t want to be rude.

“I’m the oldest,” I say. “What’s it like being the youngest?”

“It’s good when you have brothers and sisters like mine. Growing up, they always made me feel like one of the big kids. My brother taught me how to play the piano, and my sister taught me how to sew. I miss those days.”

“Do you keep in touch?” I ask.

“We do. Before my mother passed, she asked me to do one thing: make sure my brothers and sisters stayed connected. She was afraid we would drift apart. So we write each other. I send a letter to my brother Paul. He adds to the letter, then sends it to my sister Alice.  It goes from sibling to sibling until it comes back to me.”

“And then?” I ask.

“I start a new letter,” she says. “Being connected with others is one of the greatest gifts you can have.”

Her words are true.

God created us to be relational. He knew it wasn’t good for man to be alone. The ability to connect with others is a valuable gift. It allows us to learn and to grow. It allows to listen and be heard.

I almost missed out on the gift of connection this morning. I didn’t want conversation; I wanted quiet. But if God had let me have things my way, I wouldn’t have met this woman and learned about her life.

“I think they’re ready for me,” the lady says as she stands. “Nice to meet you.  Keep those younger brothers of yours in line.”

I open my book again. It looks like I’ll have a few minutes to read after all. But the story I’m most grateful for this morning is one I hadn’t expected.

Relying on Others

I’m deep-cleaning my apartment today. I’ve already polished windows and scrubbed the depths of my fridge. Now I’m on to dusting.

I spray Pledge onto the top of my bookcase, then I wipe a cloth across it. Dull, muted wood becomes bright and rich.

I work my way across the bookcase until I come to a pair of bookends: heavy, cast iron monkeys, each crossed-legged and holding a stack of books. My grandma bought them for me. She knows I like unusual things, and these twin monkeys are about as unusual as things come.

Pressed between the monkeys’ backs is a row of novels. I want to dust under the bookends, so I lift a monkey off the bookcase, trying not to disturb the books. As I pull the bookend away, the books remain standing.

Then, in an instant, weight shifts. The entire row of books topples. Paperbacks slide on slick wood and careen to the floor.  

So close. I should have known that the books wouldn’t stand with only one monkey supporting them.

I remove the remaining books and the second monkey from the bookcase and dust where they stood. As I clean, I think of something a friend recently told me.

“We can’t do life alone. We need our brothers and sisters in Christ to help us when we struggle. We need them to help us carry our burdens.”

I’m blessed to have family and friends who reach into my life and support me spiritually.

But, sometimes, I don’t let them. Sometimes, I don’t want to share my shortcomings with others. Sometimes, I want to rely on my own strength.

And, for a little while, I can handle things. But they inevitably fall apart.

I need to start being intentional about relying on others. I need to share my struggles with the brothers and sisters God has given me. I need to trust them to have my back.

I replace the two monkeys and slide the books between them. The row of books is steady now. Balanced and supported.

“Lord,” I pray. “I’m so glad I don’t have to do life alone. Help me to be humble enough to rely on others.”

Christ Changes Everything

It’s Saturday morning. Bright sunlight is streaming through my window and across my bedsheets.

I wish it weren’t.

I close my eyes and press my face into my pillow, but it’s no good. I know it’s morning, and I have to get up.

I don’t mean to be grumpy, but I have so much to do today. I have a writing deadline to meet and job applications to fill out. I need to go grocery shopping.

I lumber to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee. While it brews, I grab a piece of paper and start making a list of what I need to get done. The list seems more daunting in black ink than it did in my head.

The coffee pot starts to gargle, letting me know it’s done. But when I open my cupboard, I realize I don’t have any clean mugs.

One more thing to add to the list: Wash dishes.

For now, I grab a glass cup and fill it full of coffee. Then I sit down in my recliner to pray before I start my day.

Lord, I am not excited for today. I really don’t want to tackle these tasks. Please give me a diligent spirit this morning.

When I’ve finished praying, I drink my coffee. The sunlight that so rudely awoke me lies in a patch on the floor. But there’s something abnormal about the light. It contains perpendicular lines of red and green. I look up to see that the color is coming from the stained-glass cross that hangs in my window. The cross was a gift an old friend gave me years ago.

Simple sunlight filters through the cross. And the cross transforms the light into stunning color. Through that process, the mundane becomes extraordinary.

Christ changes everything.

He changes hearts. He changes lives. He changed a symbol of death into a symbol of life.

I want to filter every part of my life through the cross of Christ. And today, that means looking at my to-do list in a new way.

So I choose to be grateful for my writing deadline, because writing allows me to share Christ with others. I choose to be grateful for job applications, because my next job will provide new opportunities for me to help people. I even choose to be grateful for grocery shopping, because it’s a privilege that I never have to go hungry.

And, through the power of Christ, the list of things I have to do becomes a list of things I get to do.

Dedication to Preparation

My hands are full. I’m trying to close the door to my car while balancing two boxes. My dad is nearby, shoveling the walkway.

“Let me help you with those,” he says. He grabs both boxes and looks at their labels. “Bike gear?” he asks.

“Pedals and shoes,” I say. We walk toward the house together.

“You know that it’s February, right?” he asks. He stamps the snow from his boots on the doormat.

I smile. “I know, I know,” I say. “I just want to be ready for cycling season.”

He laughs. “I think you started prepping around the time you hung up your bike last fall.” He hands me back the boxes. “In all honesty, I admire your commitment to preparation.”

His words resonate inside of me. I’m ready for cycling season. As soon as the warm weather comes, I’ll hit the road.

But I’m not living the rest of my life with the same level of preparation.

I know that Christ will return someday. And I know this life is an opportunity to prepare for His coming. It’s a chance to share the Gospel with those around me. But a lot of the time, I act like this world is the end-all be-all. I live for myself instead of my Savior. Instead of building His kingdom and reaching others, I stay in my comfort zone and focus on my own happiness.

When Jesus returns, my chance to prepare will be over. I don’t want to be caught off-guard. I don’t want to have missed the opportunity to share the Christ with others.

So I set my boxes down on the floor of the entryway and say a silent prayer: Jesus, help me to live for others the way that You did. And help me to use my time in this life to prepare for the next one.

More Than Enough

It’s Friday night, and snow is falling. I’m pulling into the parking lot of my apartment complex. My old Dodge struggles on slick cement.

My heart is full tonight. I spent the evening with my church family—ice skating and then playing board games.

I park my car and open my door. The radio clicks off, and I’m surrounded by quiet. Even the distant noise of traffic is muffled by the snowfall.

Snowflakes cling to my gloves. I lift up my hand to get a better look. The flakes are huge.

They remind me of a different snowfall. They remind me of walking downtown with a young woman I cared deeply for. I remember how her scarf looped twice around her neck. The way she bunched her gloved fingers together to keep them warm.

“Isn’t this stunning?” she said. “Snow changes everything. The whole world is different covered in white.”

“It’s like we didn’t even realize how gritty the world was,” I said. “Then the snow falls and reminds us how wonderful life can be.”

She slipped on a patch of ice, and I grabbed her arm to steady her. My heart beat fast. She looked at me, her eyes deep and caring.

“Thanks, Logan,” she said. “You’re a good guy. Don’t go anywhere, ok?”

I didn’t. But in the end, she did.

I watch the snowflakes melt on my glove, then I begin to walk toward my apartment. Old hurt creeps back into my chest. I no longer feel full. I feel like a part of me is missing.

I stare at my solitary footprints in the snow.

In frustration, I call out to God: Why couldn’t things have worked out? Why couldn’t I have what I want so badly. Why couldn’t you allow me to be happy?

It’s only after these feelings solidify that I realize my mistake.

God should be enough. He should be more than enough.

I know I need to realign my heart. It’s not wrong to want someone to spend the rest of my life with. But it is wrong for my joy to be dependent on a woman rather than God. It’s wrong to expect a human being to fill all the emptiness of my life.

I lift up a new prayer: God, I don’t understand why I’m still single. I don’t want to be. But I also don’t want to place anything ahead of you in my life.

I continue to walk across the parking lot. My footprints are still alone in the snow. But now, I know I’m heading in the right direction.

A Snapshot of Worry

My friend Nick sits down across the table from me. We’re meeting in a coffee shop to read and discuss God’s word.

He sets a steaming cup of coffee on the table. He unzips his coat but leaves it on.

“It’s nasty out there,” he says. “Subzero.”

“It’s not much better in here,” I say. “They need to crank the heat up.”

He nods, and we begin to talk about how our weeks are going. Soon, Nick opens his Bible.

“I’ve been reading Mathew six,” he says. “Do you remember that passage where Jesus tells his disciples not to worry about what they will eat or drink or wear?”

I nod.

“What does that look like practically? He can’t be saying, ‘Don’t plan for the future.’ That would be foolish.”

“You’re right,” I say. “Jesus also told his disciples to be prepared.”

“True. And . . . .” Nick trails off. He’s staring at his coffee cup. A heavy current of steam still pours from the cup, the cold air drawing the warmth from the drink.

“I’ve gotta get a picture of this steam. It’s crazy,” he says. He pulls out his phone and snaps a picture, then he squints at the screen. “It’s not showing up,” he says.

He changes the angle and tries again. Nothing.

“Try using the wall as a background,” I say. He moves the cup and takes another picture. Nothing.

“I don’t get this,” he says. “It’s impossible to get a picture.”

“Maybe that’s what Jesus is talking about,” I say.

“A picture of a cup of coffee?” He chuckles.

“Sorry,” I say. “I mean, worry is focusing on things that are impossible to control. It’s like trying to take a photo of that steam. You could snap pictures all day, but the steam isn’t going to show up.”

“Worry is a waste of time,” Nick says.

 “Right,” I say. “So instead of being absorbed on what’s beyond our reach, we should invest our time in the areas of our life where we do have control.”

“Being active followers of Christ instead of passive worriers,” Nick says.

“That’s a good way to put it,” I say. 

Nick picks up his coffee.

But this time, instead of trying to take a picture, he blows the steam off the top.

Drawing Near

I turn the key and unlock my parents’ front door.  I have a three-day weekend, and I’m spending it with family.  They’re busy this evening, so I won’t see them until later. But when I open the door, someone is waiting for me.

Rugby the Labrador lifts his nose in greeting. He wags his tail with an excitement that makes his whole body sway back and forth.

“Hello, old friend,” I say. I ruffle the fur on his forehead, then I take off my boots. 

I walk to the kitchen, and Rugby follows me. While I make a cup of coffee, he presses the bridge of his nose against my leg, as if he can’t get close enough to me. 

When my coffee is ready, Rugby follows me to the living room. I open a novel and begin to read. Rugby settles next to my feet.

I wonder what’s running through his mind. Does he think it’s odd that I come and go from my parents’ home? Is he confused when I’m here for a few days, then gone for a month? Does he ever feel like I’ve abandoned him?

If he does, he doesn’t let that affect his relationship with me. He never acts distant or leery. He always greets me with love. He always draws near me.

I wish I were as faithful as Rugby.

Sometimes, I feel as if God has abandoned me.

“Where were You when I needed You?” I ask.

“Why did You allow me to hurt like that?” I question.

Then, in frustration, I pull away. I stop trusting God. I figure that a good God would have delivered me. A loving God would have spared me pain. Instead of drawing near to God, I build walls to keep Him out. Instead of acknowledging my incomplete understanding of God’s providence, I claim to know better than Him.

I’m embarrassed by my own fair-weather faith.

I want to change. I want to be like Rugby. Faithful. Loyal. Unwavering. I want to draw as close to God as I possibly can.

“You’re a good guy, you know that Rugby?” I say. Rugby raises his head and tips it to one side. Then he inches closer to me.

A New Way of Life

I bury my face into my pillow to drown out the alarm. The muffled beep isn’t as jarring, but it still makes me cringe. I reach my hand out toward my nightstand and try to locate my phone by touch. Lamp. Wallet. Got it. I hit a button and the alarm stops.

I sigh. I’m exhausted, and it’s nice to lay in bed. I know I set my alarm so I could read my Bible before work, but I don’t want to get up. I’ve been doing really well at having consistent quiet times. I can skip today.

The problem is, this feeling isn’t unique to this morning. I feel this way every day when my alarm goes off. And if I give in today, I know I’m more likely to give in tomorrow.

It’s the season of broken New Year’s resolutions. The crowd at the gym is starting to thin. I’ve been seeing fewer packed lunches at work and more take-out. Reality is making its comeback over ideality.

As I lay in bed, I run through my classic excuses:

I’ll read after work. But I know I won’t have time.

God wouldn’t want me to be tired. But I know that I’ll be spiritually wiped out if I’m not in God’s word.

God doesn’t want me to be legalistic about my quiet time. But I know God wants me to consistently grow in my relationship with Him.

I roll over and stretch.

I don’t want my time with God to be a New Year’s resolution. Resolutions are doomed to be broken and discarded. I want my time with God to be a way of life. To be as regular to my schedule as eating or sleeping or breathing. And there’s only one way to do that.

I sit up, and my feet touch the floor. It’s cold. I miss the warmth of my bed. But I know that if I had stayed there, I would be missing something more important.

More Precious Than Gold

I lean over the railing and look down into the capitol building’s atrium. Three stories below, important men and women tread across ornate tilework. For just a moment, I feel like a boy. There’s some change in my pocket, and I have a burning desire to drop a penny over the railing.

My better judgment prevails, and I turn back toward the tour guide. I’m so glad I have the opportunity to tour the Iowa capitol building today. I’ve seen pneumatic clocks and climbed up narrow towers. I’ve watched the sun stream over marble and glint across gold.

“There are seventeen vaults in this building,” the guide says. “Can anybody guess how much money they hold?”

I glance at a nearby Roman sculpture. Considering the opulence of this building, I’m sure those vaults are stuffed with cash.

“None,” the guide says. “Instead, the vaults house and protect important documents.”

I raise my eyebrows. It seems backward to display gold and to guard musty papers. But the decision to protect documents speaks to what holds true value: knowledge.

That idea makes me wonder if I place a high enough premium on knowledge.

I have access to the most valuable knowledge in the world—God’s revelation through His word. But it’s easy for me to take the Bible for granted. I often forget that the book laying on my coffee table is priceless. Instead of poring over every word of the Creator, I skim. Instead of memorizing verses and their addresses, I depend on Google searches to point me toward passages.

I don’t want to overlook the treasure I’ve been given. I want to recognize it for what it is: more precious than gold.

My tour group begins to filter up another staircase. More grandeur awaits. But I know nothing compares with the gift of God’s word.

Divine Designs

“Can you help me cut up some fruit for a fruit salad?” my mom asks. She’s making lunch, and her hands are full.

I nod and set down the book I’m reading.

“I bought a lot of fruit. Strawberries, blueberries, a pineapple, and a pomegranate.”

 I cringe at the last word. “I will slice or dice anything you ask me to, but please don’t ask me to peel a pomegranate. My last attempt involved red spray, a white shirt, and prying little seeds out one by one.”

“You must have cut it wrong,” she says. “Maybe Google it?”

I do a quick search and find simple instructions: Cut off the top and the bottom, then cut down along the segment lines.

“I didn’t even know pomegranates were segmented,” I say. “I thought the seeds grew randomly.”

I cut off the ends of the pomegranate, then look down at it. I can see bright white lines stretching from the center to the rind. They outline six dark red segments. I cut along the lines, remove a segment, and hold it up.

Dozens of seeds are pressed together. Each is tiny, transparent, and filled with liquid. They catch the light and seem to hold it captive inside. I hold the segment over a bowl, then bend it back.

The seeds separate instantly and fall into the bowl. They make a muffled noise as they hit the ceramic.

“This is crazy. I was trying way too hard last time.”

“Isn’t it amazing that God designed that fruit to come apart in such an organized way.”

Her words make me think about my relationship with God. When I fight God, when I try to impose my own order on my life, things become messy and difficult. I’m unhappy. My life becomes disorganized.

But when I submit myself to Him, when I place Him in a position of control, things are much smoother.  He leads me according to His designs. And I can confidently follow the pattern He sets before me.

The bowl is full of seeds now. The rind is completely empty.

“Glad you didn’t just cut into it?” my mom asks.

"Yes. God's design works much better than my own."