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."