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.