To me, DAD is synonymous with the distant memories of a guy I liked to be around, but never got to be anywhere near as much as I wanted to be. He was a man with a good sense of humor and an ability to play. He appeared to be successful in his career, and he had a great poker face. Dad encouraged me to dream. A solid 50% of the time, he backed me at least 85% of the time. I think I inherited a lot of good stuff from him too. I’m grateful for that. Sometimes I get the impression that although physically trapped in his appointed time and place in history, he was really just a little ahead of his time.

It took me years to understand that my Dad loved me. All the expected trappings were there, but I still struggle with his dying and making me to feel left alone in the world. It was a time that a boy, or at least this boy, needed his father. Not really his fault of course. He was a guy who flew in and out of my life all too quickly. I know he was there. I have pictures. And somehow, someway, his blood is flowing through my veins today.

My perception of God, my Heavenly Father, bares a striking resemblance to the fellow I’m telling ‘ya about..

My dad was a man just like myself. I don’t doubt that he would be infuriated at being thrust into the position of representing The Creator of the Universe to his impressionable young son. Talk about pressure. The relationship  parallels can be eerie though. I mustn’t  forget, that although I live in a very confusing and distracting world, one that my earthly father would have never understood. Heavenly Father, you are, always have been and always will be my Creator and my source of life. You love me. You love me with a passion so ferocious that you’ll do just about anything to get my attention, to get me to look you in the eye, just to remind me that I am yours. ‘Dad’ can be a log-jammed word for me.

Easter Eggs & Lifesavers.

                 I can clearly remember the old Life Savers commercial that featured a very young Suzanne Sommers walking along the beach at sunrise sharing a roll of breathmints with her aging Dad. At least I think it was a beach at sunrise. Maybe the memory is not so vivid, but the flavor of a child walking along life’s path with their Dad, discussing one of life’s pleasant surprises, lingers. It lingers like the aftermath of a blast of Pep-O-Mint on your tongue on a warm summer day.

I like to think that my Dad was a good guy. I have heard stories of some missteps, but other than that, word is, he was pretty ok. I was a 15 when he died. He had cancer, and was undergoing chemo, but death was never really an option to my immature pubescent brain. I was away when it happened, working as an apprentice at a summer stock theatre in Danbury, Connecticut. It was not too far from home, although speeding through the murky mid-summer night to find his empty bed and a grieving family seemed to take forever that night. My Dad’s death was the single most earth-shaking event in my life. I wish I could say that my most transforming experience was when I found my way into God’s loving arms through faith 3 years later, but that’s really been more of an ongoing process than any kind of  life shattering explosion.

My father’s Will stated that he wanted no services, memorials or mourning. He wished life for those he loved to just keep moving on as if nothing had happened. I used to think that this was one of the most noble things I’d ever heard. Recently, I’m starting to think that it was one of the most selfish things I’ve ever heard. My ex-wife taught me about the value of mourning. Several years later, on a cloudy Monday afternoon, after I’d finished the appropriate amount of Pastoral visitation and paperwork, I decided to hijack my 150 seat sanctuary and have a long overdue funeral service. It was cathartic. It helped me alot. A dozen years had already passed and still time would prove to be the greatest healer.

I’m almost 50 now. I’ve lived twice as long without him as I did with him. I like to refer to my Dad poetically, as a phantom that slipped quietly, but profoundly, in and out of my life without me barely noticing. He is a sketchy character in my head. If I could go back in time, my Dad is the one contemporary person that I would most want to meet up with. Just for the record, that, and my suspicion that aliens are really time-travelers just about covers the extent of my sci-fi leanings. I have a few Father’s Knows Best memories of my Father. One in particular that brings a tear to my eye and a smile to my face every time I revisit it. I find, however, that it is the reality of his absence that has most acutely affected my Father image. I wish I had had more time with him.

A lot has been written about one’s image of a father and how it very specifically colors one’s perception of God the Father. It makes sense. I can accept God’s unconditional love, conditionally. Much of my Kingdom apprenticeship has been all about learning to receive His love, forgiveness and grace. I’ve found that The Big Guy Upstairs has no problem getting His point across when He really wants to. I guess there needs to be a teaspoon full of willingness thrown in there too. Eight and a half years in prison drove that lesson home for me quite clearly. Another big thing for me has been practicing the reality of God’s Grace. Getting everything I don’t deserve just because.  It’s an amazing concept. It’s the NO MATTER WHAT Clause… no matter what!

If I had three wishes, I think one of them would  be to have a spiritual lobotomy. I would like very much to spend every hour of every day doing and saying stuff that doesn’t make God roll His eyes at me. Aside from the obvious, I think one of the hardest parts about all of it is a principal that Jesus liked to talk about: He who has been given much is responsible for much. (eg. Luke 16:10). I feel I have been given a lot. Out of all the craziness has emerged a daily gratitude for even the most inconsequential of life’s Easter eggs. I have been forgiven so very much, how can I not give everyone I meet and give them a second and even third chance? And, I’ve learned to value honesty and faithfulness like gold. Ok, like chocolate. Godiva dark chocolate. The flip side is that is that I tend to daydream during some life’s most important lessons. I can be willful, disobedient, argumentative, lazy and irresponsible. This is the point that He always comes charging in on His white hollerin’ all His high-falootin forgiveness, grace and love stuff. It can be quite frustrating. Sometimes, when I’m kvetching in prayer, I think, if only my brain could be altered so that I do the stuff I want to do and don’t do the stuff I know I should (Romans 7:15-25). The truth is, I don’t think thatI mankind has even begun to understand the decimation of happened in at The Fall (Genesis 3).  I should mention here too that I believe that the Bible is 100% inspired by God. I try to live my life on Jesus’ clearly laid out Biblical principals. I don’t however believe that everything people say that the Bible says, the Bible really says. That’s why I put references in parenthesis, so you can check out where I’m coming from yourself. I am what you would refer to as a post-modernist. Traditional church is one of the last places you will find me. If you do, I will undoubtedly be sweating and definitely hyperventilating..  I urgently believe that God didn’tt set out a plan only for a people of only a certain time period. The simplicity of the Biblical times reference only once again shows His impeccable timing. Today, I think that He still reveals Himself, in contemporary ways, all the time. Everywhere

What follows is for you Dad. I’ve almost forgiven you for abandoning me at such a tender age, and for leaving me with just about enough life skills to cross the street without getting hit. When it comes right down to it, I think what almost any son wants from his Dad is approval. It’s some kind of caveman right-of-passage thing. I never really had the chance to realize that, as far as I know. So, I’ve decided to share a year of my life with you; thirty-three years later. It’s stuff I’ve experienced, lessons I’m learning, sometimes, just a written worksheet for figuring out life’s mazes. Noel Coward might call it journalesque (you loved Noel Coward). Most importantly though, it’s about how I am learning to be a child of God’s in the 21st Century. A passion of mine that I think you would be proud of. Dad, it's a time and place I wonder if you could have ever even dreamed of.

So Paw, grab your fishin’ pole. It’s almost sunset and we’re heading out to the lake…now I remember! Suzanne Sommers and her Dad were fishing on a lake at sunset. I don’t think it’s any coincidence that one Dad stepped in to my life just as the other stepped out. I do have a lot of questions though, being I’m a Dad too now. I’m hoping maybe this will turn some question marks into some exclamation points for me. It would be great too if it could help someone else break free from the curse of 'the sins of the father' and see God for who He really is, despite what we’ve been told. Oddly, one of my first thoughts when hearing of someone’s death is, “well, now it all makes sense to them.” It’s this state of mind I would describe as muddy waters. God calls it faith. I imagine the process of death will be like diving into the murky waters of a stagnant swamp and coming back up to the surface of the crystal clearness of the Caribbean. There’s gonna be a lot of head slappin’ going on. One day this is all going to make sense. I just know it is. (1 Corinthians 13:12,13). And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

Bees.     

                The weather has been extremely hot lately. Not just the kind of hot that makes you want to slip out of work early and head to the beach. The kind of hot that feels like you just got out of the shower when you are fully dressed. The other day, I decided to scrounge together all of my loose change and head out to the local recreation area. It’s not the nicest lakefront I’ve ever seen; in fact it’s usually pretty overcrowded with screaming kids and a head banging combination of rap and salsa music fighting to out-deafen everyone there. The lake is fairly clean, the water is cool, and the view always makes me think about how much God likes to landscape. With my Bible and a can of Diet Coke in toe, I found a fairly secluded area, took off my shirt and strained to listen to the waves lapping at the shore.

                Not long into my reverie, I began to realize that it wasn’t the boom boxes polluting the air, but, in fact, a persistent buzzing. It was sort of like the sound you would hear watching a car race: soft to loud and then soft again. The first time I noticed it, I assumed a fly was craving some nutra-sweet from the sweating can at my side. When it happened over and over again I started to get a little annoyed. Whatever little creature was performing maneuvers around my head obviously didn’t realize that I was communing with our common Creator. I was sure that once I communicated how spiritual I was being at the moment he would realize his error, maybe apologize, and seek some barbequing family off in the distance to annoy. When I opened my eyes and sat up all of my plans for détente came to a screaming halt. What I saw was what had to have been hundreds of gigantic bees hovering over the ground as if someone had poured honey all over the place. It was more then just a little overwhelming, but I reasoned that as long as I didn’t mess with them maybe they wouldn’t mess with me.  After looking around and seeing that these herculean boogers were as far as the eye could see and far more interested in whatever was all over the ground than my puny collection of flesh and blood, I lay back down and got back to praying. The frenzied buzzing continued. I went swimming.

                When I got home a few hours later I realized that that myriad of bees was very much like all of the things in life that distract me from the peace and sense of security that God wants me to experience every minute of every day. The life I should be living as opposed to the life that I am. In my minds eye, I laid back down on my wet towel at the lake and began naming those taunting little creatures: fear, self-pity, frustration, impatience, pride, lust, self-centeredness, hurt, jealousy, disappointment, on and on. It was Adam in the garden naming the animals all over again. Each and every one buzzing around my head, making me cringe, distracting my thoughts. The fascinating part about the whole experience was that as I lay resting in God’s presence on both my real and imaginary towel, I didn’t get bitten. Not even once. I was as safe as I could possibly be. I had to wonder, did God’s venomous little creatures know that I was off limits, or did they only include me in their agendas when I included them in mine?

                That night, I was reading about King David and his fling with Bathsheeba. Was that infamous night the first time he had ever been stung? What was he doing on the roof that night? Was he familiar with his neighbor’s routine? Perhaps Israel’s greatest King struggled with lust and pride more often throughout his life than is recorded. It also finally connected in my head that it was not any of his other children that succeeded him, it was Solomon, the son of the woman with whom he had fallen. The woman who’s husband he had had killed and eventually married. The fruit of his most well-known failure.

                The Apostle Paul writes in 2 Corinthians that he had a thorn in his flesh that, no matter how hard he prayed, wouldn’t go away. He goes on to say that his greatest strength was actually his greatest weakness. As I struggle every day with my sin-stained humanity, I need to not just remember, but know that God is, in fact, intimately acquainted with all of my ways, that every one of my days was written in His book before one of them came to be (Ps. 139). Does that free me to indulge my weaknesses? Absolutely not! What it does give me the freedom to do is to forgive myself when I do act human. I understand that God forgives me, but I feel like such a failure so much of the time. I see others around me winning victories, serving their hearts out, loving as Christ loved, praying instead of reacting and living so much closer to the holiness that God calls us to than I could ever dream. Judging myself so harshly and beating myself up is not freedom. If God knows and forgives me with such voracious love aren’t I just getting in His way when I override his generosity with my stinginess? Perhaps my self-berating is more pride than humility.

                Life’s bumble bees buzz around me from the minute I wake up in the morning to the minute I go to bed. Whether internally or externally, the minute I start waving them down is the minute I become part of their feeding frenzy. It’s not the action of sin that robs my freedom, it’s a matter of my heart that refuses to rest in the all encompassing forgiveness of Christ that really stings. When I demand deliverance today but the Lord wants to transform my life in His time aren’t I in essence forgetting who is the Creator and who is the created? The blind man was over forty years old when Jesus healed him. Lazarus lay in the tomb for over three days before Jesus brought him back to life. In both cases, the Bible says that their situations existed so that God would be glorified (John 9:3; 11:4). Maybe those bees know something I don’t. Their incessant buzzing did nothing but play with my head. When my attentions were directed heavenward they had no power over me. To be completely forgiven, truly loved, and totally surrendered to the purposes of my Maker, whether I understand it or not is the best bug spray of all. For the last few days, every time an insect has buzzed past my face, I can’t help but smile. Bees are just as much a reminder to me of God’s intimate participation in my life as a sunset, a starry night, or a breath-taking landscape framing a serene lake on a hot summer day.

Home Is Where The Heart Is

 I am a dreamer. Always have been. During my childhood and teen years I spent a lot of time visiting a whole other world of my own creation in my head. I hesitate to admit, that it’s only been in the last year that I’ve stopped going there on an almost daily basis. Checking in to my alternate reality in my adult years had been my method for falling asleep. My other life is everything my real life isn’t. It’s a great place. It’s a safe-haven where I am loved and secure and completely accepted. Where my talents are appreciated and I have lots of friends. It’s a place where I make a difference and all of my bills are paid. I miss going there sometimes. I think God knows how much I like visiting because He has let me holiday there on a few occasions, even though we both know it’s not a healthy place for me to linger.

Not only am I a dreamer, but I am also a lucid dreamer. Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia defines lucid dreams like this: A lucid dream is a dream in which the person is aware that he or she is dreaming while the dream is in progress, also known as a conscious dream. When the dreamer is lucid, he or she can actively participate in the dream environment without any of the inhibitions or limitations that otherwise would feel natural to persons who incorrectly believe they are in the "real" waking world. Lucid dreams can be extremely real and vivid depending on a person's level of self-awareness during the lucid dream. Lucid dreams are awesome. There is, in fact, no other state of mind than I would rather be in. I used to have them a lot more regularly than I do now, mostly during a period of my life that I needed to escape reality. That’s why I think that God blesses me with the ability to go there every now and then. Its His very intimate and personal way of hugging me. I’ve done some reading on the subject of lucid dreams and even learned some tricks that I can use when I’m there. If I’m not sure if I’m dreaming or not, because it feels so real, I throw my legs out behind me. If I float I know it’s a dream. Of course if I ever felt the need to use this test in real life, I’d fall flat on my tail and probably end up in a hospital, possibly a psychiatric one. I’ve also learned that if I want the dream to continue I can spin myself in circles. If I don’t like the situation I’m in, I just have to shake my head. That definitely doesn’t work in real life. I’ve tried.

            I recently re-read one of my favorite entries in Oswald Chambers devotional, “My Utmost For His Highest” (March 20^th). He is addressing decision-making and the will of God. Chambers writes, “Think of the last thing you prayed about – were you devoted to your desire or to God? Was your determination to get some gift of the Spirit for yourself or to get to God.” It got me thinking. I believe that the Bible is all about God’s relationship with man and I believe that Jesus lived, died and rose from the dead to heal that relationship that had been broken. If life is all about my relationship with God, am I motivated by dwelling in His presence or by living an alternate reality that is really no reality at all.

            After a very specific and detailed discourse on practical living, one of the few recorded in fact, Jesus sums up His teaching with the statement. “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” (Matthew 6:21). I know people who are incredible storytellers. They can weave a tale with such colorful detail that by the time they get to the end, you feel as if you’ve just gotten off of a roller coaster. I, however, am a firm believer in short-handing unnecessarily drawn out experiences. When I get in to a disagreement with someone, I’d rather avoid all of the emotional hoo-ha and just settle the matter and move on. ‘I was wrong’, ‘you were wrong,’ ‘this is how we can fix it’ kind of thing. The crowds listening to Jesus that day in the blazing Middle-Eastern sun, were probably getting restless by the time He made this statement. They had heard about salt, light, murder adultery, divorce, generosity, fasting, prayer, etc. If I had been there that day, I probably would have been the guy in the crowd whose head was in his hands and finally blurted out, “Lord, can we just cut to the chase!”  Jesus did, with a statement so intensely heart rending that I imagine for a few minutes afterwards, all you could hear was the wind whipping through the trees. Eugene Peterson in The Message version translates the verse, “The place where your treasure is, is the place you will most want to be, and end up being.”

           There is an interesting dichotomy taught in the New Testament. On one hand, Jesus spent His life hanging out with the common folk and society’s most wretched. On the other hand, Paul says that bad company corrupts good morals. The Apostle John also has a lot to say about how bad it is to love the world. Are we, as God’s children supposed to hang out on the street corners wearing a Hazmat suit? I don’t think our message would be especially appealing if we did. It is the citizenship of our heart that gives us all of the necessary protective armor that we could possibly need to be participants in a world so stained by sin. We are to have a relationship with the world in which our lives are the influence, not vice versa. I love the Psalmists description. He describes God as a dwelling place; a rich and fertile land where we are nourished, strengthened and protected. A place where our cup overflows and goodness and loving kindness follow us around everywhere we go. Its kind of dream-like

            When I have no idea how I’m going to make my next car payment, and my daughter won’t answer my calls, and I can’t imagine a time when I will ever be happy again, it’s the dwelling place of my heart that keeps it all in perspective. I wonder sometimes if God gets tired of hearing me whine and complain. I’ve tried approaching Him with the suggestion that if He would just take care of thus-and –such His life would be so much easier. I would quiet down and maybe He could even get a day off every now and then. Play golf, create a galaxy or two, whatever.  Truth is though, according to the Scriptures, it’s not my kvetching that concerns Him. It’s when I stop complaining and decide to take matters in to my own hands that bothers Him the most. Sometimes it feels like dwelling in God is like trying to hold on to a merry-go-round that is spinning out of control. Holding on for dear life while all of the riders are flung off one by one. Belief is so much easier than faith. Faith requires a trust, and an anchoring in waters that are sometimes fickle and dangerous. It can be a harrowing ride.

            One of the first steps a potter must take to begin the process of molding his clay on the wheel, is to assure that it is adhered and centered. For the clay, it’s a grueling experience of being pulled and crushed, squeezed and flattened. The artist can do nothing unless this process is fully explored. Dwelling in the presence of God can be mind-numbingly distressing when every ounce of our being is shouting, “foul ball!”  Some of the greatest men of God experienced the worst that life could possibly offer and rose victorious. It’s no wonder that in one of Paul’s most powerful writings he exhorts his readers to “Rejoice is the Lord always. Again I say: Rejoice!” and then goes on to tell them, in very practical terms, how to deal with life’s inevitable anxieties. (Phillipians 4:4-9)

            No matter what is happening around me, as long as my heart is dedicated to the true reality, I cannot fall. If God is for me, who can be against me?  When all is said and done, I have to ask myself, what is the primary priority of my life? What kind of treasures matter to me the most? Dwelling in my Creator isn’t always a panorama of beautiful flowing streams and fields of wildflowers. It isn’t always sunny and it doesn’t always feel so great. That’s okay. It’s home. Home is where my heart is.

Puzzled.

I had the privilege of watching a meteor shower last week. It was awesome. As I lay there on my back in the cool mid-August air, listening to the mystical sounds of summer, I couldn’t help but wonder if God was showing off a little bit just for me. While my friend tried to explain the scientific ins and outs of all the heavenly pyrotechnics, I wondered if, although eloquently expressed, any words could possibly capture the profundity of what I was seeing. It was like someone trying to describe an apple to a person who has never tasted one before. You can use all of the adjectives you want, but there is nothing you can really say to express the taste of biting into the crisp skin of a fresh picked fruit and experiencing the explosion of sweet-tartness when you crunch on the refreshing flesh of the tender meat inside. I thought I’d give it a shot. As my eyes scanned the millions of twinkling lights smiling at me from above, I was amused by the thought that someone looking into all this vastness could possibly think that they could define what I was seeing. Do those guys with the million dollar telescopes really expect me to believe that they can name every star, or even begin to explain what’s going on up there? If there was ever a case to be made for God or His unfathomably huge presence, looking into the sky on a clear summer night would certainly do the trick (Romans 1:19,20). I felt like a speck of sand. A very chilly, under-dressed, over-tired, speck of sand.

            I have always prided myself on being one of those forward-thinking people who embrace the gray areas of the faith. More than once I’ve found myself looking down my nose at those who are imprisoned by their legalism and traditionalism. Parading around as a free-man-in-Christ has been a banner that I’ve displayed with honor. Recently however, I’m wondering if a little good old black and white in my diet might be a welcome relief. I still believe that God is too big to be defined by man’s puny attempts. I maintain that putting God in a doctrinal box is like trying to contain an atomic blast in a pill bottle. What’s starting to get on my nerves is all the cloak and dagger mystery memos that seem to be coming from the Home Office. I can appreciate that He sees a million different angles when I can only grasp my perspective, and maybe one or two others, but some clear directive would be really helpful every now and then. Can’t He just cut me a break being that, unlike Him, I am so very time-challenged? Does everything really have to be so complicated? When life is coming at me like chocolates on an I Love Lucy assembly line, how do I maintain my sanity? Should I take up a collection to get God a text-messaging plan, or is there a way to extract some black and white from all of the avalanches of gray?

             The night before Jesus’ final visit to Jerusalem, He very mater-of-factly told his disciples to go ahead of Him and borrow a donkey that would be found tied to a specific post in a specific place. The narrative here is extremely brief. You almost get the impression that the Apostles were becoming a little jaded to Jesus’ phenomenal powers by this point. They didn’t even balk or question. And sure enough, the mule was exactly where He said it would be. Compared to everything else supernatural that was going on, the whole event was pretty tame. Feeling as buried as I do recently by so many unexpected twists and turns in the path of my life, I started thinking about that donkey. About it’s owners. About what led up to it being tied to that post that evening. The animal’s presence at that specific place and time was the result of probably nothing overly spectacular. It’s owners were just going about their normal days’ affairs, completely unaware that their very common, everyday decisions leading up to that night would provide a notoriety to their pet like none other. I read no reason to believe that the donkey’s owners tied him up every night, hoping and waiting for the Messiah to show up and draft him into history. In fact, I’d bet that they had plans for that foal to suit their own purposes. Everything that happened in the life of that unsuspecting animal led up to Jesus’ Triumphal Entry, unbeknownst to anyone but God Himself.

            I’ve been asking God “Why?” a lot recently. There seem to be a million different puzzle pieces, completely unrelated to one another, cropping up in my life on a daily basis. Important pieces, but confusingly disjointed from the direction that I thought my life was taking. I’m not a puzzle person. I’m way too impatient. As far as I’m concerned the phrase “to be continued” should be outlawed. During one of my unfortunate prison stays, I ran in to a practice that fascinated me. In the dayroom of the block I was living on were five tables for people to sit at to play cards, or chess, to doodle or to write. Mostly, they were a hot commodity and dominated by guys loudly and passionately playing Spades. On one of the tables however, there was always a jigsaw puzzle in the works. Throughout the day, one or more of the residents would stop by to work on the puzzle, maybe have a cup of coffee and brief conversation with the other visiting puzzlers, and then move on. At one point or another just about everyone would take part in piecing the tiny cardboard cut-outs together. The final piece insertion was no big deal, and the completed canvas was never left on the table more than a couple of hours before it was broken apart and a new puzzle started. Where my motivation would have been completing the picture on the box, and getting it done as quickly as possible, the guys on J-Block seemed to be inspired by a higher goal. The puzzle to me, was a puzzle itself. If I had placed the last piece, you can be darn sure I would have made sure it stayed intact, and maybe hung on a wall for everyone to see. You would be amazed what you can do with toothpaste and toilet paper.

            I’m starting to think that maybe God is the ultimate puzzler. Jesus’ donkey was just a single piece of the puzzle that night, expertly placed and vitally important to the final picture, but in and of itself no more noticeably crucial than any of the other thousands of pieces that led Jesus to the Cross at that appointed point in history. As I read the Word, I can see God holding a tiny puzzle piece in His hand, contemplating its placement and staring down at His work-in-progress when I read in Job how intimately acquainted He is with all the finite workings of our world (Job 38-41), or when I’m told that every hair on my head is counted or that every one of my days is written in His book before one of them comes to be (Psalm 139:13-16). All of the things in my life that are making my head spin, and my faith waver are maybe, just parts of a puzzle that I can’t see. We don’t get too many bright-light-from-heaven miracles nowadays. Mostly, God’s interventions are subtle, almost unnoticeable orchestrations of events and situations that become obvious only when seen them in the light of specific circumstances. Perhaps every “why?” I’ve been pummeling at Him is one more piece of the puzzle of a design that I’m not supposed to see. Yet.

            It’s so easy for me to be a man of faith when all the pieces fit together. I love to challenge the puzzlers who have graduated no further that fitting round pieces into round holes and square pieces into square holes. But I have to wonder, am I really willing to throw away the goal of the finished product and find joy in fitting piece by piece together until one day the final picture is revealed? Do I trust God that much? Perhaps it’s time to realize that my life in Christ isn’t the tableaux of grays I so pridefully find comfort in, but in fact a whole spectrum of colors, some that can’t even be found in a box of Crayolas. Colors that humble me to my knees. Shades of life that bring glory to God and replace my impertinent “why?” with gratitude and awe. God deserves so much more than I can possibly give. Often more than I am willing to give. Thank you Lord for the pieces of the puzzle that don’t seem to fit. One day, they will, and when they do I will see clearly, even as I am so very clearly and intimately seen, by You (1 Corinthians 13:12).