Goodness redefined

 

 

She is two and a couple of months old. She loves to sit on my laps we flip through the pages of a book and read out loud. She is tall for her age. I keep reminding her that she has a beautiful frame. It is only a matter of time before the harsh world hands out its beauty meter to her. It will, in its cruel fashion, constantly remind her that beauty is measured by a particular standard. Perhaps, it is my fear of that wretchedness of that meter that makes me affirm her height. After all, parenting is about fear. Fear of a world that keeps finding ways of erasing God given identities. Fear of the uncertainty that comes with facing an unknown world. Fear of getting it all wrong in spite of the numerous reminders that no one has it figured out.

It is that last fear that keeps most of us at the office way past the office hours. We are afraid they will be bent out of shape if we can’t keep the fridge full or pay for the new ballet class or get them a new toy. We hustle from dawn to dusk only for us to miss the beauty in their eyes as they run towards us at the end of the day. It is that fear of uncertainty that keeps us running from one expert to another. We want to have the right words at the right time. We want to have the answers when their questions come flooding.

I have been seeking answers of late, searching for words to say. This season has made my mouth feel like a parched desert. I pause and wonder what to say when friends ask me how I am doing. What am I supposed to say? I wonder as I compose texts I never send. My impatience with myself gets ahead of me so I never say much. Those who know me and are acquainted with the intimate details of this season know that I am not being corky. I simply do not know what to say. She knows how to speak to the depths of my heart. She hugs me tightly at the end of the day. I had no idea that a hug can be such a source of such strength. This little being, who I am supposed to teach how to live, knows this better than I do. She puts her face against mine and smiles widely. Her belly induced laughter is balm to the soul. It is a reminder that amidst the darkness, light still shines. The sun rising over the horizon is sufficient reason to laugh from the belly. She looks for no reason to laugh. I catch myself crying at times as she tickles me so that I can join in her infectious laughter. How can a soul so young hold such profound truths about life?

When you have a child, you automatically assume that it is your job to know. You read books on how to raise a baby. You consult experts on how to change a diaper. You get a thermometer to avoid scalding her fragile skin with bathing water. The sound of her hiccup sends you into panic mode. You spend the wee hours of the morning consulting Dr. Google. None of us wants to be caught unaware. A parent, after all, is supposed to know everything, do everything and stop at nothing for the sake of their child.

Then, one day, the ship is rocked and you realize that no amount of knowledge can fix a hole created by uncertainty. That there are problems that can be fixed. Perhaps they only make up 1% of the world’s problems. You learn after yet another wild goose trip with your body of knowledge that knowledge is good, not the ultimate Good. So, God, in his infinite wisdom and goodness, sends you a reminder that He is good. That there is goodness that does not come from knowing the outcome or having it all, if there is anything like that. There is goodness that feels like the patter of rain upon grass. Goodness that floods your throat like cool waters on a punitively hot day. Goodness that does not come with answers, it arrives with a belly laugh at the end of the day from a child who would not care less if you were awarded the Noble Prize for seeking answers.

I suppose that is why Christ said that unless we receive the kingdom like children then we will utterly miss it. I see how my little girl pays attention to the goodness that God hid in this earth without really struggling. I see it in her little kind acts: a peck on the cheek, a glass of water that is tenderly served, a smile that beams from her heart to her eyes.

 

#Onelittlething: Who is this man?

He crept into the world unnoticed

Disrupted a world gone dark

As a  baby wrapped in swaddling clothes

A carpenter’s son

Fashioning ordinary pieces

In his father’s backyard

Never made in the list of top ten millenials

Or most influential teachers

A king who rode on a donkey

A god who died at the hands of men

A threat to the authorities

Establishing an other worldly kingdom

In a world that needed disestablishment

A silent revolution without guns or arrows

Knives or a  seat at the table

A platform or publicist

An heir who meddled with the masses

And got muddied in their messes

Who is this man?

That they called Son of Man

Hailed and stripped their robes for

Then, turned and spit on

Who is this advocate who would not put a defense

At his own trial

Yet stands by those who have tried

Tested and spewed out by life

Who is this man?

 

#Onelittlething: A king who became a child

Matthew 1 sounds like credits in a movie. It is boring to read and hard to get through. However, a study we are currently doing in church prompted me to go beyond the boredom. The men and women who make it into the lineage of Jesus do not necessarily have royal-worthy qualifications. As I read through the book, I could not help but wonder why these bunch made it into the lineage of the King of the World. Some of them had failed marriages, rebellious children and colorful pasts. Most of them seemed to have missed all the important seminars in the local temple as they cruised through their lives with passions unhindered.

The lineage of Jesus is about God weaving the story of redemption intricately into the lives of men and women who would otherwise not stand a chance. It is grace invading the earth, disrupting otherwise ordinary lives to usher a God who would redeem the ordinary. Grace is God working in us, in spite of us. Grace is offensive, no wonder the Pharisees often walked away angry and offended.

What is grace to you?

 

Scripture reading:

Matthew 1

#Onelittlething: Close your eyes

Close for your eyes for a moment. Where would you like to be? Would you like to be on a sandy beach sipping a pink drink and basking in the sun? Would you like to rub shoulders with the high and mighty, have a chest full of names you can drop? Would you like a seat at the highest table, dining and wining as you watch the world bow at your feet?

Open your eyes. Sit up straight. You would probably like a positive note to remind you that all dreams are valid, that hard work and persistence pay. I hate to disappoint but if there is anything to note, it is this: Be careful,  little heart,  of what you desire. Hearts desire and deceive. Hearts conjure wonders of the world and wander away toward a long, winding road of weary pursuits. In all your pursuits and all your dreams, let these little musings follow:

Who am I before I attain my dreams?

Are there parts of my identity attached to an office suite, an account, a name outside of the Name that gives me Being?

Can I pursue all this and remain free of the entanglements that come with it?

Test me, LORD, and try me, examine my heart and my mind – Psalms 26:2

 

 

Words have meaning

In modern day speak, I am twenty with a decade of experience. I am not old, I am ageing gracefully. In my imaginary life, I have tons of advice for you on everything: relationships, money, career and family. I am an expert at living because I have lived twice. I have been a child, spoken as a child and thought like a child. My attempts at being an adult have been like a doodle by a child. They have form but it is not distinct. There is a sense of direction but it is hard to pick where it is going. An artist would look at it and marvel. A critic would shred it to pieces at the first glance. Getting older in a world that idolizes being young is hard. It is harder when you recognize that you do not fit into the  mould that has been cast. I am awfully aware of the ways in which my skin is changing. My body is defying yester year’s abuse and constantly asking me to do a better job of taking care of it. The tension between loving this body as it is and the body that I want remains a constant. I live in the gap that has been created by it. It is exacerbated by the fear of what lies in the ruins from the past washing up on the pristine beach I have spread out in front of me.

I know the terror that comes with wondering what happened to your life. You wake up wondering whether this is the best you can do in spite the fact you can only do the best that you know how to do. You spend hours scrolling through acres of happy photos. You smile at the photos, forgetting that they capture a moment, not a lifetime. Nobody knows the life defining contexts from which those moments emerge except for the smiling faces in the photos. I have had a lot to be grateful for and excited about in the last decade. A husband who prays me up, pushes me off the cliff when I am getting comfortable and supports me. A daughter who lights up my days with her antics. A mother who loves me. Siblings who care for me. A small circle of fantastic friends.  My cups overflows but why do I find myself running on empty?

Research is increasingly showing that we are an anxious and depressed generation. We are living longer but anxiety and depression are silently stifling our lives. They lurk in the shadows with every disappointment at work, failed attempt to be a start-uper, complicated relationships and family ships. Amidst all that, there is a pressure to make it and look good while at it so the brand building and chasing continues because the next high depends it. Then, it all comes tumbling like a stack of cards. The wind swiftly scatters it as it would scatter trash. But we must fail fast and fail forward even if it kills us. Where is meaning in all of this? What’s the point? Is it enough to work, live, laugh, let go and let God?

Words have held a sacred space in my life. When my father died and my six year old mind could not understand why he was not coming back, I had books to remind me of the smell of hair tonic of his neat Afro. When I could not understand why my neighbourhood looked like a scene from a cops and robbers movie, I had Cinderella and Little Red Riding Hood to comfort me. I read through my grief, my failures, my successes, confusion and chaos. I did not find the answers in the books but there was a strange comfort in knowing that the world was not as bad as it was or as it is. For those fleeting moments spent reading whatever I could find, I saw past the stained windows and empty rooms. I saw the fullness of what I had and the beauty of what I could become.

 I am here rummaging through the drawers of this chest I call my life. Some drawers are best left untouched. They are dusty and rusty. The keys are somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, never to be retrieved again. Some drawers are opened with tender loving care only to be shut with a bang because the rot that lies therein makes the whole room stink. Others will remain open because they carry treasure I am only too glad to share and shine in the spotlight. Such is the shallowness that this life has bequeathed me. I am running but I have somehow convinced myself that there is nothing to run away from. I am hiding but I hold the illusion of being as transparent as a ray of light.  Where is meaning when you are looking for it?

I was barely out of my teenaged years when I learnt that my purpose was intricately linked to my love for words. My pastor and mentor at that time had barely figured out a way around his hormone charged temper outbursts. I believed him when he said I had a purpose beyond what the Joint Admissions Board (JAB) had decided I should study. I had to believe him because I was struggling to be in my anatomy classes but I aced them anyway because what I could not stand in the morgue made sense once I came across it in a book. Words, as I figured out, gave meaning, to what was meaningless. If I could read it, then I could get through with it. Fast forward to five years later, it turned out my pastor was an emotionally abusive manipulator who was somehow convinced that he could not sin or fail. What followed was heartache, confusion, chaos and a search for meaning. It’s been a decade of deconstructing what I thought I believed. It’s been a decade of unmasking the layers. Beneath the good and bad in this past decade lies a persistent, insatiable ache: What is the meaning of life?

I am reading as always as I grapple with ageing. I am reading writers who don’t have the answers yet. Seekers, hoping to shed a light towards somewhere more holy. Sojourners in this land we anxiously inhabit. A common thread emerged this week among the writers I came across. Words have meaning. I did not think much about it but as it sunk, it occurred to me that the Truth in that is like a breath of fresh air in the morning. The Word was made flesh. The Word is Alive. In the beginning was the Word and the Word was God. On the first day, God birthed a new world through His Word. The Word stood at the dawn of history and it will witness the dusk of history. Is it possible that I have lost sight of meaning because I have lost sight of words? Is it possible that I have lost sight of the mystery, the awe, the tenderness and the raging fierceness of the Word?

Honestly, I do not know. My favourite words are evolving. The testament of the Word is continuously eroded by attempts to domesticate into a formulae for a perfect life. The Word is alive but life sucks and I know that far too intimately. So, I am seeking, poring over the ancient word, wrestling with what I find uncomfortable, embracing the mystery of what does not fit my left or right brained thinking. I am listening to the Word made alive where it is made alive: in the spaces that are considered uncouth, in the mundane acts of living every day, in the quiet uneasiness of my own anxiety and the loudness of my uncomfortable relationship with my body, on days I would rather miss work. Because words, as I have learnt, have meaning.

How to end the year

In my former years, I would wait for the 31^st of December of any year. We had a tradition in my house. We would wait for the clock to strike midnight. We would run outside and join neighbours and friends in witnessing the dawn of a new year.  I outgrew that tradition partly because my definition of a new year has changed over time. A new year is not necessarily marked by the turning of the calendar for me. It is that moment, memory, event or transition that shifts everything in your life. Some of us cross over to the other side triumphantly. We carry with us the fruitful results of a year of sweat, struggle, strife and wrestling that was crowned with success, love, answers we had been searching for and promises fulfilled. Some of us   end the year with promise of a marriage fulfilled, a fulfilling job,a business breaking even, the birth of a child or the renewal of a relationship.

Some of us are holding our breaths, afraid that the last breath could snap the last knot that is keeping us together. We have tasted death and confronted life. We have dragged our feet through it, emptied of what we knew as ours. We have sat down over a glass of something stiff as shards of glass slice through the broken promises.  We have strutted around in heels and gone home to souls splattered on walls by the ravages of this life. On one end, there is the life we wanted and hoped for. On the other end, the stark reality is staring at us. Its gaze is colder than hell itself, its piercing look sharper than the devil’s fork.  In this life, as Jesus honestly promised, we will have trouble and today’s troubles are sufficient for the day. The end of the day does not always mark the end of troubles. The beginning of a day does not always signal a new dawn. You wake up and walk right into the chaos unfiltered. In the land of chaos, verses don’t hold and faith fails. Each step seems like an inch towards the dark depths of the dark abyss that you are already in.  I know this space intimately. I know how the biting cold seeps through the covers I have made for myself in this space and leaves me shivering for the warmth of what was. I have tasted the tension of being in the space between what I wanted and hoped for and what is and come out bitter, tired, afraid and alone.

The Greeks believed that time was circular. It circles back to where it all began. St. Augustine postulated that time was linear. Scientists are still arguing whether there is such a thing as time because its “thingness” is hard to grasp.  We know time for what it is; the rise and fall of seasons in our lives. As the end of the year draws nigh, I see time, not as a chronicle of events, whether circular or linear but in light of Person who keeps it all together. The Bible says that Christ is before all things and in him all things consist. The long road ahead of your new, broken life and your life as you knew it consists in him. The joyful memories past and the painful present consist in Him. The Portuguese say it best: God draws straight with crooked lines. He is the Light that is present in the darkest moment. He is in the first ray of sunlight at the core of the chaos. He is in the tightened chest where grief greets anxiety and unbelief.

He is in the middle section of the story that does not seem to be leading to the happy ending of the story. He is present as the hopes for the restoration of that relationship perish alongside all that was good with it. His definition of who you are is not hinged on how well you do. It is pegged on what he has done. He died and rose and that is the finished work. Every other work will come and go but that cannot be erased or outdone. He is the balm that soothes the bitter taste of yester night’s tears. He is sitting quietly and patiently as you falter in your steps towards sobriety and wholeness.

In my former years, I would wait for the 31^st of December of any year. We had a tradition in my house. We would wait for the clock to strike midnight. We would run outside and join neighbours and friends in witnessing the dawn of a new year.  I outgrew that tradition partly because my definition of a new year has changed over time. A new year is not necessarily marked by the turning of the calendar for me. It is that moment, memory, event or transition that shifts everything in your life. Some of us cross over to the other side triumphantly. We carry with us the fruitful results of a year of sweat, struggle, strife and wrestling that was crowned with success, love, answers we had been searching for and promises fulfilled. Some of us   end the year with promise of a marriage fulfilled, a fulfilling job,a business breaking even, the birth of a child or the renewal of a relationship.

Some of us are holding our breaths, afraid that the last breath could snap the last knot that is keeping us together. We have tasted death and confronted life. We have dragged our feet through it, emptied of what we knew as ours. We have sat down over a glass of something stiff as shards of glass slice through the broken promises.  We have strutted around in heels and gone home to souls splattered on walls by the ravages of this life. On one end, there is the life we wanted and hoped for. On the other end, the stark reality is staring at us. Its gaze is colder than hell itself, its piercing look sharper than the devil’s fork.  In this life, as Jesus honestly promised, we will have trouble and today’s troubles are sufficient for the day. The end of the day does not always mark the end of troubles. The beginning of a day does not always signal a new dawn. You wake up and walk right into the chaos unfiltered. In the land of chaos, verses don’t hold and faith fails. Each step seems like an inch towards the dark depths of the dark abyss that you are already in.  I know this space intimately. I know how the biting cold seeps through the covers I have made for myself in this space and leaves me shivering for the warmth of what was. I have tasted the tension of being in the space between what I wanted and hoped for and what is and come out bitter, tired, afraid and alone.

The Greeks believed that time was circular. It circles back to where it all began. St. Augustine postulated that time was linear. Scientists are still arguing whether there is such a thing as time because its “thingness” is hard to grasp.  We know time for what it is; the rise and fall of seasons in our lives. As the end of the year draws nigh, I see time, not as a chronicle of events, whether circular or linear but in light of Person who keeps it all together. The Bible says that Christ is before all things and in him all things consist. The long road ahead of your new, broken life and your life as you knew it consists in him. The joyful memories past and the painful present consist in Him. The Portuguese say it best: God draws straight with crooked lines. He is the Light that is present in the darkest moment. He is in the first ray of sunlight at the core of the chaos. He is in the tightened chest where grief greets anxiety and unbelief.

He is in the middle section of the story that does not seem to be leading to the happy ending of the story. He is present as the hopes for the restoration of that relationship perish alongside all that was good with it. His definition of who you are is not hinged on how well you do. It is pegged on what he has done. He died and rose and that is the finished work. Every other work will come and go but that cannot be erased or outdone. He is the balm that soothes the bitter taste of yester night’s tears. He is sitting quietly and patiently as you falter in your steps towards sobriety and wholeness.

I end the year hopefully because I have realized that my hope does not lie in an outcome. It lies in the Hope that never fades and Love that never fails: Jesus Christ. I do not always believe that. My head fights it. My heart does not know what to do with it on the days it is all tangled up in the miry mess. I still believe it so help my unbelief, God.

A Note on the Upcoming General Election

 

The most important person in this election is not on a ballot box. He is the person seated next to you. He is the scruffy old man who picks his nose publicly as he moves from one dumpsite to another in search of a meal. She is the lady with six children and a salary that cannot be stretched past pay day. He is the newspaper vendor who bears the brunt of the rain then dashes across town to his second job as a watchman. She is the lady next door, the one you have never had the guts to speak to.

This election, if political analysts are to be believed, involves high stakes. I suppose that can be said of every other election because an election is like a short term marriage. You sign the dotted line only to realize that your spouse has bad breath, cusses like a sailor and stashes his dirty socks under the bed. Of course, you want out but there is the little matter of the law so you are stuck with who you are dealt with until another election puts you asunder.

In two weeks’ time, we shall gather before God and men, alongside other men and women to give this another try. We shall choose a team with whom we hope we can weather the vicissitudes of life. There is no shortage of analyses on what the past five years have been like. The good, the bad and the ugly is evident to anyone who is willing to look and see. Lately, I have been thinking about how we decide on who to vote for. I have been thinking of us, we who are called by the Light of the World to be the light of the world.

Years ago, I was a part of a congregation whose leader was convinced that we had a mission to take over the government. This mission was often communicated in the form of prophecies to the church. The prophetic word, as I would learn later, has its place but this was an instance in which it was openly being abused.  As part of his plan for takeover, he was raising leaders who were like him. According to him, God had a special mission for his church (our denomination) which he would only accomplish once we became influential people in the society. I know that sounds ridiculous now but back then, we were the “chosen” ones and he was the “chosen” one.

It did not take long for that plan to crumble along with the vision bearer but I have heard that narrative in so many churches. It sounds biblical, right? After all, aren’t we a royal priesthood, a holy nation and a special people to God (1 Peter 2:9)?  Looking back at our congregation, we were so trapped in the idea of having power that we did very little with what was within our reach. That prophetic word had become the seed of conceit mixed up with ignorance. We did not have the faintest idea as to how a government works. The few members of the congregation who knew were busy growing their own little empires at the expense of others. Our desire to take over was based on the promise that God was doing something special and he needed this group of exceptional people to do it. This could not have been further from the truth because God is always working, always redeeming and he does not need people. He chooses people, equips them and does his work on earth through them (Ephesians 2:10).

The undoing of that prophecy was that it was built on exceptionalism. You have probably come across one or more variants of this brand of “Christianity” in church settings. It is an insidious vice that is masked with the relevant scriptures. Exceptionalism shields its followers from the world while making them believe that they are special to God. Don’t get me wrong, anyone who believes in Christ is a new creation as Paul preaches but this brand corrupts this. Its preachers have a grasp of the scriptures but are quick to detach it from its historical and cultural contexts.

It is individualistic, predatory  and  power driven but the power in it is nothing like the power that was demonstrated by Christ who did not consider equality with God as something to be grasped (Phil. 2:6-7). It teaches servant leadership while trampling upon the foundations of servant hood through pomposity, false humility and self-aggrandizement. It’s authoritarian in nature, leaning on some portions of the Old Testament structures while failing to mention that Christ was the fulfillment of the law and He chose to lay down his life for the sake of others. It teaches accountability yet it does not practice any form of accountability. If this is acceptable within the church, then how low will the bar be set when it comes to political offices?

If exceptionalism is the basis upon which we choose leaders, then we will vote to feed its demands upon us. This plan could be anything from a plan that is based on tribal preferences to a plan based on personal biases. We will delegate our authority to interrogate our leaders in spite the fact that God has given a spirit of love, power and sound mind and he expects us to prayerfully and mindfully exercise it. We will skip our duty to love our neighbour as we love ourselves by voting without considering the implications of our choices on their lives.

My neighbour, if the parable in Luke 10:25 has taught me anything, does not share my religious beliefs, tribe, physical address, social status or views on matters of life and the afterlife. My neighbour is the nameless widow who has been displaced by a famous political figure because her plot is in a prime part of the city. My neighbours are countless men and women who cannot access good healthcare because they cannot afford to pay for it. My neighbour is that lady with a thick layer of make up on her face that hides the pinch of the rising cost of living.
If exceptionalism has deep roots within the church, then it is hard to quantify the extent of its twin, tribalism has taken root. I do not subscribe to the school of thought that states that we are #tribeless because, whether we like it or not, we were all born to a particular ethnic community. The Bible, in all its authority, does not exclude the cultural context within which God birthed and fulfilled his plan for the redemption of humanity. That says something about our tribes and our cultures. They are important but when a tribe becomes the basis upon which we relate with others, we have lost sight of God’s redemption plan for the earth.

Tribalism has been here long enough to have a town named after it. It does not because you and I are oblivious of how deep the tentacles of tribalism have taken root in our souls. Consider this for a second: You lose money in a business deal. Two of your partners were from the same ethnic community. What goes through your mind whenever you come across members of that community? What led you to that conclusion? Is it free from biases? Would you confront those biases if you knew they existed?

I have seen posts on social media and other forms of media, rallying Christians to pray for this country. That is important. The scriptures command us to pray without ceasing. However, we must be alert to the effects of faith without works. I am asking myself the hard questions as I think about the upcoming general elections:

What patterns of thinking are shaping my decision to vote or not to vote for particular candidate?

Are these patterns sound, noble, true and praiseworthy?

How will my decision to vote or not to vote affect my neighbour?

Do I view my citizenship as an expression of stewardship? Am I being faithful as a citizen?

 

 

 

 

The In-between

I turned 30 this year. According to the last article I read, I should on my way to the C-suite. I should have my finances in order. My wardrobe should the stuff that leaves blogs talking for days. I should know who are my friends and keep them close. According to the life I am living, I am not yet in the C-suite. Wherever that is. I have figured out my way around finances but I have miles to go. My wardrobe is still the subject of a discussion by a committee of experts comprised of my daughter and I. The last time we meet, we could not agree on whether florals are in or out because one half of the committee gets easily distracted.  You can blame that on technology or the weather or the decreasing attention span.

Turning 30 is supposed to be the capstone of life, a crowning moment of firsts, highs and thrills. I know who my friends are. We are just not close as we would like to be. We have dinners to make, deadlines to beat, homework to do and games to invent. A random text on one of the platforms is our way of letting each other know that we have not been buried by our calendars. For me, it  has been a mixture of highs, thrills, lows and lows below the lows. It was not supposed to be like that. I suppose I am not the only one caught in the gap between the life I have and the life I want. The more optimistic among us would send me an article about how-to-get-the-life-you-want. I know the steps and the drill. The angst is in the gap between the steps and the destination. It’s in getting to the destination and wondering why there is no feast laid out. It’s in getting what I want and wondering why I wanted it in the first place because it feels unusually bland.

That said, I have a lot to be grateful for. I would run out of paper if I was to count my blessings and name them one by one. But, the yearning in the gap is not easily wished away by a gratitude list. Having and craving, if my experiences are anything to go by, are two sides of the same coin. I wanted a car by the time I was 30. Having a car has not stopped me from wondering why we have an inefficient public transport system. It has not stopped me from beating myself up over the toxins I am adding to the environment. I want an electric car or a solar powered car or a wind powered car.  Didn’t Solomon in all the glory of his wealth, women and world leaders on his speed dial exclaim that, “All is vanity,”?

I have had it said that Jesus +nothing= everything but I wonder whether Jesus+everything= everything because I am yet to find contentment. I chase after it as fast as my legs can carry me. I lose sight of it as in my pursuit of what the teachers of my times have said. Find what you love. Fill your schedule in your pursuit of it. Love yourself. Look inside you. I was watching a renowned gospel musician on television as she told her story. She has “made it”, at least according to the neighborhood she lives in, the car she drives and the influence she commands. She has “it” all but what took me aback is that she yearns for more. I wanted to call her out for her greed but then I realized that that would be case of a dark pot calling a sparkling kettle black. So, I am working outwards in my pursuit. Building a treasury of words to hold onto when the howling winds of discontentment blow me away. Faithfulness. Gratitude. Discipline.

Faithfulness. I suppose there is a reason that Jesus taught about it. Success is a good thing, not the ultimate thing. Faithfulness is a hard thing, the ultimate thing. When the Son of Man comes, will he find a faithful steward in me?

Gratefulness. How often have I lost sight of this treasured word? Times are tough in this country. There is inflation to deal with. We who have children fear the world that we are raising our children in. There is too much month at the end of the money. Muggings. Murders. The enemy of our souls is out to plunder and pilfer. And yet, we give thanks. For lives lived, moments shared, meals shared. For shelter, food, hope for tomorrow, jobs we like and jobs we do not like. Because it is being grateful to God that we realize how much we have and how small our problems are.

Discipline. Doing the little acts of faith now. Making the most of each moment. This is a tough one because it is easier to yield to whining than to work on that story I need to submit. I drag my flesh through those moments because the Spirit that lives in me is greater than the flesh. I do not have this together yet so I am looking towards the One who holds it all together.