My time or God's time?

I've known for a long time, that it is of the utmost importance to give God the very first part of your day. There is nothing that better sets you up for a successful day. I think that we have all been trained to believe that we must fit God into our lives. To many that may seem just fine, but really look at it. If we are fitting God into our lives, we are giving Him the left-overs. If you do everything else first, then God gets what is left; no way around it.

The way that we spend our time is every bit as important as the way we spend our money. We've been trained to think that our financial life is all that matters. "My time," isn't that what we call it? Does God bless a life that gives a tenth of a paycheck and nothing else? Think about this, what is a tenth of our time? Do you give God 17 hours of your time each week? What an unimaginable concept! Why? No matter how you answer, it comes down to this: if I were to do that, I would have to rearrange my whole life. Exactly!

Why are love letters so effective? Initially, it is an investment of time. The boy writes how he loves the girls eyes, her heart or that when she walks the flowers all seem to bend in her direction. It is that he takes the time, to put what is in his heart on paper. And, there is the added benefit, that she can go back and reread the letters, and remember what a sweet guy you are, when you're acting like a jerk.

Everybody understands the necessity of time when you talk about relationships with people, but why is it so hard to get the idea across when you are talking about a relationship with God? If people spent the same amount of time on their spouse as they spent on God, there is only one question: How long, before they get divorced? The problem is that most look at time with God as time lost. Let me tell you something, you only stand to gain when you give your time to God! You want the best week of your life? Give God the time that you have been keeping from Him, and see what He does with all of your time.

Dark days. . .

How do you make it through dark days? I'd like to say something brilliant here, but it is moment by moment. It is slow and agonizing: there is no quick remedy. Somebody broke your heart, unknowingly, knowingly or intentionally; doesn't matter, it still hurts. You've been waiting patiently for something; and it seems as if it just disappeared. You've trusted God, and it seems as though He has led you back to square one.

My thoughts turn to Horatio Spafford. A man who lost a great deal in the Chicago fire, and wanting to take some time away with his family, they decided to go to Europe. He was detained by business in New York, and sent his wife and daughters on ahead. Later, he received a telegram from his wife that said, "Saved alone, what shall I do?" Learning of the tragedy, he was still days away from the one he loved. When the captain slowed the ship, to show him the waters that buried his four daughters, he later wrote, "But I do not think of our dear ones there. They are safe, folded, the dear lambs, and there, before very long, shall we be too." After seeing his daughters' watery grave, he goes to his cabin and writes out of a broken heart, the most beautiful hymn, "It is well with my soul."

Dear ones, I don't mean to depress you, but dark days will fall into every life. But, listen to me, it is those deep and dark days, that add kindness to our eyes and softness to our hearts. It is one thing to bring pain on yourself through sin, but it is quite another to have done it all right and be in pain and sorrow. God is ever working in our hearts and lives, and when the storms rage, it is no different. But, if you don't love the ones who are kind to you, how do you think you will ever love the unlovable? Only through God breaking your heart and making it new. God bless you all.

. . . and all this time I thought I was a mathematician.

My dad once told me, that when I was a small boy, I used to climb into his bed in the mornings and say, "Let's talk numbers." I have one memory of it, so I must have been pretty young. He taught me math by counting his fingers, and then adding and subtracting them. My mother told me that in kindergarten, that my teacher would go and get math work from second and third grade teachers. I always liked math, and it always clicked for me; but recently, I found the results of a standardized test from 1979, which would put me in second or third grade.

I was surprised to find that my highest scores were in reading and social science. Strange, I never really liked writing, I didn't do poorly at it, I just never liked it. Reading and writing, still go hand in hand: if you don't read much, you won't write much. In fact, writing is a by-product of much reading. It wasn't until I was in seminary, writing sermons and papers, that I found something comfortable about writing. I liked the gratification that came from solving math problems, and it only took as long as it took to solve the problem. Writing is more of a process, and I just didn't know the process.

So, why this unsolicited jaunt down my memory lane? I find it incredible that the things I was most suited to then, are today, what occupy most of my time. I don't think that I am unique in this, either. It is such an awesome thing, that the Lord and Creator, put us together with His purpose in mind. I smile, as I think about seeing the same traits still active in my nieces and nephews, that were so prevalent when they were three and four. So, to bring this to a close, God put you together for a reason, and if you don't know what that reason is: Ask Him, He'll be glad to show you. God bless you all.

I have to write.

Day after day, I wonder why I do this. It takes the things that are inside of me and places them on display for the whole world to see, or at least the two or three people who read my blog; and of course the those in foreign countries that accidentally stumble upon my writings. I go through periods when I have to write, and then I go through periods when I can not write (not that the thoughts don't come, but the trials of life have taught me when to keep my mouth shut, and my pen capped, as it were.) Sometimes with ease and sometimes with great difficulty, I put my thoughts down.

It is really strange, I went through an entire English class in high school, and barely spoke the entire year; now, here I am putting much of what I think and believe at the mercy of others. I was quiet, for a while anyway.

I have long supposed, that the people who judge books by their covers make up the majority; and still suppose that they judge my blogs, by their titles. Frankly, I don't care. I write, because it is through writing, I find an outlet and an easing of the things that burden me. I hope that it is helpful, to those who read it. My desire is, that all who read it, would grow closer to the Lord. Still, I can not in good conscience write, the sugary mess that produces good feelings about lives that are lived without reference to God, and the Son Whom He gave so willingly for us. I will, however, gladly write about the God Who changes the lives of sinful men and women. God bless you all.

A life without peace.

I often wonder for many who live with no reference to God, where does your peace come from? Everyone has problems, and many times both the believer and the unbeliever have an abundance of problems. I know that even with my faith in God, sometimes, the going gets real tough. I wonder how many who don't have a relationship with God, deal with grief and loss. I do know how a few have dealt with it.

I had a friend in high school and the years following, who was not a believer. We laughed a lot, played a lot of pool, but we didn't spend much time talking about religion. My last years of high school and the years following, was a period of my life that I did not live like a Christian. My friend grew up Catholic, and when I knew him, he professed to be an atheist. We grew up, and in the mid-nineties went different directions. I eventually lost touch with him all together.

He always wanted to go to New York, never content to live in Tennessee; he described it, like it was a utopia. He always wanted something different from the way things were. He wanted a different car, some girl or some thing to make him happy. But, in all the time that I knew him, he was never really happy. He wanted a different life.

I saw his mother several months ago at a restaurant, she told me that he had committed suicide, now, about three years ago. He had gotten married, but eventually, his wife left him. It was under the weight of a failing marriage, that he took his life. His hope was gone, when his wife left. He did not have any peace or comfort for his soul. I grieved for him, in large part, because in me, he found a life that was inconsistent with what I said I believed; and I won't ever know, if I could have given him the hope that is living in me.