Luggage

Luggage

Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.

(Matt. 11:28)

I have a confession to make. I don’t know how to travel light. I've tried. Really. But I also need to be prepared – kind of like a Boy Scout. Prepared for church, prepared for court, prepared for the zombie apocalypse. Prepared to parachute behind enemy lines, or play in a rugby tournament. And if, by some odd chance, the Dalai Lama were on my flight and invited me to join him for dinner in Tibet, I carry snowshoes, just in case. You have to be prepared, right? That’s why I just don't know how to travel light.

Truth is, there's a lot about travel that I don't know. For instance, I don't know how to interpret the restrictions on a Supersaver-Seat – half price if you leave on Wednesdays during bass season and return when the moon is full in a non-election year. I don't know why they don't build the whole plane out of the same material they use to construct that little black box that planes carry to record events in case of a disaster. And I don't know how to escape the airplane toilet without sacrificing a limb to the jaws of the self-closing door. There's a lot about traveling that I don't know.

I don't know why we men would rather floss a crocodile than ask for directions. I don't know why vacation slides aren't used to treat insomnia, and I don't know when I'll learn not to eat foods whose names I can't pronounce. But most of all, I don't know how to travel light. I don't know how to travel without granola bars, sodas and rain gear. I don't know how to travel without flashlights and a generator and a GPS. I've got an iron that doubles as a paperweight, a hair dryer the size of a coach's whistle, a Swiss Army knife that expands into a pup tent, and a pair of pants that inflate upon impact. See? I just don't know how to travel light. But I really do need to learn. And you’re probably wondering why I can't do just that: learn. Loosen up! you're probably thinking. You can't possibly enjoy a journey carrying so much stuff. Why don't you just drop all of that luggage? Funny you should ask. I'd like to ask you the same.

Haven't you been known to pick up a few bags, too? Odds are you did this morning. Somewhere between the first step onto the floor and the last step out the door, you grabbed some luggage. You stepped over to the baggage carousel and loaded up. Don't remember doing that? That's because you did it without thinking. Don't remember seeing a baggage terminal? That's because the carousel is not the one in the airport; it's the one in your head. And the bags we grab are not made of leather; they're made of burdens. The suitcase of guilt. A sack of discontent. You drape a duffel bag of weariness on one shoulder, and a hanging bag of grief on the other. Add on a backpack of doubt, an overnight bag of loneliness, and a trunk full of fear. Pretty soon you're pulling more stuff than a Southwest skycap. No wonder you're so tired at the end of the day. Lugging luggage is exhausting.

And what you may have been saying to me, God is saying to you: "Set all that stuff down. You're carrying burdens you don't need to bear." "Come to me," Jesus invites, "all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest." (Matt. 11:28) If we let him, God will lighten our loads. Okay, fine, but how do we let God do that? Turn to the 23^rd Psalm.

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; he leads me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil. My cup runs over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

Do more cherished words exist? Framed and hung in hospital halls, scratched on prison walls, quoted by the young, and whispered by the dying. In these verses sailors have found a harbor, the frightened have found a father, and strugglers have found a friend. And because the passage is so deeply loved, it’s also widely known. Can you find ears on which those words have never fallen? Maybe, but not likely. Set to music in a hundred songs, translated into a thousand languages, domiciled in a million hearts, and maybe one of those hearts is your own.

What kinship do you feel with these words? Where do the verses transport you? To a fireside? Bedside? Graveside? Hardly a week passes that I don’t say them, or at least a few of the verses depending upon my circumstances. It’s like a wonder drug to a physician, and a balm applied to the heart of a friend. Summoned to his house with the words, "The doctors aren't giving him more than a few days," you look at him and understand. Face pale. Lips stretched and parched. Skin draping between bones like old umbrella cloth between spokes. The cancer has taken so much: his appetite, his strength, and his days. But the cancer hasn’t touched his faith.

Pulling a chair close to his bed you squeeze his hand and whisper, "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.'" He rolls his head toward you as if to welcome the words. "He makes me to lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; he leads me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake." Reaching the fourth verse, and fearful that he might not hear, you lean forward until you’re just a couple of inches from his ear and whisper, "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me." He doesn’t open his eyes, but arches a brow. He doesn’t speak, but his thin fingers curl around your own, and you wonder if the Lord isn’t helping him set down some luggage, maybe the fear of dying.

Do you have some luggage of your own? Do you think God might use David's psalm to lighten your load? Traveling light means trusting God with the burdens you were never intended to bear. Why don't you try it? Try it for the sake of those you love, because you may not have considered the impact that excess baggage has on relationships.

I saw a play that made this point through some pretty effective drama. A wedding was reenacted in which we heard the thoughts of the bride and groom. The groom enters, laden with luggage. A bag dangles from every appendage. And each bag is labeled: guilt, anger, arrogance, insecurities. The fellow was loaded down with all of it. And as he stands at the altar, the audience hears him thinking, Finally, a woman who will help me carry all my burdens. She's so strong, so stable, so . . . And as his thoughts continue, hers begin.

She enters, wearing a beautiful wedding gown but, like her fiancé, covered with luggage. Pulling a hanging bag, shouldering a carry-on, hauling a makeup kit, paper sack – everything – everything you could imagine and everything labeled. She has her own bags, too: prejudice, loneliness, and disappointments. And her expectations? Listen to what she’s thinking: Just a few more minutes and I’ll have the man of my dreams. No more counselors. No more group sessions. So long, discouragement and worry. I won't be seeing you anymore. He's going to fix me.

Finally they stand together at the altar, lost in a mountain of luggage. They smile their way through the ceremony, but when given the invitation to kiss each other, they can't. How do you embrace someone if your arms are full of bags? So, for the sake of those you love, learn to set them down. And, for the sake of the God that you serve, do the same. He wants to use you, you know. But how can he if you’re exhausted? That truth came home to me while I was on a hike last year.

Preparing for the hike, I couldn't decide exactly what to wear. The sun was out, but the wind was a little chilly. The sky was clear, but the forecast said rain. Jacket or sweatshirt? I wore both. I found an old MP3 player – one loaded with books, another loaded with music. So I took both. Needing to stay in emergency contact with my wife and kids, I carried a cell phone. So no one would steal my car, I pocketed my keys. As a precaution against possible dehydration, I brought a bottle of water along with some change in a little pouch in case I needed to buy more. Of course, where do you find kiosks selling water on a hike out in the middle of east county? You don’t. The truth is that I looked more like a pack mule than a hiker. And within half a mile I was peeling off my jacket  - I threw it in a bush to retrieve later on my way back to the car. That kind of weight will slow you down.

And what's true on a hike is true in faith. God has a great race for you to run. Under his care you will go where you've never been, and serve in ways you've never dreamed. But you have to dump some stuff. How can you share grace if you’re full of guilt? How can you offer comfort if you’re disheartened? How can you lift someone else's load if your arms are full with your own? For the sake of those you love, travel light. For the sake of the God that you serve, travel light. For the sake of your own joy, travel light.

There are certain weights in life you simply can’t carry. Your Lord is asking you to set them down and trust him. He’s the father at the baggage claim. When a dad sees his five-year-old son trying to drag the family’s luggage off the carousel, what does the dad say? The father will say to his son what God is saying to you. "Set it down, child. I'll carry that one." Let’s take God up on his offer. We just might find ourselves traveling a little lighter. "Unload all your worries (luggage) onto him, because he cares for you." (1 Pet. 5:7; italics mine)

Grace,

Randy

Luggage - Audio/Visual

Anxie-tree

Anxie-tree

Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. (Phil. 4:6-7)

It's 3:00 a.m. You can't sleep. You pound your pillow, adjust the blankets, roll on one side then the other. Nothing works. Your spouse is in dreamland. The dog’s curled up in a lump at the foot of your bed. Everyone’s asleep. Everyone, that is, except for you. In five hours you'll be walking into a new job, new office, new chapter, new world. You'll be the rookie on the sales team. You’re wondering if you made the right decision. The hours are long. The competition is fierce. Besides, you’re 22, fresh out of college and starting your first job; or 33, with two kids to feed and a family for which to provide; maybe you’re 43, the latest victim of a layoff, staff reduction, or a conglomerate consolidation; perhaps you’re 53, not the ideal age to be changing careers; or 63 thinking, What happened to those retirement plans and time with the grandkids? But here you are, starting all over again. And now with very little sleep.

No matter the age, questions fall like volcanic ash. Will I make enough money? Make any friends? Have a cubicle? Will I be able to learn the software program, the sales pitch, the way to the restroom? You feel a twitch in the back of your neck. Suddenly, a new strand of anxiety worms its way into your mind: Oh no, a tumor. Just like Grandpa. He spent a year in chemotherapy. How will I endure chemo and a new job? Will my new insurance cover chemo? The thoughts rage through your mind like a tornado through an Oklahoma prairie. They suck any vestige of peace into a blackened sky. The green numbers on the clock are the only lights in your room, and the only lights in your life. Another hour passes. You cover your head with a pillow and feel like crying. What a mess. What does all this anxiety mean? All this fear? Trepidation? Restlessness? Insecurity? What does it mean? It means you’re human.

It doesn’t mean you’re emotionally underdeveloped. It doesn’t mean you’re stupid, demon-possessed, or a failure. It doesn’t mean your parents failed you, or vice versa. And it doesn’t mean you’re not a Christian. Christians battle anxiety. Even Jesus did. In the Garden of Gethsemane he prayed three times that he wouldn't have to be murdered on a cross by haters. (Matt. 26:36-44) His heart pumped with such ferocity that capillaries broke and rivulets of crimson streaked down his face. (Luke 22:44 – take it from a doctor.) Jesus was anxious. But he didn't stay anxious. He entrusted his fears to his heavenly Father, and completed his earthly mission with faith. He will help us do the same.

There’s a pathway out of the valley of fret. God used the pen of Paul to sketch the map. Rejoice in the Lord always. Again I will say, rejoice! Let your gentleness be known to all men. The Lord is at hand. Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy – meditate on these things. (Phil. 4:4-8) A person would be hard-pressed to find a more practical, powerful and inspirational passage on the topic of anxiety. The passage has the feel of a "decision tree."

A decision tree is a tool that uses a tree-like graph to show decisions and their possible outcomes. Paul's counsel has a similar sequential format. You already know about the anxie-tree. We've spent more than our share of time dangling from its wimpy branches, whipped about by the winds of change and turmoil. But the anxie-tree is not the only tree in the orchard. There’s a better option: the tranquili-tree. It’s sturdy, shady and has ample room for you, and here’s how you use it. Begin with God by celebrating God’s goodness. "Rejoice in the Lord always. Again I will say, rejoice!" (Phil. 4:4)

Turn your attention away from the problem and, for a few minutes, celebrate God. It does you no good to obsess yourself with your trouble. The more you stare at it, the bigger it grows. But the more you look to God, the quicker the problem is reduced to its proper size. This was the strategy of the psalmist. I will lift up my eyes to the hills – From whence comes my help? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. (Ps. 121:1-2) Do you see the intentionality in those words? "I will lift up my eyes." In other words, don’t meditate on the mess. You gain nothing by setting your eyes on the problem. You gain everything by setting your eyes on the Lord. That’s the lesson Peter learned one pre-dawn morning on a stormy Sea of Galilee.

Peter was a fisherman. He knew what ten-foot waves could do to small boats. Maybe that’s why he volunteered to leave the craft when he saw Jesus walking on the water through the storm. Peter said, "’Lord, if it’s really you, then command me to come to you on the water.’" Jesus said, ‘Come.’ And Peter left the boat and walked on the water to Jesus. But when Peter saw the wind and the waves, he became afraid and began to sink. He shouted, ‘Lord, save me!’" (Matt. 14:28-30) As long as Peter focused on the face of Christ, he did the impossible. But when he shifted his gaze to the force of the storm, he sank like a rock. So, if you’re sinking, maybe it’s because you’re looking in the wrong direction.

Is God sovereign over your circumstances? Is he mightier than your problem? Does he have answers to your questions? According to the Bible the answer is “Yes,” “Yes” and “Yes.” God . . . is the blessed controller of all things, the king over all kings and the master of all masters. (1 Tim. 6:15) So, if God sustains all and controls all, don’t you think he has authority over the situation you face? And what about his mercy? Is God's grace great enough to cover your sin? Again, “Yes.” There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. (Rom. 8:1) Rejoice in the Lord. That’s step one. Don’t rush past it. Instead, face God before you face your problem. Then you’ll be ready to ask God for help. That’s the second step. "Let your requests be made known to God." (Phil. 4:6)

Fear triggers either despair or prayer. So, choose wisely. God said, "Call on me in the day of trouble." (Ps. 50:15) Jesus said, "Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you." (Matt. 7:7) There’s no uncertainty in that promise. No “maybe,” "might," "perhaps," or even "possibly will." Jesus states unflinchingly that when you ask, he listens. So ask. When anxiety knocks on the door, say, "Jesus, would you mind answering that?" In fact, reduce your request to one statement. Imitate Jesus who taught us to pray, "Give us this day our daily bread." (Matt. 6:11) Engage in specific prayer. And engage in promise-based prayer. Stand on the firm foundation of God's covenant. "Let us then approach God's throne of grace with confidence." (Heb. 4:16) Then, having done so, leave your concerns with God. Let him take charge. Let God do what he is so willing to do: "Guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." (Phil. 4:7)

Have you ever left an appliance at the repair shop? Maybe your toaster broke, or your microwave oven stopped working. You tried to fix it but had no success. So you took it to the specialist. You explained the problem and then . . . offered to stay and help him fix it? Hovered next to his workbench asking questions about the progress? Threw a sleeping bag on the floor of the workshop so you could watch the repairman at work? If you did any of these things, you don't understand the relationship between client and repairman. The arrangement is uncomplicated. Leave it with him to fix it. Our protocol with God is equally simple. Leave your problem with him. "I know whom I have believed and am persuaded that He is able to keep what I have committed to Him until that Day." (2 Tim. 1:12)

God does not need our help, counsel or assistance. So, resign as the ruler of your universe. When God’s ready for us to reengage, he’ll let us know. Until then, replace anxious thoughts with grateful ones. God takes thanksgiving very seriously because gratitude keeps us focused on the present. Interestingly, the Bible's most common word for worry is the Greek term merimnate. The origin is merimnao – a compound of both a verb and a noun. The verb means divide, and the noun means mind. To be anxious, then, is to divide the mind. Worry takes a meat cleaver to our thoughts, energy and focus. Anxiety chops up our attention. It sends our awareness dozens of directions. We worry about the past – what we said or did; we worry about the future – tomorrow’s assignments, or the next decade's developments. Anxiety takes our attention from right now and directs it to "back then," or "out there."

When you aren't focused on your problem, you free up available brain space. Use your new space, and freedom, for good. Meditate on good things. "Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy – meditate on these things." (Phil. 4:8) Don't let anxious, negative thoughts take over your mind. You can’t control the circumstances, but you can control what you think of them.

Ever heard the expression, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade?" It’s folksy, corny and homespun, but it’s a reminder that we can make ourselves miserable, or we can make ourselves some lemonade. Life gives us lemons, and maybe mine are nothing compared to the lemons you've been handed. Life gives lemons to good people, bad people, old people, all people. Life comes with lemons. But we don't have to suck on them. So, resolve to live – today. Yesterday has passed. Tomorrow is not yet. You’re left with today. So, live today. The sun has yet to rise on tomorrow. Tomorrow deserves a glance and nothing more. You can't change tomorrow until tomorrow comes. But you have today. Face today's challenges with today's strength. Dance today's waltz with today's music. Celebrate today's opportunities with today's hope. That’s why today is called the present – it’s a gift.

A new day awaits you. A new season in which you will worry less and trust more. A season with reduced fear and enhanced faith. Can you imagine a life in which you are anxious for nothing? God can. And, with his help, you will too.

Grace,

Randy

Anxie-Tree - Audio/Visual

Mothers

Mothers

Then a man named Jairus, a leader of the local synagogue, came and fell at Jesus’ feet, pleading with him to come home with him. His only daughter, who was about twelve years old, was dying …. While he was still speaking to her (a woman with an issue of blood), a messenger arrived from the home of Jairus, the leader of the synagogue. He told him, “Your daughter is dead. There’s no use troubling the Teacher now.” But when Jesus heard what had happened, he said to Jairus, “Don’t be afraid. Just have faith, and she will be healed.” (Luke 8:41-42; 49-50)

No one told me that newborns make nighttime noises – all night long. They gurgle; they pant. They whimper; they whine. They smack their lips and sigh. They keep Dads awake. At least mine did. I wanted my wife to sleep, so we took turns – I was the first responder during the graveyard shift. But I didn't know what to make of the baby noises. When breathing slowed, I leaned in to see if he was alive. When her breathing hurried, I looked up "infant hyperventilation" in the family medical encyclopedia – we didn’t have Google or WebMD then. When he burbled and panted, so did I. After a couple of hours I realized, “I have no idea how to behave.” And that’s when it hit me like a tsunami: "I’m in charge of a human being."

I don't care how tough you are. You may be a Navy SEAL who specializes in high-altitude skydiving behind enemy lines. You might spend each day making million-dollar, split-second stock market decisions. It doesn't matter. Every parent melts the moment he or she feels the full force of parenthood. I did. “How did I get myself into this?” So, I retraced my steps. First came love, then came marriage, then came the discussions of a baby carriage. Of course I was open to the idea, especially when I considered my role in launching the effort. But somehow during the nine-month expansion project, the reality of fatherhood never really dawned on me. Moms, on the other hand, have a bit of an advantage: thirty-six weeks of reminders elbowing and kicking around inside them. A Dad’s kick in the gut comes later.

The semi-truck of parenting comes loaded with fears. We fear failing the child. Will we have enough money? Enough answers? Enough diapers? Enough drawer space? Vaccinations. Educations. Homework. Homecoming. And even though we learn to cope, an apiary of dangers buzzes around in the background. Like the custody battle raging around a mother’s ten-year-old son. The courts, the father, the mother, the lawyers – they’re stretching the boy like taffy. She wonders if her child will survive the ordeal. So do the parents of the teenage daughter who collapsed on a volleyball court. No one knew about her heart condition, or knows how she'll fare in the future. But at least they know where she is. Another mother doesn’t. Her daughter, a high school senior, ran away with a boyfriend. He's into drugs. She's into him. Both are into trouble. The mother begs for help because no parent can sit still while his or her child suffers. Jairus couldn't, either.

“On the other side of the lake the crowds welcomed Jesus, because they had been waiting for him. Then a man named Jairus, a leader of the local synagogue, came and fell at Jesus' feet, pleading with him to come home with him. His only daughter, who was about twelve years old, was dying. As Jesus went with him, he was surrounded by the crowds.” (Luke 8:40-42)

Jairus was a Capernaum community leader, "one of the rulers of the synagogue." (Mark 5:22) Mayor, bishop and ombudsman, all in one. The kind of man a city would send out to welcome a celebrity. But when Jairus approached Jesus on the Galilean shoreline, he wasn't representing his village; he was pleading on behalf of his child. Urgency stripped the formalities from his greeting. He issued no salutation or compliment, just a panicked prayer.

Jairus isn't the only parent to run onto the gospel pages on behalf of a child. A mother stormed out of the Canaanite hills crying, "Mercy, Master, Son of David! My daughter is cruelly afflicted by an evil spirit." (Matt. 15:22) A father of a seizure-tormented boy sought help from the disciples, then Jesus. He cried out with tears, "Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!" (Mark 9:24) The Canaanite mother. The epileptic boy’s father. Jairus. Three parents who form an unwitting New Testament society: struggling parents of stricken children. But in each case Jesus responded. He never turned one away. And his consistent kindness issues a welcome announcement: Jesus heeds the concern of a parent's heart.

After all, our kids were his kids first. "Don't you see that children are God's best gift? The fruit of the womb his generous legacy?" (Ps. 127:3) Before they were ours, they were his. Even as they are ours, they’re still his. We tend to forget that fact, regarding our children as "our" children, as though we have the final say in their health and welfare. We don't. All people are God's people, including the little people who sit at our tables.

Jairus was hoping for a miracle. He begged Jesus to come to his home. (Luke 8:41) The father wasn't content with long-distance assistance; he wanted Christ under his roof, walking through his hallways and standing at the bedside of his daughter. He wanted the presence of Christ to permeate his house. He was a stubborn intercessor, taking his parenting fears to Christ. Yet Jesus says so little about parenting; he doesn’t say anything about spanking, breast-feeding, sibling rivalry or schooling. Yet his actions speak volumes about prayer for a child – each time a parent prays, Christ responds. His big message to moms and dads? Bring your children to me. We can't protect our children from every threat in life, but with every threat we can always take them to the Source of life.

Even then, however, our appeals may be followed by a difficult choice. As Jairus and Jesus were going to Jairus' home, "a messenger arrived from the home of Jairus, the leader of the synagogue. He told him, 'Your daughter is dead. There's no use troubling the Teacher now.' But when Jesus heard what had happened, he said to Jairus, 'Don't be afraid. Just have faith, and she will be healed.'" (Luke 8:49-50) Jairus was whipsawed between the two contrasting messages. The first, from the servants: "Your daughter is dead." The second, from Jesus: "Don't be afraid." Horror called from one side. Hope beckoned from the other. Tragedy, then trust. Jairus heard two voices and had to choose which one he would heed. Don't we all?

The hard reality of parenting reads something like this: you can do your best and still stand where Jairus stood. You can protect, pray and keep all the boogeymen at bay and still find yourself in an ER at midnight, or in a drug rehab clinic on visitors' Sunday, choosing between two voices: despair or belief. Jairus could have chosen despair. Who would have faulted him for deciding, "Enough is enough"? He had no guarantee that Jesus could help. His daughter was dead. Jairus could have walked away.

As parents, we're so glad he didn't. Because we need to know what Jesus will do when we entrust our kids to him. "When Jesus went to the house, he let only Peter, John, James and the girl's father and mother go inside with him." (Luke 8:51) Jesus included the mother. He united the household. Until this point the mother had been, for whatever reason, out of the picture. Maybe she was at her daughter's bedside. Or maybe she was at odds with her husband. Crisis can divide a family. The stress of caring for a sick or troubled child can drive a wedge between parents. But Christ united them. He wanted Mom and Dad to stand together in the struggle. So, Jesus gathered the entire, albeit small, household in the presence of the daughter. And there he banished unbelief. “He said, 'Do not weep; she is not dead, but sleeping.' And they ridiculed Him, knowing that she was dead. But He put them all outside." (vv. 52-54) He commanded doubt to depart and permitted only faith and hope to remain.

God has a heart for hurting parents. Should that surprise us? After all, God himself is a father. What parental emotion hasn’t he felt? Are you separated from your child? So was God. Is someone mistreating your child? They mocked and bullied his. Is someone taking advantage of your children? The Son of God was set up by false testimony and betrayed by a greedy follower. Are you forced to watch while your child suffers? God watched his son on the cross. Do you find yourself wanting to spare your child from all the hurt in the world? God did. But because of his great love for us, "he did not spare his own Son but gave him for us all. So with Jesus, God will surely give us all things." (Rom. 8:32)

"All things." I think that includes courage and hope. But some of you may find the story of Jairus a difficult story to hear. You prayed the same prayer he did, yet you found yourself in a cemetery facing every parent's darkest night. What hope does the story of Jairus offer you? Jesus resurrected Jairus' child. Why didn't he save yours? God understands. He buried a child too. He hates death more than you do. That's why he killed it. He "abolished death and brought life and immortality to light." (2 Tim. 1:10) For those who trust God, death is nothing more than a transition to heaven. Your child may not be in your arms, but your child is safely in His.

Others of you have been standing for a long time where Jairus stood. You've long since left the water's edge of offered prayer, but haven't yet arrived at the household of answered prayer. You've wept a monsoon of tears for your child. At times you've felt that a breakthrough was near, that Christ was following you to your house. But you're not so sure anymore. You find yourself alone on the path, wondering if Christ has forgotten you and your child. He hasn't. He never dismisses a parent's prayer.

Keep giving your child to God, and at the right time and in the right way, God will give your child back to you.

Happy Mother’s Day,

Randy

Mothers - Audio/Visual

Clingy

Clingy

Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise. (Phil. 4:8)

Have you ever thought, "I'm a spiritual flop," or "The only fruit I bear is fear." Ever said, "Perfect peace? I feel like a perfect mess." The phrase "fruitless and fret-filled" describes too many of us. We don't want it to because we long to follow Paul's admonition to, "Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise." (Phil. 4:8) So, with a grimace and fresh resolve, we determine, Today I’m only going to think of true, honorable, and right thoughts . . . even if it kills me. Unfortunately, Paul's call to peace can become a list of requirements: every thought must be true, must be honorable, must be right, must be pure, and must be lovely, admirable, excellent and worthy of praise. Gulp. Who can do that?

Maybe Paul’s list works for you. But if it doesn’t, there’s a simpler approach. Make it your aim to cling to Christ. Isn’t he true, honorable, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and worthy of praise? “Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself unless it abides in the vine, so neither can you unless you abide in Me. I am the vine, you are the branches; he who abides in Me and I in him, he bears much fruit, for apart from Me you can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in Me, he is thrown away as a branch and dries up; and they gather them, and cast them into the fire and they are burned. If you abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit, and so prove to be My disciples. Just as the Father has loved Me, I have also loved you; abide in My love. If you keep My commandments, you will abide in My love; just as I have kept My Father's commandments and abide in His love.” (John 15:4-10)

Jesus' allegory is simple. God is like a vine keeper. He lives and loves to coax the best out of his vines. He pampers, prunes, blesses and cuts them. His aim is singular: "What can I do to prompt produce?" God is a capable orchardist who carefully superintends his vineyard. And Jesus plays the role of the vine. Non-gardeners might confuse the vine and the branch. To see the vine, lower your gaze from the stringy, winding branches to the thick base below. The vine is the root and trunk of the plant. It transfers nutrients from the soil to the branches. Jesus makes the stunning claim, "I am the real root of life." If anything good comes into our lives, he is the conduit. And who are we? We are the branches. We bear fruit: "love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness." (Gal. 5:22) We meditate on what is "true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable . . . excellent and worthy of praise." (Phil. 4:8) Our gentleness is evident to all. We bask in the "peace of God, which transcends all understanding." (Phil. 4:7) And as we cling to Christ, God is honored. "My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit, and so prove to be My disciples." (John 15:8)

The Father tends. Jesus nourishes. We receive, and grapes appear. Passersby, stunned at the overflowing baskets of love, grace and peace can't help but ask, "Who runs this vineyard?" And God is honored with such questions. For this reason, then, fruit-bearing matters to God. And it matters to you, too. Because don’t you grow weary of unrest? Aren’t you ready to be done with sleepless nights? You long to be "anxious for nothing." You long for the fruit of the Spirit. But how do you bear this fruit? By trying harder? No. Branches bear fruit by hanging tighter.

Our assignment is not fruitfulness, but faithfulness. The secret to fruit bearing and anxiety-free living is less about doing, and more about abiding. And just in case we miss this point, Jesus employed the word abide(s) ten times in those seven verses of John 15:4-10. (See, above.) "Come, live in me!" Jesus invites. "Make my home your home." Odds are that you know what it means to be at home somewhere. To be at home is to feel safe. Your home is a place of refuge and security. To be at home is to be comfortable. To be at home is to be familiar. When you enter the door, you don’t have to consult a blueprint to find the kitchen. Our aim – our only aim – is to be at home in Christ. He’s not a roadside park, or hotel room. He’s our permanent mailing address. Christ is our home. He is our place of refuge and security. We are comfortable in his presence, and free to be our authentic selves. We know our way around in him. We know his heart and his ways. We rest in him, find our nourishment in him. His roof of grace protects us from storms of guilt. His walls of providence secure us from destructive winds. His fireplace warms us during the lonely winters of life. We linger in the abode of Christ and never leave.

The branch never lets go of the vine. Ever. Does a branch show up on Sundays for its once-a-week meal? Only at the risk of death. The healthy branch never releases the vine, because there it receives nutrients twenty-four hours a day. If branches had seminars, the topic would be "Secrets of Vine Grabbing." But branches don't have seminars, because to attend them they would have to release the vine – something they refuse to do. The dominant duty of the branch is to cling to the vine. And the dominant duty of the disciple is the same. We Christians tend to miss that. We banter about pledges to "change the world," "make a difference for Christ," and "lead people to the Lord." Yet these are by-products of the Christ-focused life. Our goal is not to bear fruit. Our goal is to stay attached. For instance, when a father leads his four-year-old son down a crowded street, he takes him by the hand and says, "Hold on to me." He doesn't say, "Memorize the map," or "Take your chances dodging the traffic," or "Let's see if you can find your way home." The good father gives the child one responsibility: "Hold on to my hand." God does the same with us. Don't load yourself down with lists. Don't enhance your anxiety with the fear of not fulfilling them. Your goal is not to know every detail of the future. Your goal is to hold the hand of the One who does and never, ever let go. That was the choice of Kent Brantly.

Brantly was a medical missionary in Liberia, waging a war on the cruelest of viruses, Ebola. The epidemic was killing people by the thousands. As much as any person in the world, Brantly knew the consequences of the disease. He had treated dozens of cases. He knew the symptoms – soaring fever, severe diarrhea and nausea. He’d seen the results of the virus, and for the first time he was feeling the symptoms himself. His colleagues had drawn blood and begun the tests. But it would be at least three days before they knew the results. So, Dr. Brantly quarantined himself in his house and waited. His wife and family were across the ocean. His co-workers couldn’t enter his residence. He was, quite literally, alone with his thoughts. He opened his Bible and meditated on a passage from the book of Hebrews. Then he wrote in his journal, "The promise of entering his rest still stands, so let us never give up. Let us, therefore, make every effort . . . to enter that rest." Dr. Brantly considered the phrase "make every effort." He knew he would have to do exactly that. He then turned his attention to another verse from that same chapter in Hebrews: "Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need." He copied the scripture into his prayer journal and wrote the words "with confidence" in italics. He closed his journal and began the wait. (Hebrews 4:11; 16.)

The next three days brought unspeakable discomfort. The test results confirmed what they feared: he had contracted Ebola. Kent's wife, Amber, along with their two children, were at her parent’s home in the States when he called her with the diagnosis. When her phone rang, she hurried to the bedroom for some privacy. Kent got straight to the point. "The test results came back. It's positive." Amber began to cry. They talked for a few moments before Kent said that he was tired and would call again soon. Now it was Amber's turn to process the news. She and her parents sat on the edge of her bed and wept. Then, after some time, Amber excused herself and went outside.

She walked across a field toward a large mesquite tree and took a seat on a low-hanging branch. She found it difficult to find words to formulate her prayers, so she used the lyrics of hymns she had learned as a young girl. There is no shadow of turning with Thee; Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not. As Thou hast been Thou forever wilt be. The words lifted her spirits, so she began to sing aloud another song she treasured: I need Thee every hour, in joy or pain; Come quickly and abide, or life is in vain. I need Thee, O I need Thee; Every hour I need Thee; O bless me now, my Savior, I come to Thee. She later wrote, "I thought my husband was going to die. I was afraid. Through those hymns, though, I was able to connect with God in a meaningful way when I couldn't find my own words to pray."

Kent was transported from Africa to Atlanta. His caregivers chose to risk an untested treatment. Little by little his condition improved. Within a few days his strength began to return. The entire world, it seemed, rejoiced when he was able to exit the hospital, cured of Ebola. We can applaud the Brantlys' victory over this disease and another, a virus that is every bit as deadly and contagious: the unseen contagion of anxiety. Kent and Amber were prime candidates for panic, yet they reacted with the same resolve that enabled them to battle Ebola. They stayed connected to the vine. They resolved to abide in Christ. Kent opened his Bible. Amber meditated on hymns. They filled their minds with the truth of God. Jesus taught us to do the same. He tells us, rather bluntly, "Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink; nor about your body, what you will put on." (Matt. 6:25) He then gives two commands: "look" and "consider."

He tells us to "look at the birds of the air." (Matt. 6:26) When we do, we notice how happy they seem to be. They aren't frowning, cranky or even grumpy. They don't appear sleep deprived or lonely. They sing, whistle and soar. Yet "they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns." (v. 26) They don't drive tractors, or harvest wheat, yet Jesus asks us, “Do they appear well cared for?” He then turns our attention to the flowers of the field. "Consider the lilies," he says. (v. 28) Less than the birds, they don't do anything. Even though their life span is short, God dresses them up for red-carpet appearances. Even Solomon, the richest king in history, "was not arrayed like one of these." (v. 29)

So, how do we disarm anxiety? Stockpile our minds with God thoughts. Draw the logical implication: if birds and flowers fall under the category of God's care, won't he care for us as well? Saturate your heart with the goodness of God. "Set your mind on things above, not on things on the earth." (Col. 3:2) Free from fear. Free from dread. And, yes, free from anxiety.

Grace,

Randy

Clingy - Audio/Visual