Is

Is
Is - Audio/Visual 

But without faith it is impossible to please him: he that comes must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him. (Heb. 11:6)

Suppose you’re vacationing in some out-of-the-way location, a long way from civilization and your child suddenly becomes violently ill and is in urgent need of care. You and your spouse load the child in the car and race to the nearest town. There you’re told of three medical providers, all of whom live next to each other. “Whew, what are the chances of that?” you think.

So, you drive to the street, locate the first physician and knock on the door. No one answers. You knock again and no one answers. Only after knocking a third time, do you notice a sign over the doorway that reads, “No one lives here.” So, you run back to your car and inform your mate, “The place is empty.” “Go next door,” you’re instructed, and so you do.

This time there’s an answer when you knock. An old man with a kind face listens to your problem and says, “I wish I could help you. There was a day when I could. But I can’t now. I need care myself. In fact, if you have time, I need someone to come and prepare my meal. Also, if you could spare a few dollars, I’m a bit short on cash. . . .“ Realizing your child won’t be helped here, you apologize mid-sentence to the gentleman and leave, shouting to the car as you run, “Someone’s there, but he can’t help.” Your child is worsening by the minute and you only have one more option.

You run to the third house. This time an able-looking professional opens the door. “How may I help?” he asks. You explain that your child is very sick and needs immediate care. “Quickly, bring the child to me,” he urges. “Are you able to help?” “I am,” he says. “Are you willing to help?” “I am,” he reassures. He’s there and he’s willing to help. That’s all you know. But that’s all you need to know. You don’t need to know his birthplace, or his Social Security number or his life’s story — all you need is his existence and availability, his presence and his willingness. He’s there and he’s good. Those two facts are enough to take you in to his presence.

Those same two facts are enough to take you in to the presence of God. The man who approaches God must have faith in two things, first, that God exists and secondly that God rewards those who search for him. (Heb. 11:6) So, what’s required? A conviction that God is, and the conviction that God is good. Those who would come to God must believe that God is real and that God is responsive. These convictions form the foundation of prayer. These convictions are found in one word in the first sentence of our Lord ’s Prayer.

“So, what is the word?” Well, I’ll give you a hint – you just read it. “Is it in this sentence?” It is. In fact, it’s in the answer I just gave you. “Come on, is this a joke?” Would I kid you? (By the way the word was in your question, too) See it? “Is,” as in “Our father who is in heaven.” God is. Not God was, or God will be. Not God could be or should be, but God is. He is. The God of the present tense.

That’s all you need to know to come to God. More is helpful perhaps, but not necessary. More can come later, but none can come earlier. Begin with the reality and the responsiveness of God. Remember the condition described in Hebrews? If you believe there is a living God (he is), and you believe there is a loving God (he rewards those who seek him), then you have faith. And you are welcome in his presence. In other words, the foundation of his kingdom is not built on you, but on him. The key question is not “Who am I?” but rather “Who is God?” Your achievements, however noble, are not important. Your credentials, as remarkable as they may be, are of no concern. God is the force behind your journey. His strength is the key factor. Don’t focus on your strength, but on his. Occupy yourself with the nature of God, not the size of your bicep.

That’s what Moses did. Well, at least that’s what God told Moses to do. Remember the conversation at the burning bush? The tone was set in the first sentence. Take off your sandals because you are standing on holy ground. (Ex. 3:5) Immediately the roles were defined. God is holy. Approaching him on even a quarter-inch of shoe leather is too pompous. With those eleven words Moses was enrolled in a class on God. No time is spent convincing Moses what Moses could do, but a lot of time was spent explaining to Moses what God would do. But we tend to do the opposite, don’t we? Our approach would have been to explain to Moses how he’s ideally suited to return to Egypt – who better to understand the culture than a former prince? Then, we’d remind Moses how perfect he was for wilderness travel – who knows the desert better than a shepherd? Then, we’d spend a lot of time reviewing with Moses his resume and his strengths- “Come on Moses, you can do it. Give it a try.”

God doesn’t. The strength of Moses is never considered. No pep talk is given; no pats on the back are offered. Not one word is given to recruit Moses. But a lot of words are given that reveal God. You see, the strength of Moses is not the issue. The strength of God is. You aren’t the force behind a volcano, or the mortar within the foundation: God is. And I know you understand that statement, but do you accept it in your heart? One of the most encouraging ways to study God is to study his names. The study of the names of God is no brief reading, either. After all, there are dozens of them in scripture. But if you want a place to begin, start with some of the compound names of God in the Old Testament. Each of them reveals a different aspect of God’s character.

Truth is, the more God’s people came to know him, the more names they gave him. Initially God was known as Elohim. “In the beginning God (Elohim) created. . . .“ (Gen. 1:1) The Hebrew word, “Elohim,” carries with it the meaning of “strong one," or "creator.” Thus, when we call God Elohim, we refer to his strength, or omnipotence. In fact, Elohim appears 31 times in the first chapter of Genesis alone because that’s where we see his creative power. As God revealed himself to his children, however, they saw him as more than just a mighty force. They saw him as a loving creator who met them at every crossroad of their lives.

Jacob, for example, came to see God as Jehovah Roi, a caring shepherd. “Like a shepherd,” Jacob told his family, “God has led me all my life.” (Gen. 48:15) And the phrase is surely a compliment to God, because Jacob was not a cooperative sheep. Twice he tricked his brother, and at least once he suckered his blind father; he out-crossed his double-crossing father-in-law by conning him out of his livestock and then, when father-in-law wasn’t looking, made like a Charger out of San Diego in the middle of the night sneaking off with anything that wasn’t nailed down.

Jacob was never a candidate for the best-behaved sheep award, but God never forgot him, either. God gave him food in the famine, forgiveness in his failures, and faith in his final years. Ask Jacob to describe God in a word, his word was Jehovah Roi — the caring shepherd.

Abraham had another word for God: Jehovah-jireh. “The Lord who provides.” And Abraham came by the name honestly. It all began when Abraham heard the call to go to the land of Canaan, and so he went. God promised to make him the father of many nations and he believed. But that was before Lot took the best land. That was before the king of Egypt took his wife. That was before he found out that he, the father of the nations, was married to a woman who couldn’t have children. But then Lot ended up in Sodom and Gomorrah, the Pharaoh ended up returning Sarah, and Abraham ended up bouncing his first-born on his hundred-year-old bony knees. Abraham learned that God provides. But even Abraham must have shaken his head when God asked him to sacrifice his own son on Mt. Moriah.

But up the mountain they went. “Where is the lamb we will burn as a sacrifice?” his son asked. (Gen. 22:7) And you wonder how the words made it past the lump in Abraham’s throat, “God will give us the lamb for the sacrifice, my son.” (vs. 8)  Jehovah-jireh: the Lord will provide. And then Abraham tied up his son, placed him on the altar and raised the knife … and the angel stayed his hand. Abraham had proven his faith. And just then, he heard a rustling in the thicket and saw a ram caught in a bush by his horns. He offered it as an offering and gave the mountain a name: Jehovah-jireh — The Lord Provides.

And then there’s Gideon. The Lord came to Gideon and told him he was to lead his people in victory over the Midianites. That’s like God telling a kindergartner to get in the car and go to work; or a high school student to take on a drug cartel. Gideon stammered. We stammer. But then God reminds us that he knows we can’t but he can. And to prove it, he gives a wonderful gift – peace. He brings a spirit of peace. A peace before the storm. A peace beyond logic, or as Paul described it, “A peace which passes all understanding.” (Phil. 4:7) He gave it to David after he showed him Goliath. He gave it to Saul after he showed him the gospel. And he gave it to Jesus after he showed him the cross. And he gave it to Gideon. So Gideon, in turn, gave the name to God. He built an altar and named it, “Jehovah-Shalom” The Lord is peace. (Judges 6:24)

God the Creator; God the Caring Shepherd; God the Provider; God, the Lord of Peace. Just some of the names that help us understand the God Who Is. God is the God who always is. “I am who I am,” he says. (Exodus 3:14) Who is the one who created the world? God is. Who is the one who provides the needs of his children? God is. Who is the one who saves his people? God is. Who is the one who rewards those that diligently seek him? God is.

And, no, it doesn’t depend upon what the meaning of the word “is,” is.

Grace,

Randy

Misbehaving

Misbehaving
Misbehaving - Audio/Visual 

See to it that no one misses the grace of God. (Heb. 12:15)

Christ lives in me. (Gal. 2:20)

I’ll remove the stone heart from your body and replace it with a heart that’s God-willed, not self-willed. (Ezekiel 36:26)

Catheter ablation – an invasive medical procedure used to destroy abnormal tissue from the interior of the heart of patients with cardiac arrhythmia. In other words, it’s a medical procedure designed to restore a healthy heart rhythm, and the procedure works like this: an electrophysiologist (a specially-trained cardiologist) inserts two cables (catheters) into the patient’s heart via a blood vessel – one is a camera, the other is an ablation tool. An electrical impulse is then used to induce the arrhythmia, and the ablation tool, using that same electrical impulse, destroys the abnormal tissue causing the irregular heartbeat; it does so, generally, by burning the tissue – as in cauterizing, singeing or branding. If all goes well, the doctor successfully destroys the “misbehaving” parts of the patient’s heart, and a potentially fatal, future heart attack is avoided.

A friend of mine had a catheter ablation and relayed to me the pre-procedure conversation he had with his doctor. It went something a little like this: “So, you’re going to burn the interior of my heart, right?” “Correct.” “And you’re going to kill the misbehaving cells?” “That’s my plan.” “Well, as long as you’re in there, could you take your little blowtorch to some of my greed, selfishness, superiority, and guilt?” “Sorry, that’s not in my pay grade.” The doctor’s right, of course – that’s not in his pay grade. But it’s in God’s because he’s in the business of changing hearts.

Of course, we would be wrong to think this change happens overnight, like catheter ablation. But we would be equally wrong to assume that change never happens at all. It may come in spurts — an “aha” moment here, a breakthrough there. But it comes. “The grace of God that brings salvation has appeared,” Paul wrote to his young protégé, Titus (2:11). In other words, the floodgates are open and the water’s out, but you just never know when grace will seep in. For example, you stare into the darkness while your husband snores. In fifteen minutes the alarm will sound, and the demands of the day will shoot you out of bed like a clown out of a cannon into a three-ring circus of meetings, bosses and baseball practices. For the millionth time you’ll make breakfast, schedules and payroll. But for the life of you, you can’t make sense of this thing called “life.” Its beginnings and its endings; cradles and cancers. The why of it all keeps you awake. So he sleeps, the world waits and you just stare.

Or, you open your Bible and look at the words. But you might as well be gazing at a cemetery – the words are lifeless and stony. Nothing moves you, but you don’t dare close the book. So, you trudge through your daily reading in the same way you power through prayers. You don’t miss a deed for fear that God will miss your name. Or, you listen to the preacher. Well, sort of. Your dad makes you come to church, but he can’t make you listen. At least, that’s what you’ve always told yourself. But this morning you listen because the preacher is talking about a God who loves prodigals, and you feel like the worst kind of prodigal. The preacher says God already knows, and you wonder what God thinks.

The meaning of life; the wasted years of life; the poor choices of life. God answers the mess of life with one word: grace. And to hear us talk you’d think we really understand the term. Your bank gives you a grace period. A politician falls from grace. Musicians speak of a grace note. We describe an actress as gracious, and a dancer as graceful. We use the word for hospitals, baby girls and pre-meal prayers. We talk as though we know what grace means. Especially at church. Grace graces the songs we sing and the Bible verses we read. Grace shares the church assembly with its cousins: forgiveness, faith and fellowship. Preachers explain it. Hymns proclaim it. Seminaries teach it. But do we really understand it?

Many of us have settled for a wimpy grace. It politely occupies a phrase in a hymn, or fits nicely on a church sign. It never causes trouble, or demands a response. When asked, “Do you believe in grace?” who could say “No”? But have you been changed by grace? Shaped by grace? Strengthened by grace? Emboldened by grace? Softened by grace? Snatched by the scruff of your neck and shaken to your senses by grace? God’s grace has a drenching about it. A white-water, riptide, turn-you-upsidedownness about it. Grace comes after you. It rewires you. From insecure to God-secure. From regret-riddled to better-because-of-it. From afraid-to-die to ready-to-fly. Grace is the voice that calls us to change, and then gives us the power to pull it off. It’s not like some nice compliment from God; it’s a new heart. Give your heart to Christ, and he returns the favor. “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you.” (Ezek. 36:26) You might call it a spiritual heart transplant, and Tara Storch understands this miracle as much as anyone, maybe better.

In the spring of 2010, a skiing accident took the life of her thirteen-year-old daughter, Taylor. What followed for Tara and her husband, Todd, was every parent’s worst nightmare: a funeral, a burial, a flood of questions and tears. They decided to donate their daughter’s organs to needy patients, and few people needed a heart more than Patricia Winters. Patricia’s heart had begun to fail five years earlier, leaving her too weak to do much more than simply sleep. Taylor’s heart could give Patricia a fresh start on life, and Tara had only one request: she wanted to hear the heart of her daughter. So, she and Todd flew from Dallas to Patricia’s home in Phoenix to listen to Taylor’s heart. The two mothers embraced for a long time. Then Patricia offered Tara and Todd a stethoscope. And when they listened to the healthy rhythm, whose heart did they hear? They heard the still-beating heart of their daughter. Oh, it was in a different body mind you, but the heart was still the heart of their child. And when God hears your heart, does he hear the still-beating heart of his Son?

As Paul said, “It is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me.” (Gal. 2:20) The apostle sensed within himself not just the philosophy, ideals or influence of Christ, but the person of Jesus. Christ moved in. And he still does. Christ enters. “Christ in you, the hope of glory,” Paul told the church in Colossi. (Col. 1:27) I don’t know about you, but somewhere along the way I think I’ve missed this truth. Oh, I fully believed all the other prepositions like, Christ for me, with me, ahead of me. And, relationally, I knew about working beside Christ, under Christ and with Christ. But I never imagined that Christ was actually in me. And I can’t blame my deficiency on Scripture because Paul refers to this relationship 216 times. John mentions it 26 times. They describe a Christ who not only woos us to himself, but “ones” us to himself. “Whoever confesses that Jesus is the Son of God, God abides in him, and he in God.” (1 John 4:15)

No other religion or philosophy can make such a claim. No other movement implies the living presence of its founder in his followers. Muhammad does not indwell Muslims. Buddha does not inhabit Buddhists. Hugh Hefner doesn’t inhabit the pleasure-seeking hedonist. Influence? Yes. Instruct? Sure. Entice? Absolutely. But occupy? No. Yet Christians embrace this inscrutable promise. “The mystery in a nutshell is just this: Christ is in you.” (Col. 1:27) The Christian is a person in whom Christ is happening. We are Jesus Christ’s; we belong to him. But even more, we are increasingly him. He moves in and commandeers our hands and feet, and requisitions our minds and tongues. We sense his rearranging – debris into the divine; pig’s ear into the silk purse. He repurposes bad decisions and squalid choices. Little by little a new image emerges. “He decided from the outset to shape the lives of those who love him along the same lines as the life of his Son.” (Rom. 8:29)

Grace is God as heart surgeon, cracking open your chest, removing your heart — poisoned as it is with pride and pain — and replacing it with his own. In other words, rather than telling you to change, he creates the change. But do you have to clean up so he can accept you? No, he accepts you where you’re at and begins cleaning you up. His dream isn’t just to get you into heaven, but to get heaven into you. And that makes all the difference. Can’t forgive your enemy? Can’t face tomorrow? Can’t forgive your past? Christ can, and he is on the move, aggressively budging you from graceless to grace-shaped living. The gift-given giving gifts. Forgiven people forgiving people. Deep sighs of relief. Stumbles aplenty but seldom despondent.

Grace is everything Jesus. Grace lives because he does, works because he works, and matters because he matters. He placed a term limit on sin and danced a victory jig in a graveyard. To be saved by grace is to be saved by him — not by an idea, doctrine, creed, or church membership, but by Jesus himself. And he does so but not in response to a finger snap, religious chant, or a secret handshake. Grace can’t be stage-managed, and I’ve got no tips on how to get grace. But the truth is, we don’t get grace; it gets us. Grace hugged the stink out of the prodigal, scared the hate out of Paul and pledges to do the same in us. And if you fear you’ve written too many checks on God’s kindness account, or drag regrets around like a broken bumper, even huff and puff more than you delight and rest, and, most of all, if you wonder whether God can do something with the mess of your life, then grace is what you need.

And grace is what he has to remove the “misbehaving” parts of your heart. And in the process, he saves you from an otherwise incurable heart disease.

Grace,

Randy

Orphanage

Orphanage
Orphanage - Audio/Visual 

Oh, that you would burst from the heavens and come down! How the mountains would quake in your presence! As fire causes wood to burn and water to boil, your coming would make the nations tremble. Then your enemies would learn the reason for your fame! When you came down long ago, you did awesome deeds beyond our highest expectations. And oh, how the mountains quaked! For since the world began, no ear has heard and no eye has seen a God like you, who works for those who wait for him! You welcome those who gladly do good, who follow godly ways. (Isaiah 64:1-5)

Some time ago, I came across a story about a honeymoon disaster. Apparently, the newlyweds arrived at the hotel in the wee hours with high hopes. They’d reserved a large room with all of the romantic amenities. Unfortunately, that’s not what they found. The room was pretty skimpy, actually. The tiny room had no view, no flowers, a cramped bathroom and worst of all — no bed; just a foldout sofa with a lumpy mattress and sagging springs. Obviously, it wasn’t what they’d hoped for. Neither was the night. The next morning the sore-necked groom stormed down to the manager’s desk and vented his anger. After patiently listening for a few minutes, the clerk politely responded, “Did you open the door in your room?” The groom admitted he hadn’t. So, he returned to the suite and opened the door that he’d thought was a closet. And there, complete with fruit baskets and chocolates, was a spacious bedroom.

Can’t you just see them standing in the doorway of the room they’d overlooked? It would have been so nice; a comfortable bed instead of a lumpy sofa; a curtain-framed window rather than a blank wall; a fresh breeze in place of stuffy air; an elaborate restroom, not a tight toilet. But they missed it. They were cramped, cranky and uncomfortable while comfort was just a door away. They missed it because they thought the door was a closet. “Why didn’t you try the door?” I was asking myself as I read the article. You know, get curious! Why did you just assume the door led nowhere? Good question. But not just for the newlyweds. That question applies to everyone. Not just for the pair who thought the room was all there was, but for all of us who feel cramped and packed in this anteroom we call earth. It’s not what we’d hoped. It may have its moments, mind you, but it’s simply not what we think it should be. Something inside of us groans for more. We understand what Paul meant when he wrote: “We … groan inwardly as we wait eagerly our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.” (Romans 8:23)

“Groan.” That’s it, isn’t it? An inward angst. The echo from the deep, dark cavern of the heart. The sigh of the soul that says the world is out of joint. Something’s wrong. The room is too cramped to breathe, the bed too stiff for rest and the walls too bare for pleasure. And so we groan. It’s not that we don’t try, mind you. We do our best with the room we have. We shuffle the furniture, we paint the walls, and we turn down the lights. But there’s only so much we can do with the place. And so we groan. And well we should, Paul argues, because we were not made for these puny quarters. “For while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened.” (2 Corinthians 5:6)

A “tent.” That’s a pretty good metaphor, because I’ve spent some nights in tents. Nice for a vacation, but not intended for daily use – flaps fly open; winter wind creeps in from underneath; summer showers seep in from above; canvas gets raw, and tent stakes come loose. We need something better, Paul argues. Something permanent. Something painless. Something more than flesh and bone. And until we get it, we groan. And I know that I’m not telling you anything new. You know the groan of the soul. But maybe you need to know that it’s alright to groan. It’s permissible to yearn. Longing is part of life. It’s only natural to long for home when on a journey. And we aren’t home yet. We’re orphans at the gate of the orphanage, awaiting our new parents. They aren’t here yet, but we know they’re coming – they wrote us a letter. We haven’t seen them yet, but we know what they look like – they sent us a picture. And we’re not acquainted with our new house yet, but we have a hunch. It’s unbelievable – they sent a description.

And so what do we do? Here, at the gate where the now-already meets the path of the not-yet, what do we do? We groan. We long for the call to come home. But until he calls, we wait. We stand on the porch of the orphanage and wait. And how do we wait? With patient eagerness. “We are hoping for something we do not have yet, and we are waiting for it patiently.” (Romans 8:25) “We wait eagerly for our adoption as sons.” (Romans 8:23) Patient eagerness. Not so eager so as to lose our patience, and not so patient so as to lose our eagerness. Unfortunately, we often tend to one or the other.

On the one hand, we grow so patient that we sleep. Our eyelids grow heavy. Our hearts get drowsy. Our hope lapses. We snore at our posts. On the other hand, we are so eager that we demand. We demand of this world what only the next world can give – no sickness; no suffering; no struggle. We stomp our feet and shake our fists, forgetting that it’s only in heaven that such peace is found. We must be patient, but not so much that we don’t yearn. We must be eager, but not so much that we won’t wait. In other words, we’d be wise to do what the newlyweds never did – open the door. Stand in the entryway. Gaze in the chambers. Gasp at the beauty. And wait. Wait for the groom to come and carry us, his bride, over the threshold.

The wise man, Solomon, said “God has planted eternity in the hearts of men.” (Ecclesiastes 3:11) But it doesn’t take a wise person to know that people long for more than this earth. When we see pain, we yearn. When we see hunger, we question why. Senseless deaths. Endless tears. Needless loss. Where do they come from? Where will they lead? Isn’t there more to life than death? We try to quiet that tiny voice inside us. Like a parent hushing a child, we place a finger over our puckered lips and ask for silence. “I’m too busy to talk now.” “I’m too busy to think.” “I’m too busy to question.” And so we busy ourselves with the task of staying busy.

But occasionally we hear a song. And occasionally we let the song whisper to us that there’s something more. There must be something more. And as long as we hear the song, we’re comforted. As long as we are discontent, we will search. As long as we know there’s a far-off country, we will have hope. The only ultimate disaster that can befall us is to feel ourselves at home on earth. Because as long as we’re aliens, we can’t forget our true homeland. It’s as if unhappiness on earth cultivates a hunger for heaven. By gracing us with a deep dissatisfaction, God holds our attention. The only tragedy, then, is to be satisfied prematurely. To settle for earth. To be content in a strange land. To intermarry with the Babylonians and forget Jerusalem, as the Israelites did.

We’re not happy here because we’re not at home here. We’re not happy here because we’re not supposed to be content here. We’re “like foreigners and strangers in this world.” (1 Peter 2:11) For instance, take a fish and put him on the beach. Watch his gills gasp and scales dry. Is he happy? No. So, how do you make him happy? Do you cover him with a mountain of cash? Do you get him a beach chair and sunglasses? Do you bring him a copy of Playfish magazine and a martini? Do you outfit him in double-breasted fins and people-skinned shoes? Of course not. Alright, then how do you make him happy? You put him back in his element. You put him back in the water. He’ll never be happy on the beach simply because he wasn’t made for the beach.

And we will never be completely happy on earth simply because we weren’t made for earth. Granted, we have our moments of joy. We catch glimpses of light. We may know moments, or even days of peace. But they simply don’t compare with the happiness that lies ahead. Rest on this earth is a false rest, so beware of those who urge you to find happiness here because you won’t. Guard against the false teachers who promise that joy is only a diet away, a marriage away, a job away, or a transfer away. The prophet Jeremiah denounced people like this: “They tried to heal my people’s serious injuries as if they were small wounds. They said, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’ But really, it is not all right.” (Jer. 6:14) And it won’t be alright until we get home.

Admittedly, we have our moments like I said earlier. The newborn on our breast, the bride on our arm, the sunshine on our back. But even those moments are simply slivers of light breaking through heaven’s window. God flirts with us. He tantalizes us. He romances us. Those moments are appetizers for the dish that’s to come. “No one has ever imagined what God has prepared for those who love him.” (1 Cor. 2:9) Did you see that? Heaven is beyond our imagination. We simply can’t envision it. At our most creative moment, at our deepest thought, at our highest level, we still can’t fathom eternity. Try this. Imagine a perfect world. Whatever that means to you, imagine it. Does that mean peace? Then envision absolute tranquility. Does a perfect world imply joy? Then create your highest happiness. Will a perfect world have love? If so, ponder a place where love has no bounds. Whatever heaven means to you, imagine it. Get it firmly fixed in your mind. Delight in it. Dream about it. Long for it. And then smile as the Father reminds you, “No one has ever imagined what God has prepared for those who love him.”

In other words, anything you can imagine is inadequate. Anything anyone imagines is inadequate. No one has come close. No one. Think of all the songs about heaven. All the artists’ portrayals. All the lessons preached, poems written and chapters composed. When it comes to describing heaven, we’re all happy failures. It’s beyond us. But it’s also within us. So, until then, be realistic. Lower your expectations of earth. This is not heaven, so don’t expect it to be. There’ll never be a newscast without bad news, or a church without its wounded. There’ll never be a new car, new wife, or new baby who can give you the joy your heart craves. Only God can. And God will.

He owns the orphanage.

Grace,

Randy