Problems

Problems

When a believing person prays, great things happen. (James 5:16)

Imagine yourself in a dark room with the windows closed, the curtains drawn and the blinds blocked. It’s hard to believe in the darkness that there’s daylight outside those drapes. So you grope around, trying to feel your way across the floor. You take a step – disoriented and unsure of where you’re headed. Progress is slow and the journey’s painful: stubbed toes and bruised shins. It’s hard to walk around in a dark place. It’s harder still to walk around in a dark world. But we try, don’t we? And we get wounded in the process – tripping over problems, bumping into each other in the shadows, and ramming into walls.

But occasionally one of us makes a discovery. Reaching through the blackness, a hand finds the curtains and then the window latch. “Hey, the walls have windows!” And then the drapes are pulled back, the window’s opened and sunlight floods the room. What was dark is now bright. What was opaque is now clear. What was stale is now fresh. With the light comes a peace, a power, a desire to move closer to the light, and a confidence to step forward. Our timid steps are replaced by a certainty to our walk; a certainty in moving through the corridors of life, opening one window after another to illuminate the darkness. What a difference. And all it took was opening the curtains and raising the window.

Prayer does the same thing. Prayer is the window that God has placed in the walls of our world. If we leave it shut, the world becomes a cold, dark place. But throw back the curtains and we see His light. Open the window and we hear His voice. Open the window of prayer and we invoke the presence of God in our world. Here’s what I mean.

Imagine that you’re at your best friend’s wedding reception. The two of you have talked about this day since you were kids, and now it’s finally here. The ceremony was great, and the wedding was beautiful; the minister was flawless and the vows were honest. Wow, what a day! “I’ll take care of the reception,” you had volunteered long ago. So, you planned the best party possible. You hired the band, rented the hall, catered the meal, decorated the room, and asked Aunt Tessie to bake the cake. (Yes, I had an Aunt Tessie)

Now the band is playing and the guests are milling about, but Aunt Tessie’s nowhere to be seen. Everything’s here but the cake. So, you ring her up. She’s been napping. She thought the wedding was next week. Great. Now what do you do? Talk about a problem. Everything’s here but the cake. Sound familiar?

Well, it might. It’s exactly the dilemma that Jesus’ mother, Mary, was facing – sort of. The wedding was moving, the guests were celebrating, but the wine was gone. Back then, wine was to a wedding like cake is to one today. Can you imagine a wedding without cake? Well, they couldn’t imagine a wedding without wine. To offer wine was to show respect to your guests. Not to offer wine at a wedding was … well … an insult.

Mary faced a social problem. You know. A foul-up; a snafu; a calamity on a somewhat common scale. No need to call 911, but you can’t sweep the embarrassment under the rug, either. And when you think about it, most of the problems we face are similar in scope. Seldom do we have to deal with dilemmas of a national scale, or which have world import. Seldom do our crises rock the Richter scale. Usually, the waves we ride are made by pebbles, not oceans. We’re late for a meeting; we leave something at the office; a co-worker forgets a report; mail gets lost; traffic gets snarled. Generally speaking, the waves rocking our lives are not life-threatening. But then again they can be because a poor response to a simple problem can light a fuse. What begins as a snowflake can snowball into an avalanche unless proper care is taken.

For that reason please note then how Mary reacted to the situation. Her solution is a practical plan for untangling life’s knots. “They have no more wine,” she told Jesus. (John 2:3) That’s it. That’s all she said. She didn’t go ballistic. She simply assessed the problem and gave it to Christ. Charles Kettering, the famed inventor and head of research for GM said, “A problem well-stated is half-solved.” Mary would have liked that, because that’s what she did – she defined the problem.

Now, granted, she could have exploded: “Why didn’t you plan better? There’s not enough wine! Whose fault is this anyway? You guys never do anything right. If anything is to be done right around here I have to do it myself!” Or she could have imploded: “This is my fault, I failed. I’m to blame. I deserve it. If only I’d majored in the culinary arts. I’m a failure in life.”

It’s so easy to focus on everything but the solution isn’t it? But Mary didn’t do that. She simply looked at the knot, assessed it, and took it to the right person. “I’ve got one here I can’t untie, Jesus.” “When all the wine was gone Jesus’ mother said to him, ‘They have no more wine’.” Please note that she took the problem to Jesus before she took it to anyone else. An acquaintance of mine told me about a tense deacons’ meeting he once attended. Apparently, there was more agitation than agreement, and after a lengthy discussion someone suggested, “Why don’t we pray about it?” to which another questioned, “Has it come to that?” Really?

But what causes us to think of prayer as the last option rather than the first? I think there’s at least two reasons: feelings of independence and feelings of insignificance.

Sometimes we’re independent. We begin to think we’re big enough to solve our own problems. For instance, at our house we’ve had a banner year. Our youngest daughter is just finishing up her first year of high school; another daughter just changed jobs resulting in more pay and benefits; and another is getting married in October; our youngest son and his wife are doing well in the entertainment industry; another son is to the HVAC industry what MacGyver was to tinker toys; and another son’s an attorney. My wife and I have applauded and celebrated each accomplishment our children have made. Their maturity and mobility is good and necessary, but I hope they never get to the point where they’re too grown up to call their mom and dad. I think God feels the same way about us.

Other times we don’t feel independent; we feel insignificant, instead. We think, “Sure, Mary can take her problems to Jesus. She’s his mother. But he doesn’t want to hear my problems. Besides, he’s got famines and earthquakes to deal with. I don’t want to trouble him with my messes.” If that’s your thought, however, consider this: “Because he delights in me, he saved me.” (Ps. 18:19)

And you probably thought he saved you because of your decency. You thought he saved you because of your good works or good attitude or good looks. Sorry. If that were the case, your salvation would have been lost when your language went south or your works got weak. There are many reasons God saves you: to bring glory to himself, to appease his justice, to demonstrate his sovereignty. But one of the sweetest reasons God saved you is because he is fond of you. He likes having you around. He thinks you are the best thing to come down the pike in quite awhile. “As a man rejoices over his new wife, so your God will rejoice over you.” (Isa. 62:5)

As Max Lucado says, “If God had a refrigerator, your picture would be on it. If he had a wallet, your photo would be in it. He sends you flowers every spring and a sunrise every morning. Whenever you want to talk, he’ll listen. He can live anywhere in the universe, and he chose your heart. And the Christmas gift he sent you in Bethlehem? Face it, friend. He’s crazy about you.” Yep, that’s right. So, the last thing you should worry about is being a nuisance to God. All you need to concentrate on is doing what he tells you to do.

Note the sequence of events in the next three verses about the wineless wedding: “Jesus said to the servants, ‘fill the jars with water.’ So they filled the jars to the top. Then he said to them, ‘Now take some out and give it to the master of the feast.’ So they took the water to the master. When he tasted it, the water had become wine.” (John 2:7-9)

See the sequence?

First the jars were filled with water. Then Jesus instructed the servants to take the water (not the wine) to the master. Now, if I’m a servant, I’m thinkin’ I’m not too crazy about that idea. I mean, how is that going to solve the problem? And what is the master going to say when I give him a cup of water? But these servants were either naïve enough, or trusting enough, to do what Jesus said. And so the problem was solved. Oh yeah, and note that the water became wine after they had obeyed, not before.

What if the servants had refused? What if they’d said, “No way”? Or, to bring the point closer to home, what if you refuse? What if you identify the problem, take it to Jesus, and then refuse to do what he says? That’s possible. Right? After all, God is asking you to take some pretty gutsy steps. For instance, money is tight, but he still asks you to give. You’ve been offended, but he still asks you to forgive. Someone else blew the assignment, but he still asks you to be patient. You can’t see God’s face, but he still asks you to pray.

These are not commands for the faint of faith. But then again, he wouldn’t ask you to do it if he thought you couldn’t. So go ahead. Next time you face a common calamity, follow Mary’s example:

Identify the problem. (You’ll half-solve it)

Present it to Jesus. (He’s happy to help)

Do what he says. (No matter how crazy)

And then get Aunt Tessie a new calendar.

Grace,

Randy

Shining

Shining

You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot.

You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.

                                                 (Matt. 5:13-16)

A peculiar thing happened to me during the evening of September 8, 2011. That was the Great Blackout – a widespread power outage that affected large swaths of Southern California, as well as western Arizona, northern Baja California and Sonora. It was the largest power failure in California’s history.

Anyway, that evening, power had yet to be restored so I had to feel my way through the darkness into the utility room where we keep the candles in drawers for nights like this, I suppose. Through the glow of a lit match I looked in the drawer where the candles were stored. There they were, melted to various degrees by previous missions. I took my match and lit four of them, then placed them on some candlesticks.

What had been a veil of blackness suddenly radiated with a soft, golden light. I could see the washing machine I had just run into with my toe. “It’s great to have some light!” I said out loud, and then spoke to the candles. “If you do such a good job here in the laundry room, just wait till I get you out where you’re really needed. I’ll put one of you on the table so we can eat, and another on the desk so I can read. I’ll give another to Sandy, and I’ll set you,” as I grabbed the largest one, “in the family room where you can light up the whole area.” (Frankly, I felt a little foolish talking to candles – but what do you do when the lights go out?)

I was turning to leave with the large candle in my hand when I heard a voice, “Now, hold it right there.” I stopped. Somebody’s in here, I thought. Then I relaxed. It’s probably just Sandy, teasing me for talking to the candles. “Ok, San, cut the kidding,” I said in the semi-darkness. No answer. Hmm, maybe it was the wind. I took another step. “Hold it, I said!” There was that voice, again. My hands began to sweat. “Who said that?” I demanded. “I did.” The voice was near my hand. “Who are you? What are you?” “I’m the candle.” I looked at the candle I was holding. It was burning a strong, golden flame. It was red and sat on a heavy wooden candle holder that had a firm handle. I looked around once more to see if the voice could be coming from another source.

“There’s no one here but you, me, and the rest of us candles,” the voice informed me. I lifted up the candle to take a closer look and there was this tiny face in the wax. Not just a wax face that someone had carved, but a moving, functioning face full of expression and life. “Don’t take me outta here!” “What?” I asked incredulously. “I said, don’t take me out of this room.” “What do you mean, ‘Don’t take (you) out of this room?’ I have to take you out. You’re a candle. Your job is to give light. It’s dark out there. People are stubbing their toes and walking into walls. You have to come out and light up the place!”

“But you can’t take me out. I’m not ready,” the candle explained with pleading eyes. “I need more preparation.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “More preparation?” “Yeah, I’ve decided I need to research this job of light-giving so I won’t go out and make a bunch of mistakes. You’d be surprised how distorted the glow of an untrained candle can be. So I’m doing some studying. I just finished a book on wind resistance. I’m in the middle of a great series of tapes on wick build-up and conservation – and I’m reading the new bestseller on flame display. Have you heard of it?” “No,” I answered. “You might like it. It’s called Waxing Eloquently.”

“That really sounds inter —,” I caught myself. What am I doing? I’m in here talking with a candle while my wife and daughters are out there in the darkness! “All right then,” I said. “You’re not the only candle in here. I’ll blow you out and take the others!” But just as I got ready to blow, I heard other voices. “We aren’t going either!” It was a conspiracy. I turned around and looked at the other three candles, each with flames dancing above a miniature face. I was beyond feeling awkward about talking to candles. I was getting mad, now.

“You are candles and your job is to light dark places!” “Well, that may be what you think,” said the candle on the far left – a long, thin fellow with an Aussie accent – “but I’m busy.” “Busy?” “Yes, I’m meditating.” “What? A candle that meditates?” “Yes. I’m meditating on the importance of light. It’s really enlightening.”

I decided to reason with them. “Listen, I appreciate what you guys are doing. I’m all for meditation time. And everyone needs to study and research; but for goodness sake, you guys have been in here for weeks! Haven’t you had enough time to get your wicks ready?” “And you other two,” I asked, “are you going to stay in here as well?” A short, squatty, purple candle spoke up. “I’m waiting to get my life together. I’m not stable enough. I lose my temper easily. I guess you could say that I’m sort of a hot-head.” All this was sounding too familiar.

And then the last candle spoke up. “I’m just not gifted in this area.” “Not gifted? What do you mean? You’re a candle!” I said. “Well, I’m really a singer. I sing to other candles to encourage them to burn more brightly.” And without asking my permission, she began a rendition of “This Little Light of Mine.” The other three joined in at that point, filling the laundry room with singing.

“Come on, you guys. There’s plenty of time for this later. We’ve got a crisis on our hands.” But they wouldn’t stop. I put the big candle on the washing machine and took a step back and considered the absurdity of it all. Four perfectly healthy candles singing to each other about light but refusing to leave the comfort of the utility room. I had all I could take. One by one, I blew them out. They kept singing to the very end.

I stuck my hands in my pocket and walked back out in the darkness. I stubbed my toe again. Then I bumped into my wife. “Where are the candles?” she asked. “They don’t … they won’t work,” I said. “Where did you buy those candles anyway?” “Oh, they’re church candles. Remember the church that closed down across town? I bought them there.”[1]

In Jesus’ day, salt was a precious commodity – which is a little hard for us to grasp today when you can buy a 26 oz. container of Morton’s salt for about 4¢ an ounce. But during Jesus’ time in the Roman Empire, slaves were traded for salt. In fact, Roman soldiers were often paid with salt. (Ever hear the expression, “Worth his salt”?) Even the Latin word for salt, sale, is the root for our word, salary.

But salt was not only precious, it was useful. A Roman proverb, which may have been common during Jesus’ time was, “Nil utilius sole et sale.” I missed out on Latin in high school, but the phrase loosely translates: “Nothing is as useful as sun and salt.” So is it just coincidence that Jesus used these two metaphors (salt and light) for his followers? Probably not.

Salt adds flavor, too, and pure sodium chloride never loses its flavor. However, some of the salt that was available in Palestine was mined from the salt flats surrounding the Dead Sea. So, there were a lot of other impurities mixed in with the salt. And if this mixture was exposed to the elements, rain would leach the salt out, leaving a pile of impurities that might look like salt, but it was a salt imposter. That pile of impurities was worthless and was used as a road agent on the pathways, and trampled under foot by passing travelers. Of course, salt also preserves. In a time when there was no refrigeration, salt was essential for the preservation of food.

But salt is essential for life, too. In fact, without an adequate amount of sodium, your body can go into shock. It’s called, hyponatremia – an abnormally low concentration of sodium in the body fluids outside the cells. Symptoms of hyponatremia include fatigue, lightheadedness, weakness, cramping, nausea, dizziness, confusion, disorientation, seizures, coma, and, in the most severe cases, even death.

 Jesus said that we are the salt of the earth. Precious; valuable; a seasoning influence in the world; a preserving agent in a modern day Sodom or Gomorrah whose citizens have become fatigued, dizzy, confused and disoriented. But if we’ve allowed the elements to leach the salt from our lives, what’s left of our influence? Or, if we resist the actions of The Salt Shaker, what good is salt that refuses to be used?

But Jesus also said that we are the light of the world. And although we are surrounded by light during the day, very few things actually give out light. We see most things only because they reflect light. For instance, when light strikes a surface, some or all of it is reflected. Most surfaces scatter light in all directions, and all you see is the surface. But mirrors and other shiny surfaces reflect light in exactly the same pattern in which it arrived, so you see a mirror image.

That’s why in John 8:12, Jesus said, “I am the Light of the World. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” Jesus is the Light of the world, but those who follow Jesus have the light of life – a reflection of its source.

Jesus wants His light to shine through us; to bless the world through us; to dispel the darkness through us. Jesus wants to use us to make a difference in the world. But note that Jesus doesn’t say, “Make your light shine.” He says, “Let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.”

Our purpose is to shine so that others around us can see our good deeds – not for the deeds we’ve done but for their source of inspiration. We are like a city on a hill, or a light on a stand whose beacon draws a world of darkness into the world of Light. A city where the power outages of life cannot dim its influence, or whose light cannot be hid. Our source is guaranteed and uninterruptable – all we have to do is flip the switch.

So, this week, let’s consider whether we’re a shining light in the inky, black sky of cultural darkness, or whether we’re simply shining in the safety of a laundry room, or maybe even a church.

Grace,

Randy

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[1] Adapted from Lucado, Max – God Came Near.

Legacy

Legacy

Josiah was eight years old when he became king, and he reigned in Jerusalem thirty-one years. He did what was right in the eyes of the Lord and followed the ways of his father David, not turning aside to the right or to the left.

(2 Chron. 34:1-2)

Janis can tell you about family trees. He makes his living from them. He inherited a Latvian forest that’s been in his family for several hundred years. The trees he harvests now were planted 180 years ago by his great-grandfather, and the trees he plants today won't be ready for market until his great-grandchildren are born; he's part of a chain.

"Every generation must make a choice," he told his cousin, a retired pastor of All Saints Lutheran church in Minnetonka, Minnesota. "They can either devastate or plant. They can rape the landscape and get rich, or they can care for the forest, harvest only what is mature, and leave an investment for their children." With the economic situation in such sad shape in Latvia, it would be very tempting for him to cut down more than he should. But he doesn’t.

He harvests seeds sown by others he never knew except in family photographs and stories, and he sows seeds to be harvested by descendants he'll never see. Dependent on the past and responsible for the future, he sees himself as part of a small family who depend upon each other, love each other, and carry a responsibility for leaving a lasting legacy. Just like us.

We’re all children of the past and parents of the future. We’re heirs; benefactors – recipients of the work done by others before us. Born, so to speak, into a forest we didn’t seed. So, how’s your forest? As you stand among the trees left by your ancestors, how does it look? Do you have pride in the legacy that’s been left? There are some who inherit good soil that nourishes deeply-rooted trees of conviction. Row after row of truth and heritage. So, it could be that you stand in the forest of your fathers with pride. And if you do, give thanks. Most don’t.

The truth is that many aren’t particularly proud of their family tree – a tree whose branches are weighted down with poverty, shame or abuse. The land was pillaged, the harvest was taken, and no seed was sown. Some have been reared in a home of bigotry whose result is intolerance for minorities. Others have been reared in a home of greed where the quest for possessions is never-ending. Maybe childhood memories bring more hurt than inspiration. Maybe the voices of your past curse you, belittle you, or even ignore you. And at the time, you thought that kind of treatment was typical, or maybe normal. Now you understand. It isn’t. And you find yourself trying to explain your past.

I came across a story of a man who must have had the same thoughts. His heritage was tragic: his grandfather was a murderer and a mystic who sacrificed his own children to false gods, and his dad was a punk who ravaged churches and made a mockery of believers. In fact, his dad was killed at the age of twenty-four ... by his friends. But these men were typical of their era. They lived during a time when the hooker’s favorite street corner was the local church, and wizards treated diseases with chants. People worshiped stars and followed horoscopes. In fact, more thought went into superstition and voodoo than into the education of their kids.

It was a very dark time in which to be born. I mean, what do you do when your grandpa followed black magic, your dad was a scoundrel, and your nation was thoroughly corrupt? Do you simply follow suit, as if your accepted lot in life is to follow your heritage because … well … that’s just what you do? Frankly, some assumed he would. They branded him as a delinquent before he was even born. You know, a chip off the old rotten block. You can almost hear the people whisper as he passes, “He’s gonna be just like his dad.”

But they were wrong. He wasn’t. He bucked the trend and defied the odds. He stood like a dam against the torrents of his day, and rerouted the river of destruction that was headed for his nation. In fact, his achievements were so remarkable that we still tell his story twenty-six hundred years later. The story is about King Josiah.

Granted, the world’s seen wiser kings, even wealthier kings. The world has certainly seen more powerful kings. But history has never seen a more courageous king than young Josiah. Born some six hundred years before Jesus, Josiah inherited a fragile throne and a very tarnished crown. The temple was in disarray, the Law had been lost (literally), and the people worshiped whatever god they chose. But by the end of Josiah’s thirty-one-year reign the temple had been rebuilt, the idols destroyed, and the law of God once again elevated to a place of prominence and power. In other words, the forest had been reclaimed.

Josiah’s grandfather, King Manasseh, was remembered as the king who filled “Jerusalem from one end to the other with [the people’s] blood.” (2 Kings 2 1:16) And his father, King Amon, died at the hands of his own officers. “He did what God said was wrong,” reads his epitaph. So, the citizens formed a posse and killed the assassins, leaving little eight-year-old Josiah to ascend to the throne. But early in his reign Josiah made a very brave choice. “He lived as his ancestor David had lived, and he did not stop doing what was right.” (2 Kings 22:2)

In other words, he flipped through the family scrapbook until he found an ancestor worth emulating. Josiah skipped his dad’s life and bypassed his grandpa’s altogether. He leapfrogged back in time until he found David and determined, “I’m gonna be like him.” The principle, here? We may not choose our parents, but we can choose our mentors.

And since Josiah chose David (who had chosen God), things began to happen in Israel. The people tore down the altars built for the Baal gods as Josiah had directed. They cut down the incense altars, broke up the Asherah idols and beat them into powder. Josiah even burned the bones of the pagan priests and broke down their altars. He cut down all of the incense altars in all of Israel. (2 Chron. 34:4-5; 7) Not exactly a public relations tour.

But then again, Josiah wasn’t out to make friends and influence people. He was out to make a statement: “What my fathers taught, I don’t teach, and what they embraced, I reject.” And he wasn’t finished. Four years later, at the age of twenty-six, he turned his attention to the temple. It was a wreck. It was ghetto. But Josiah was determined. Something had happened that fueled his passion to restore the temple. A baton had been passed. A torch had been received.

You see, early in his reign he’d resolved to serve the God of his ancestors, David. Now he chose to serve the God of someone else. Look at 2 Chronicles 34:8: “In Josiah’s eighteenth year as king, he made Judah and the Temple pure again. He sent Shaphan. . . to repair the Temple of the Lord, the God of Josiah.” (Emphasis my own) See it? God was now his God. David’s faith was now Josiah’s faith. He’d found the God of David and made Him his own.

But as the temple was being rebuilt, one of the construction workers happened upon a scroll, and on the scroll were the words of God given to Moses nearly a thousand years earlier. When Josiah heard the words, he was shocked. He wept at the fact that his people had drifted so far from God, and that His Word was not a part of their lives. So, he sent word to a prophetess and asked her, “What will become of our people?” She told Josiah that since he had repented when he heard the words, his nation would be spared God’s anger. (2 Chron. 34:27) Incredible. An entire generation received grace because of the integrity of just one man.

Could it be that God put him on earth for that reason? Better yet, could it be that God has placed you on earth for the same? Maybe your past isn’t much to brag about. Maybe you’ve seen evil incarnate. And now you, like Josiah, have to make a choice: do you rise above the past and make a difference, or do you remain controlled by the past and make excuses? Many choose the latter.

Many choose the convalescent home of the heart: healthy bodies, sharp minds and retired dreams. Back and forth they rock in the chair of regret, repeating the terms of surrender. And if you lean in you can hear them say, “If only.” The white flag of the heart. “If only ….” “If only I’d been born somewhere else …,” or “If only I’d been treated fairly ….” “If only I’d had kinder parents, more money, greater opportunities .…” “If only I’d been potty-trained sooner, spanked less, or taught to eat without slurping my soup.”

And maybe you’ve used those words, too. Frankly, you may have every right to use them. Perhaps you, like Josiah, were hearing the ten count before you even got into the ring. And to find an ancestor worth imitating, you, like Josiah, have to flip way back in your family album. If that’s the case, put the scrapbook down and pick up your Bible. Go to John’s gospel and read Jesus’ words: “Human life comes from human parents, but spiritual life comes from the Spirit.” (John 3:6)

Think about that. Spiritual life comes from the Spirit. In other words, your parents may have given you genes, but God gives you grace. Your parents may be responsible for your body, but God has taken charge of your soul. You may get your looks from your mother, but you get eternity from your heavenly Father who, by the way, is not blind to your problems. In fact, God is willing to give you what maybe your family didn’t.

I’m very fortunate that I have a great dad, but maybe you don’t, or didn’t. But God will be your Father. Through God you are a son; and if you’re a son, then you’re an heir to God’s estate. (Gal. 4:7) Or, maybe you didn’t have a good role model. Try God. You are God’s child whom he loves, so try to be like him. (Eph. 5:1) Never had a parent who wiped away your tears? Think again. God has noted each one. “You have seen me tossing and turning through the night. You have collected all my tears in your bottle! You have recorded every one of them in your book.” (Ps. 56:8)

God has not left you adrift on a sea of heredity. Just like Josiah, you can’t control the way your forefathers responded to God, but you can control the way you respond to Him. The past doesn’t have to be your prison. You have a voice in your destiny. You have a say in your life. You have a choice in the path you take.

So, choose well and someday, perhaps even generations from now, your grandchildren and great-grandchildren will thank God for the seeds you sowed; seeds harvested by descendants you’ll never see but who nevertheless are part of an extended family who depend upon you, love you, and trust that you will leave a lasting legacy from which their generations will harvest a forest of pride.

Grace,

Randy