Familiarity

Familiarity Breeds Contempt

I said to myself, “I will watch what I do and not sin in what I say. I will hold my tongue when the ungodly are around me.” But as I stood there in silence — not even speaking of good things — the turmoil within me grew worse. The more I thought about it, the hotter I got, igniting a fire of words: “Lord, remind me how brief my time on earth will be. Remind me that my days are numbered — how fleeting my life is. You have made my life no longer than the width of my hand. My entire lifetime is just a moment to you; at best, each of us is but a breath.” (Psalm 39:1-5)

Abraham Lincoln once listened to the pleas of the mother of a soldier who’d been sentenced to hang for the crime of desertion. She begged the President to grant him a pardon. Lincoln eventually agreed, but he left the lady with the following words: “If a man had more than one life, I think a little hanging would not hurt this one; but after he is once dead we cannot bring him back, no matter how sorry we may be; so the boy shall be pardoned.” I think I know what the old rail-splitter had in mind. I’ve had a little hangin’ over the years myself.

It was a beautiful Saturday mountain morning, on a cold, crisp January. I was with a church youth group, and we had gone to the San Bernardino mountains to play in the snow. Now, when you’re a teen there’s nothing better than leaving all your energy out on a field of snow – especially snow on a mountain slope with a toboggan. And we had found the perfect spot to race my sled down the hill: a gradually descending slope exiting onto a little-used road, and then on to another steeper slope that ended in a long flat area to slide to a stop.

So, there I was on my toboggan, holding a kindergartner in my lap, ready for the thrill of a lifetime. Well, it almost was. You see, that little-used road that separated one slope from the next was the end of a blind curve and, because of the previous night’s temperatures, had been reduced to an asphalt slick. Compounding matters, it had snowed the night before. And although great for skiing, powder is not the best surface for bracing yourself when you need to come to a quick stop.

But there we were – me and my friend’s younger brother. We had a lookout posted on the road, but I guess he was drinking hot chocolate and not paying very close attention. Because when I asked if the coast was clear, I got the green light and off we went. But it wasn’t seconds later that I heard the lookout screaming that a car was coming around the corner on that not-so-often-used road. Well, at that point, the only thing I could think of was stopping the toboggan and trudging up the hill to have another go at it. But there was just one problem: I couldn’t stop. The previous night’s powder prevented me from getting the traction I needed to stop. Panicked, I shoved the kindergartner of the sled and hoped for the best.

Well the best got me because when I hit the asphalt, I came to an abrupt stop. The problem was that the car didn’t; it didn’t even see me. And as I was wiping the snow from my eyes, lying on the icy pavement, I saw the car’s rear tire – chains and all – roll over my leg. Now, the good news is that, when you’re a teenager, you’re bullet-proof. So, I hopped up from the near-tragic calamity none the worse for wear. But then came the following morning.

I awoke that next morning to the sight of chain-link bruises tattooed on my then-swollen knee, including the accompanying pain that goes along with a 1 ton car stretching every ligament and tendon within reach of its tread. Teenagers.

And then it hit me. What if I’d slid just a little further? What if I hadn’t shoved that kindergartner off the sled? What if I’d left just a moment sooner and taken the brunt of a front-end collision. I began to sweat. And despite being a bullet-proof teen, I couldn’t thank God enough. I still can’t. It was only a matter of minutes, maybe seconds. And yet, to this day, I’ve thought, “I could’ve been seriously hurt. Or worse yet, my friend’s brother might not have made out so well.” The thought was numbing like the snow that cold, January day, and equally convicting.

It was a little hangin’.

The stool had been kicked out from under my feet and the rope jerked around my neck just long enough to remind me of what really matters. It was a divine slap, a gracious knock up the side of my head, a severe mercy. Because of it I came face to face with one of the underground’s slyest agents — the agent of familiarity. And his commission from the black throne room is clear: “Take nothing from your victim; cause him only to take everything for granted.”

He’d been on my trail for years and I never knew it. But I know it now. I’ve come to recognize his tactics, and detect his presence. And I’m doing my best to keep him out. His aim is deadly. His goal is nothing less than to take what is most precious to us and make it appear most common.

For instance, he won’t steal your salvation; he’ll just make you forget what it was like to be lost. You’ll grow so accustomed to prayer you’ll forget to pray. Worship will become commonplace, and study optional. With the passing of time he’ll infiltrate your heart with boredom, and cover the cross with dust so you’ll be safely out of the reach of change. Score one for the agent of familiarity.

He won’t steal your home from you, either; he’ll do something worse. He’ll paint it with a familiar coat of drabness. He’ll replace evening gowns with bathrobes, nights on the town with evenings in the recliner, and romance with routine. He’ll scatter the dust of yesterday over the wedding pictures in the hallway until they become a memory of just another couple in another time. He won’t take your children, he’ll just make you too busy to notice them. His whispers to procrastinate are seductive: there’s always next summer to coach the team, next month to go to the lake, and next week to teach Johnny how to pray.

He’ll make you forget that the faces around your table will soon be at tables of their own. So, books will go unread, games will go un-played, hearts will go un-nurtured, and opportunities will go ignored. All because the poison of the ordinary has deadened our senses to the magic of the moment.

Before you know it, the little face that brought tears to your eyes in the delivery room has become — heaven forbid — common. A common kid sitting in the back seat of your SUV as you whiz down the fast lane of life. And unless something changes, unless someone wakes you up, that common kid will become a common stranger.

A little hangin’ might do us all a bit of good. Because, as the saying goes, “Familiarity breeds contempt.” Maybe that’s what happened to Bernie Goetz.

Thirty-seven years old. Thin, almost frail. Balding and bespectacled. An electronics buff. Law-abiding and tired. Certainly not a description you would give a vigilante. But that didn’t bother the American public, because when Bernhard Hugo Goetz blasted away at four would-be muggers in a New York subway, he instantly became a hero. And it’s not hard to see why.

Bernhard Goetz was an American fantasy come true. He did what every citizen wants to do. He fought back. He punched the villain in the face; he clobbered evil over the head. This unassuming hero embodied a nationwide, even worldwide anger: a passion for revenge. People are mad. People are angry. There is a pent-up, boiling rage that causes us to praise a man who fearlessly (or fearfully) says, “I’m not going to take it anymore!” and then comes out with a hot pistol in each hand.

We’re tired. We’re tired of being bullied, harassed and intimidated. We’re weary of the serial murderers, rapists, and hired assassins. We’re angry at someone, but we don’t know who. We’re scared of something, but we don’t know what. We want to fight back, but we don’t know how. And then, when a modern-day Wyatt Earp walks onto the scene, we applaud him. He’s speaking for us! “Way to go, thug-buster; that’s the way to do it!” Or is it? Is that really the way to do it? Think about it for just a minute.

Anger. It’s a peculiar yet predictable emotion. It begins like a drop of water. An irritant. A frustration. Nothing big, really. Just an aggravation. Someone gets your parking place. Someone else pulls in front of you on the freeway. A waitress is slow and you’re in a hurry. The toast burns. Just little drops of water. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

But, accumulate enough of these seemingly innocent drops of anger and before long you’ve got a bucket full of rage. Raging revenge. Blind bitterness. Unharnessed hatred. We trust no one, and bare our teeth at anyone who dares get near. We become walking time bombs that, given just the right tension and fear, can explode – just like Bernie Goetz.

Now, is that any way to live? What good has hatred ever done? What hope has anger ever created? What problems have ever been resolved by revenge?

But what do we do? We can’t deny that our anger exists. So how do we harness it? A good option is found in Luke 23:34. There, Jesus speaks about the mob that eventually killed him. “Father forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” Have you ever wondered how Jesus kept from retaliating? Have you ever asked yourself how he kept his control? Here’s the answer. It’s the second part of his statement: “for they do not know what they’re doing.” Look at it again. Carefully. It’s as if Jesus considered this bloodthirsty, death-hungry crowd not as murderers, but as victims. It’s as if he regarded them not as a militant mob but, as he put it, “sheep without a shepherd.” “They don’t know what they’re doing.”

And when you think about it, they didn’t. They hadn’t the faintest idea what they were doing. They were a stir-crazy mob, mad at something they couldn’t see so they took it out on, of all people, God. But they didn’t know what they were doing. And for the most part, neither do we. We are still, as much as we hate to admit it, sheep without a shepherd at times. All we know is that we were born out of one eternity and are frighteningly close to another. We play tag with the fuzzy realities of life and death and pain. We can’t answer our own questions about love and hurt. We can’t keep ourselves out of war. We can’t even keep ourselves fed. Paul spoke for humanity when he confessed, “I don’t really understand myself ….” (Romans 7:15)

Now, I know that doesn’t justify anything. That doesn’t justify hit-and-run drivers, or kiddie-porn peddlers or heroin dealers. But it does help explain why they do the miserable things that they do. So my point is this: uncontrolled anger won’t better our world, but sympathetic understanding will. Once we see the world and ourselves for what we are, we can help. Once we understand ourselves we begin to operate not from a posture of anger but of compassion and concern. We look at the world not with bitter frowns but with extended hands. We realize that the lights are out and a lot of people are stumbling in the darkness. So we light candles.

As Michelangelo said, “We criticize by creating.” Instead of fighting back we help out. We go to the ghettos. We teach in the schools. We build hospitals and help orphans … and we put away our guns. “They don’t know what they’re doing.” There’s something about understanding the world that makes us want to save it, even die for it.

Anger? Anger never did anyone any good. Understanding? Well, the results aren’t as quick as the vigilante’s bullet, but they’re certainly more constructive, and a whole lot better than a little hangin’.

Grace,

Randy

Dynamite

Dynamite

Then they arrived at a place called Gethsemane, and Jesus said to the disciples, “Sit down here while I pray.” He took with him Peter, James and John, and began to be horror-stricken and desperately depressed. “My heart is nearly breaking,” he told them. “Stay here and keep watch for me.” Then he walked forward a little way and flung himself on the ground, praying that, if it were possible, he might not have to face the ordeal. “Dear Father,” he said, “all things are possible to you. Please — let me not have to drink this cup! Yet it is not what I want but what you want.”

Then he came and found them fast asleep. He spoke to Peter, “Are you asleep, Simon? Couldn’t you manage to watch for a single hour? Watch and pray, all of you, that you may not have to face temptation. Your spirit is willing, but human nature is weak.” (Mark 14:32-38)

In 1066, one of history’s most decisive battles was fought. William, Duke of Normandy, had the audacity to dare to invade England. But he confidently approached his formidable opponent with a secret weapon, an invention that would give his army an edge: the stirrup. The English, on foot – William reasoned – would be easily conquered by the Normans, standing secure on their horses and in their stirrups. And because they had a way to stand in the battle, they were victorious.

On the battleground of temptation, Christians have been assured the victory. We have a way to stand in the battle. Jesus. Lord of Heaven. Defeater of death. He’s our secret weapon. But it doesn’t come easily, and it’s seldom without temptation. It reminds me of a story I heard about a Fish & Game warden who got a quick lesson on fishing.

It seems the warden noticed that one particular guy named Sam consistently caught more fish than anyone else. Whereas the other guys would only catch three or four a day, Sam would come in off the lake with a boat full. Stringer after stringer were loaded with freshly caught trout.

Curious, the warden asked Sam his secret. So, the successful fisherman invited the warden to accompany him and observe. The next morning the two met at the dock and took off in Sam’s boat. When they got to the middle of the lake, they stopped the boat and the warden sat back to watch the old pro.

Sam’s approach was simple: he took out a stick of dynamite, lit it, and threw it in the air. The explosion rocked the lake with such force that fish, either killed or knocked unconscious by the concussion, immediately began to surface. And with that, Sam took out a net and started scooping them up.

Well, you can imagine the reaction of the Fish & Game warden. When he recovered from the shock of it all, he began yelling at Sam. “You can’t do that! I’ll put you in jail, man, and you’ll be paying every fine there is in the book!” Sam, meanwhile, set his net down and calmly took out another stick of dynamite. This time, he lit it and tossed it into the lap of the warden and said, “Well? Are you just going to sit there all day complaining, or are you going to fish?”

The poor warden was left with a fast decision to make. He was yanked, in a second, from an observer to a participant. A dynamite of a choice had to be made, and made quickly.

Life’s like that sometimes. It seems that very few days go by without our coming face-to-face with an uninvited, unanticipated yet unavoidable decision. Like a crashing avalanche of snow, these decisions roar down on us without warning. They disorient and bewilder us. They’re quick, immediate and sudden. There’s no council, no study and no time for advice. Just BAM! All of a sudden we’re hurled into the air of uncertainty, and only instinct will determine if we land on our feet.

Look at the three apostles in the garden. Sound asleep. Weary from a full meal and a full week. Their eyelids heavy, they’re awakened by Jesus only to tumble back into dreamland. The last time, however, they’re awakened by Jesus along with the sound of clanging swords, bright torches and loud voices.

“There he is!” “Let’s get him!” A shout. A kiss. A shuffling of feet. A slight skirmish. All of a sudden it’s decision time. No time to huddle. No time to pray. No time to mediate or consult friends. A decision needs to be made. And Peter makes his. Out comes the sword. Off goes the ear. Jesus rebukes him. And now what? Mark, who apparently was a young eyewitness, wrote these words: “Then everyone deserted him and fled.” (Mark 14:50) That’s a nice way of saying they ran like scaredy cats. The only thing that was likely moving faster than their feet was their pulse rate. All those words of loyalty and commitment were left behind in a cloud of dust.

But before we’re too hard on these guys, let’s take a look at ourselves. Maybe you’ve been in the garden of decision a few times yourself. Has your loyalty ever been challenged? Have you ever passed by this trap door of the devil? For the teenager it could be a joint or a molly. For the businessperson it could be an offer to make a little cash “under the table.” For the student it could be an opportunity to improve his grade by looking at his friend’s quiz. One minute we’re in a calm boat on a lake talking about fishing, and the next we have a stick of dynamite in our laps ready to blow.

More often than not, the end result is catastrophe. Because rather than calmly defusing the bomb, we let it explode. We find ourselves doing the very thing we despise. The child in us lunges forward – uncontrolled and unrestrained – and the adult in us follows behind just shaking his or her head.

But it doesn’t have to be like that. Jesus didn’t panic. He, too, heard the swords and saw the clubs, but he didn’t lose his head. And it was his head that the Romans wanted. And in re-reading the garden scene we can see why Jesus could keep is composure. One statement made by our master offers two basic tools for keeping our cool in the heat of a decision: “Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation.”

Watch. Jesus is saying “pay attention.” You know your weaknesses. You also know the situations in which your weaknesses are most vulnerable. Stay out of those situations. You know the ones. Back seats. Late hours. Nightclubs. Poker games. Bridge parties. Movie theaters. Whatever it is that gives Satan a foothold in your life, stay away from it. In other words, watch out; pay attention.

And pray. Prayer isn’t telling God anything new. There’s not a sinner or a saint on this planet who surprises him. What prayer does, however, is invite God to walk the shadowy pathways of life with us. Prayer is asking God to watch ahead for falling trees and tumbling boulders; to bring up the rear, guarding our backside from the poison darts of the devil.

Take careless talk, for example. Insensitivity makes a wound that heals very slowly. If someone hurts your feelings intentionally you know how to react. You know the source of the pain. But if someone accidentally bruises your soul, it’s difficult to know just how to respond. For instance, someone at work criticizes the new boss who also happens to be your good friend. “Oh, I’m sorry — I forgot the two of you were so close.” Or, a joke is told at a party about overweight people. You’re overweight. You hear the joke. You smile politely while your heart sinks.

Or, what was intended to be a reprimand for a decision or action becomes a personal attack: “You have a history of making poor decisions, John.” Or, someone chooses to wash your dirty laundry in public. “Sue, is it true that you and Jim are separated?” Insensitive comments. Thoughts that should have remained thoughts. Feelings which had no business being expressed. Opinions carelessly tossed like a grenade into a crowd.

And if you were to tell the one who threw these thoughtless darts about the pain they caused, his or her response would likely be, “Oh, but I didn’t mean to … I didn’t realize you were so sensitive!” or “I forgot you were here.” Listed under the title of subterfuge is the poison of insensitivity. It’s called subterfuge because it’s so subtle. Just a slip of the tongue. Just a blank of a memory. No one’s really at fault. No harm done. Perhaps.

And then again, perhaps not. For as the innocent attackers go on their way excusing themselves for things done without hurtful intention, a wounded soul is left in the dust, utterly confused. “If no one intended to hurt me, then why do I hurt so badly?”

God’s Word has strong medicine for those who carelessly wag their tongues:

“The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole person, sets the whole course of his life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.” (James 3:6)

“He who guards his mouth and his tongue keeps himself from calamity.” (Prov. 21:23)

“He who guards his lips guards his life, but he who speaks rashly will come to ruin.”
(Prov. 13:3)

“When words are many, sin is not absent, but he who holds his tongue is wise.”
(Prov. 10:19)

The message is clear: we who dare to call ourselves God’s ambassadors are not afforded the luxury of idle words. Excuses such as “I didn’t know you were there,” or “I didn’t realize you were so touchy” are shallow when they come from those who claim to be followers and imitators of the Great Physician. We have an added responsibility to guard our tongues. Insensitive slurs may be accidental, but they are not excusable.

So, “Watch and pray.” Good advice. Let’s take it. Because it could be the difference between a peaceful day on the lake, or a stick of dynamite in our laps.

Grace,

Randy

Persevere

Persevere

At that time there was a strong earthquake. An angel of the Lord came down from heaven, went to the tomb, and rolled the stone away from the entrance. Then he sat on the stone. He was shining as bright as lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The soldiers guarding the tomb shook with fear because of the angel, and they became like dead men.

The angel said to the women, “Don’t be afraid. I know that you are looking for Jesus, who has been crucified. He is not here. He has risen from the dead as he said he would. Come and see the place where his body was. And go quickly and tell his followers, ‘Jesus has risen from the dead. He is going into Galilee ahead of you, and you will see him there.’” Then the angel said, “Now I have told you.”

The women left the tomb quickly. They were afraid, but they were also very happy. They ran to tell Jesus’ followers what had happened. Suddenly Jesus met them and said, “Greetings.” The women came up to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, “Don’t be afraid. Go and tell my followers to go on to Galilee, and they will see me there.” (Matthew 28:2-10)

You know how you can read a story you think you know, and then read it again and see something you’ve never seen before? You know how you can read about the same event a hundred times and then, on the 101^st reading, hear something so striking, see something so new that it makes you wonder if you slept through the other hundred times? Yeah, me too.

Maybe it’s because we started in the middle of the story instead of at the beginning. Or, perhaps it’s because someone else reads it aloud and pauses at a place where we normally wouldn’t and then, POW, it hits you like a ton of bricks. You grab the book and look at it, convinced that someone copied or read something wrong. But then you read it and . . . “Well-what-do-you-know? Why, look at that!”

It happened to me. Only God knows how many times I’ve read the resurrection story before – at least a couple of dozen Easters, and maybe a hundred times in between. I’ve taught it. I’ve meditated on it. I’ve underlined it. But what I saw this time I’d never seen before. But before I tell you what I discovered, let’s recount the story to help set the stage.

It’s early dawn on Sunday morning and the sky is dark. Those, in fact, are John’s words: “It was still dark . . . .” (John 20:1) It’s a dark Sunday morning. It had been dark since Friday. Dark with Peter’s denial. Dark with the disciples’ betrayal. Dark with Pilate’s cowardice. Dark with Christ’s anguish. Dark with Satan’s glee.

The only ember of light was the small band of women standing at a distance from the cross — watching. (Matt. 27:55) And among them were two Mary’s – one the mother of James and Joseph, and the other is Mary Magdalene. But why are they there? They’re there to call his name. To be the final voices he hears before his death. To prepare his body for burial. They are there to clean the blood from his beard; to wipe the crimson from his legs; to close his eyes; to touch his face. That’s why they’re there. The last to leave Calvary, and the first to arrive at the grave.

So, early on that Sunday morning they leave their pallets and walk out onto the tree-shadowed path. Theirs is a somber task because the morning promises only one thing: an encounter with a corpse. Remember, Mary and Mary don’t know this is the first Easter. They’re not hoping the tomb will be vacant. They aren’t discussing what their response will be when they see Jesus. They have absolutely no idea that the grave was empty.

Oh, there was a time when they dared to dream such dreams. But not now. It’s too late for the incredible. The feet that walked on water had been pierced. The hands that healed lepers and gave sight to the blind had been stilled. Their noblest aspirations had been spiked into Friday’s cross. Mary and Mary have come to place warm oils on a cold body, and bid farewell to the one man who had given reason to their hopes.

But it isn’t hope that leads the women up the mountain to the tomb. It’s duty. Simple, pure, naked devotion. They expect nothing in return. I mean, what could Jesus possibly give them? What could a dead man offer? The two women are not climbing the mountain to receive; they’re going to the tomb to give. Period. And there’s no motivation more noble.

There are times when we, too, are called to love, expecting nothing in return. Times when we are called to give money to people who will never say thank you, or to forgive those who won’t forgive us, or to come early and stay late when no one else notices, much less cares. Service prompted by duty. That’s the call of discipleship.

Mary and Mary knew a task had to be done — Jesus’ body had to be prepared for burial. Peter didn’t offer to do it. Andrew didn’t volunteer. The forgiven adulteress, or the healed lepers, or the recently-sighted are nowhere to be seen. So the two Mary’s decide to do it.

I wonder if, maybe halfway to the tomb, they’d sat down and maybe even reconsidered. What if they’d looked at each other and shrugged, “What’s the use?” What if they’d given up? What if one had thrown up her arms in frustration and said, “I’m tired of being the only one who cares. Let Andrew do something for a change. Let Nathaniel show a little leadership here.”

Whether or not they were tempted to do that, I’m glad they didn’t quit. That would have been tragic. You see, we know something they didn’t. We know that the Father was watching. Mary and Mary thought they were alone, but they weren’t.

They thought their journey was unnoticed. But they were wrong. God knew. He was watching them walk up the mountain. He was measuring their steps. He was smiling at their hearts, and thrilled at their devotion. And he had a surprise waiting for them.

At that time there was a strong earthquake. An angel of the Lord came down from heaven, went to the tomb, and rolled the stone away from the entrance. Then he sat on the stone. He was shining bright as lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The soldiers guarding the tomb shook with fear because of the angel, and they became like dead men.
Matthew 28:2-4

Now, read it again carefully because this is what I noticed. Tell me, why did the angel move the stone? Hmmm? For whom did he roll that rock away?

For Jesus? Well, that’s what I always thought. I just kind of assumed that the angel moved the stone so Jesus could come out. But think about that. Did the stone have to be removed in order for Jesus to exit? Did God have to have help? Was the death conqueror so weak that he couldn’t push the rock away? (“Hey, could somebody out there move this rock so I can get out?”) Really?

I don’t think so, because the text gives the impression that Jesus was already out when the stone was moved. Nowhere do the Gospels say that the angel moved the stone for Jesus. So, if that’s true, for whom, then, was the stone moved? Listen to what the angel says: “Come and see the place where his body was.” (v. 6)

The stone was moved — not for Jesus — but for the women; not so Jesus could come out, but so the women could see in. And Mary looks at Mary and Mary is grinning the same grin she had when the bread and fish kept coming out of the basket. The old passions begin to flare. Suddenly it’s all right to dream again. “Go quickly and tell his followers, ‘Jesus has risen from the dead. He is going into Galilee ahead of you, and you will see him there.’” (v. 7)

And Mary and Mary didn’t have to be told twice. They turn and start running to Jerusalem. The darkness is gone. The sun is up. The Son is out. But the Son isn’t finished. Because there’s still one surprise that awaits them.

“Suddenly, Jesus met them and said, ‘Greetings.’ The women came up to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, ‘Don’t be afraid. Go and tell my followers to go on to Galilee, and they will see me there.’” (v. 9—10)

You see, the God of surprises strikes again. It’s as if he said, “I can’t wait any longer. They came this far to see me; I think I’ll drop in on them and say ‘hey.’” And God does that for the faithful. Because just when the womb was too old for babies, Sarai got pregnant. Just when the failure was too great for grace, David was pardoned. And just when the road was too dark for Mary and Mary, the angel glowed and the Savior showed, and the two women would never be the same again.

The lesson here? One word: persevere.

Don’t give up.

Is the trail dark? Don’t sit.

Is the road long? Don’t stop.

Is the night black? Don’t quit.

God is watching. For all you know, right at this very moment, he may be telling the angel to move the stone. You know …

The check may be in the mail.

The apology may be in the making.

The job contract may be on the desk.

So, persevere. Don’t quit. Because if you do, you may just miss the answer to your prayers.

God still sends angels, you know. And God still moves stones.

Grace,

Randy