In A Moment

In A Moment

That night there were shepherds staying in the fields nearby, guarding their flocks of sheep. Suddenly, an angel of the Lord appeared among them, and the radiance of the Lord’s glory surrounded them. They were terrified, but the angel reassured them. “Don’t be afraid!” he said. “I bring you good news that will bring great joy to all people. The Savior — yes, the Messiah, the Lord — has been born today in Bethlehem, the city of David! And you will recognize him by this sign: You will find a baby wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.” (Luke 2:8-12)

There were no tapestries covering the windows in this throne room; no velvet garments on the servants of the king. And instead of a golden scepter, the king held a crudely whittled olivewood rattle while cows munched, hooves crunched and a mother hummed as she nursed her newborn. It could have begun anywhere, this story of the King. But, curiously, it began in a manger.

Outside, the noise and the bustle began earlier than usual in the small village. As night gave way to dawn, people were already on the streets and vendors were jockeying for position on the corners of the busiest avenues. Store owners were unlocking the doors to their shops. Children were awakened by the excited barking of dogs on the street and the complaints of donkeys pulling their carts. The owner of the local inn had awakened earlier than most in the town. After all, the inn was full – all the beds were taken. Every available mat or blanket had been put to use. Soon, all the guests would be stirring and there’d be a lot of work to do.

And as the innkeeper sat with his family around the breakfast table, did anyone mention the arrival of the young couple the night before? Did anyone comment on the very pregnant girl on the donkey? Maybe. Maybe someone raised the subject, but it was probably never discussed because there was nothing novel about those two. They were one of several families that may have been turned away the night before. Besides, who had time to talk about them when there was so much excitement in the air? Augustus had done the Bethlehem economy a huge favor by decreeing that a census should be taken. Who could remember when this kind of commerce had ever hit the village?

No, it’s doubtful that anyone mentioned the couple’s arrival, or even wondered aloud about the condition of the girl. They were too busy. The day was upon them. The day’s bread had to be made. The morning’s chores had to be done. There was too much to do to imagine that the impossible had occurred – that God had entered the world as a baby. Yet, if someone from the village had come to the sheep stable on the outskirts of Bethlehem that morning, they’d have seen a pretty unusual sight.

The stable stunk like all stables do. The stench of urine, dung and sheep was pungent. The ground was hard, the hay scarce and cobwebs clung to the ceiling while a mouse scurried across the dirt floor. A more lowly place of birth couldn’t exist. And off to one side sat a group of shepherds. They sit silently on the floor, maybe perplexed, perhaps in awe, but no doubt in amazement. Their night watch had been interrupted by an explosion of light from heaven and a symphony of angels. That’s because God goes to those who have time to hear Him, and so He went to some simple shepherds to give them the news.

Near the young mother sits the weary father. If anyone is dozing, he is. He can’t remember the last time he sat down. And now that the excitement has subsided, now that Mary and the baby are comfortable, he leans against the wall of the stable and feels his eyes grow heavy. He still hasn’t figured it all out. The mystery of the event still puzzles him. But he just doesn’t have the energy to wrestle with the questions right now. What’s important is that the baby’s fine and Mary’s safe. And as sleep comes, he remembers the name the angel told him to use. “We’ll call him Jesus,” he mumbles as he drifts off to sleep.

Mary, on the other hand, is wide awake. Her young head rests on the soft leather of Joseph’s saddle, and the pain of childbirth is now eclipsed by His wonder. She looks into the face of the baby. Her son. Her Lord. His Majesty. And at this point in history, the human being who best understands who God is and what he’s doing is a teenage girl in a smelly stable. She can’t take her eyes off him. Somehow Mary knows she’s holding God. “So, this is him,” she ponders and considers the words of the angel, “His kingdom will never end.”

Funny, he looks nothing like a king. His face is all prunish and red. His cry, though strong and healthy, is still the helpless and piercing cry of a newborn. And he’s absolutely dependent upon Mary for his well-being. Majesty in the midst of the mundane. Holiness in the filth of sheep manure and sweat. Divinity entering the world on the floor of a stable, through the womb of a teenager in the presence of a carpenter.

This baby had created the universe. These rags keeping him warm were the robes of eternity. His golden throne room had been abandoned in favor of a dirty sheep stall. And worshiping angels had been replaced with kind but bewildered shepherds. Meanwhile, the city’s humming. The merchants are unaware that God has visited their planet. The innkeeper would never have believed that he’d just sent God out into the cold. And the people would scoff at anyone who would have told them that the Messiah lay in the arms of a teenager on the outskirts of their village. They were all too busy to consider the possibility.

Those who missed His Majesty’s arrival that night didn’t miss it because of evil acts or malice. They missed it because they simply weren’t looking. And little has changed in the last two thousand years. Because it all happened in a moment, a most remarkable moment.

And as moments go, that one probably appeared no different than any other. If you could somehow pick it up off the timeline and examine it, it would look exactly like the ones that had already passed. It came and it went. It was preceded and succeeded by others just like it. It was one of the countless moments that have marked time since eternity became measurable. But in reality, that particular moment was like none other. For through that segment of time a spectacular thing occurred. God became a man. While the creatures of earth walked unaware, Divinity had arrived. Heaven opened itself and placed its most precious gift in a human womb.

In one instant, the Omnipotent had made himself breakable. The One who had been spirit became pierceable. He who was larger than the universe became an embryo. And the One who sustains the world with a word chose to be dependent upon the nourishment of a teenage girl. God as a fetus. Holiness sleeping in a womb. The creator of life being created. God was given eyebrows, elbows, two kidneys, and a spleen. He stretched against the walls and floated in the amniotic fluids of his mother. God had come near.

He didn’t come as a flash of light or as an unapproachable conqueror, but as one whose first cries were heard by a peasant girl and a sleepy carpenter. The hands that first held him were unmanicured, calloused and dirty. No silk. No ivory. No hype. No party. No hoopla. In fact, were it not for the shepherds, there’d have been no reception at all. And were it not for a group of stargazers, there’d have been no gifts later. Angels watched as Mary changed God’s diaper. The universe watched with wonder as the Almighty learned to walk.

Children played in the street with him. And had the synagogue leader in Nazareth known who was listening to his sermons, he might have changed his delivery. Maybe he had pimples. Perhaps a girl down the street had a crush on him, or vice versa. Maybe he had bony knees. One thing’s for sure, though – he was, while completely divine, completely human.

So, what was it like watching him pray? How’d Jesus respond when he saw other kids giggling during services at the local synagogue? And when he saw a rainbow, did he ever mention a flood? Did Mary ever feel awkward teaching him how he created the world? Did he ever come home with a black eye? How’d he act when he got his first haircut? Did he have any friends named Judas? Did he do well in school? Did he ever have to ask a question about Scripture?

Did the thought ever occur to Mary that the God to whom she was praying was asleep under her own roof? And what do you think Jesus thought when he saw a prostitute offering to the highest bidder the body that he had made? Did he ever get angry when someone was dishonest with him? Did he ever wake up afraid? Who was his best friend?

When someone referred to Satan, how’d Jesus act? Did Mary ever accidentally call him Father? What did he and his cousin John talk about as kids? Did his other brothers and sisters understand what was going on and who he was? Did Mary ever think, “That’s God eating my soup?”

For thirty-three years he would feel everything you and I have ever felt. He felt weak. He grew weary. He was afraid of failure. He was susceptible to wooing women. He got colds, he burped and had body odor. His feelings got hurt, his feet got tired and his head ached. And to think of Jesus in that light is … well … it seems almost irreverent. It’s not something we like to do because it’s uncomfortable. It’s much easier to keep the humanity out of the incarnation. Clean the manure from around the manger. Wipe the sweat out of his eyes. Pretend he never snored or blew his nose or hit his thumb with a hammer.

He’s easier to take that way. There’s something about keeping him divine that keeps him distant, packaged and predictable. But don’t do that this Christmas. Let him be as human as he intended to be. Let him into the muck and the mire of your world because he can’t pull us out until we let him in. Listen to him.

“Love your neighbor” – spoken by a man whose neighbors tried to kill him. The challenge to leave family for the gospel was issued by the very one who kissed his mother goodbye in the doorway. “Pray for those who persecute you,” came from the lips that would soon be begging God to forgive his murderers. “I am with you always” – the words of a God who in one instant did the impossible to make it all possible for you and me. It all happened in a moment. In one moment. A most remarkable moment. The Word became flesh.

And there will be another. The world will see another instantaneous transformation. You see, in becoming man, God made it possible for man to see God. When Jesus went home he left the back door open. As a result, “we will all be changed — in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.”

The first moment of transformation went unnoticed by the world. The second one won’t. So, the next time you use the phrase “just a moment,” remember that’s all the time it will take to change your world. Instead, take a moment this Christmas and change it now.

Merry Christmas,

Randy

Hunches

Hunches

Jesus went with him, and all the people followed, crowding around him. A woman in the crowd had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding. She had suffered a great deal from many doctors, and over the years she had spent everything she had to pay them, but she had gotten no better. In fact, she had gotten worse. She had heard about Jesus, so she came up behind him through the crowd and touched his robe. For she thought to herself, “If I can just touch his robe, I will be healed.” Immediately the bleeding stopped, and she could feel in her body that she had been healed of her terrible condition. . . . Then the frightened woman, trembling at the realization of what had happened to her, came and fell to her knees in front of him and told him what she had done. And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. Your suffering is over.” (Mark 5:24-29; 33-34)

A clock for Christmas is really not the kind of gift that thrills an eight-year-old boy, but I said thank you and took it to my bedroom anyway. I put it on the nightstand and plugged it in. It was one of those rectangular-faced G.E. types. It didn't have moving numbers – it had rotating hands, instead. It didn't play music either, but over the years it did develop a slight, soothing hum that you could hear when the room was quiet.

Today, of course, you can buy clocks that sound like rain when it's time to sleep, or like your mother when it's time to wake up. But no, not this one. The alarm would’ve made the dogs howl. And forget a snooze button – you just picked it up and chucked it across the room. It probably wouldn't net 50¢ at a garage sale in today’s age of digital clocks and musical alarms. But still, over time, I kind of grew attached to it. Granted, people don't usually get sentimental about cheap, electric clocks, but for some strange reason I did about this one. Not because of its accuracy, because it ran a little slow. Not even the hum, which I didn't particularly mind. I liked it because of the light.

You see, this clock’s hands glowed in the dark. All day, every day it soaked up the light; it sponged up the sun. The hands were little sticks of ticks-and-time and sunshine. And when the night came, the clock was ready. When you flicked off the light to sleep, the little clock flicked on its light and shined. Not much light, mind you. But when your world is dark, just a little light seems like a lot. Kind of like the light a woman got when she met Jesus.

We don't know her name, but we know about her situation. Her world was midnight black – grope-in-the-dark-and-hope-for-help black. Read the following two verses and you’ll see what I mean: “A woman in the crowd had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding. She had suffered a great deal from many doctors, and over the years she had spent everything she had to pay them, but she had gotten no better. In fact, she had gotten worse.” (Mark 5:24-26)

Can you imagine? "Bleeding for twelve years;" "suffered very much;" "spent all the money she had," and "getting worse." A chronic, perpetual menstrual disorder. That kind of condition would be horrible for any woman of any era. But for a Jewess? Well, nothing could be worse, because no part of her life was left unaffected. Sexually, she couldn’t touch her husband. Maternally, she couldn’t bear children. Domestically, anything she touched was considered unclean – no washing dishes; no sweeping floors. And spiritually, she couldn’t even go to church.

She was physically exhausted and socially ostracized. Granted, she had sought help "under the care of many doctors." But the only thing those doctors had managed to do was to leave her worse-off and her wallet lighter. Maybe she even went outside conventional medicine. For instance, the Talmud gives no fewer than eleven cures for her condition, and she had probably tried them all. Some were probably legitimate treatments. Others, such as carrying the ashes of an ostrich egg in a linen cloth, were just empty superstitions.

She "had spent all she had." To dump financial strain on top of physical strain is adding insult to injury. A client battling cancer once told me that the pressure of creditors hounding him for payment in connection with his ongoing medical care was just as devastating as the pain that came with the disease itself. Making matters worse for this particular woman, "instead of getting better she grew worse." In other words, she may have been hounded by creditors for medical treatments that proved completely worthless. She woke up every day in a body that no one wanted. And by the time we get to her story, she’s down to her last prayer. And on the particular day that we encounter her, she's about to pray it.

However, by the time she gets to Jesus, he’s surrounded by people. He's on his way to help the daughter of Jairus, the most important man in her community. So, what are the odds that he will interrupt an urgent mission with a high-ranking official to help the likes of her? Pretty long. But what are the odds that she’ll survive if she doesn't take a chance? Longer still. So she takes a chance: "If I can just touch his clothes," she thinks, "I will be healed." (v. 28)

Risky decision. To touch him, she would have to touch the other people that were surrounding him. And if one of them were to recognize her? It’d be “hello rebuke,” and “good-bye cure.” But what choice did she have? At this point she has no money, no clout, no friends and no solutions. All she has is a crazy hunch that Jesus can help, and a hope that he will.

And truth be told, maybe that's all you have, too: just a crazy hunch and a high hope. You have nothing to give. But you’re hurting. And all you have to offer Jesus is your hurt. Maybe that’s kept you from coming to God. Oh, you've taken a step or two in his direction. But then you saw the other people around him. They seemed so clean, so neat, so trim and fit in their faith. And when you saw them, they blocked your view of God. So you stepped back.

If that describes you, then take heart because note carefully that only one person was commended that day for having faith and it wasn't a wealthy giver. It wasn't a loyal follower, or even an acclaimed teacher. It was a shame-struck, penniless outcast who clutched onto her hunch that he could help, and her hope that he would. That, by the way, isn’t a bad definition of faith: a conviction that he can, and a hope that he will. Sounds similar to the definition of faith given by the Bible: "Without faith no one can please God. Anyone who comes to God must believe that he is real and that he rewards those who truly want to find him." (Heb. 11:6)

That’s not too complicated, is it? Faith is the belief that God is real and that God is good. Faith is not some mystical, out-of-body experience, or a midnight vision, or a voice in the forest. It’s a choice to believe that the one who made it all hasn't left it all, and that he still sends light into the shadows and responds to even the simplest gestures of faith. There was no guarantee, of course. She hoped Jesus would respond . . . she longed for it . . . but she didn't know if he would. All she knew was that he was there and that he was good. That's faith.

Faith is not the belief that God will do what you want. Faith is the belief that God will do what is right. "Blessed are the dirt-poor, nothing-to-give, trapped-in-a-corner, destitute, and diseased," Jesus said, "for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." (Matt. 5:6 – my translation) God's economy is upside down to our way of thinking because God says that the more hopeless your circumstance, the more likely your salvation. The greater your cares, the more genuine your prayers. The darker the room, the greater the need for light.

Which takes me back to my clock. When it was daylight, I never appreciated my little clock’s capacity to glow in the dark. But as the shadows grew, so did my gratitude. Similarly, a healthy woman would never have appreciated the power of a touch of the hem of his robe. But this woman was sick, and when her dilemma met his dedication, a miracle occurred. Note, too, that her part in the healing was pretty small – all she did was extend her arm through the crowd: "If only I can touch him," she thought.

But what's important to remember here is that it’s not the form or type of effort, but that the effort was made in the first place. The fact is, she did something. She refused to settle for sickness another day and resolved to make a move. Healing begins when we do something. Healing begins when we reach out. Healing starts when we take a step. God's help is near and always available, but it’s only given to those who seek it. Nothing results from apathy.

The great work in this story is the healing that occurred. But the great truth is that the healing began with her touch. And with that small, courageous gesture, she experienced Jesus' tender power. Compared to God's part, our part is minuscule but necessary. We don't have to do much, but we do have to do something like asking for forgiveness, confessing a sin, calling Mom, visiting a doctor, being baptized, feeding a hungry person, praying, teaching, going.

Do something that demonstrates faith, because faith with no effort is no faith at all. Have faith that God will respond. He has never rejected a genuine gesture of faith. Never. God honors radical, risk-taking faith. When arks are built, lives are saved. When soldiers march, Jericho’s tumble. When staffs are raised, seas still open. When a lunch is shared, thousands are fed. And when a garment is touched, whether by the hand of an anemic woman in Galilee, or by the prayers of a beggar in Bangladesh, Jesus stops. He stops and responds.

Mark tells you that because when this woman touched Christ, two things happened that happen nowhere else in the Bible. And Mark recorded them both. First, Jesus heals before he knows it. The power left automatically and instantaneously. It's as if the Father short-circuited the system and the divinity of Christ was a step ahead of the humanity of Christ. Her need summoned his help. No neon lights or loud shouts. No razzle-dazzle. No fanfare. No hoopla. No splash. Just help. Just like my dark room brought the light out of my clock, our dark world brings out the light of God.

Second, he calls her “daughter” – “Daughter, your faith has made you well." (v. 34) It's the only time Jesus calls any woman – anywhere – “daughter.” God’s daughter. Just imagine how that made her feel. Because who could remember the last time she’d received any term of affection, or knew the last time kind eyes had met hers? It’d probably been a decade or more

Leo Tolstoy, the great Russian writer, tells of the time he was walking down the street and passed a beggar. Tolstoy reached into his pocket to give the beggar some money, but his pocket was empty. Tolstoy turned to the man and said, "I'm sorry, my brother, but I have nothing to give." The beggar brightened and said, "You have given me more than I asked for – you have called me brother." You see, to the loved, a word of affection is just a morsel, but to the love-starved, a word of affection can be a feast. And Jesus gave this woman a banquet.

Tradition holds that she never forgot what Jesus did. Legend states that she stayed with Jesus and followed him as he carried his cross up Calvary. Some believe she was Veronica, the woman who, according to Catholic tradition, walked the road to the cross with him. And when the sweat and blood were stinging his eyes, she wiped his forehead. She, at an hour of great need, received his touch – and he, at his hour of pain, received hers. We don't know if the legend or traditions are true, but we know they could be. And I don't know if the same has happened to you, but I know it can.

Grace,

Randy

Bitterness

Bitterness

The older son was in the field, and as he came closer to the house, he heard the sound of music and dancing. So he called to one of the servants and asked what all this meant. The servant said, "Your brother has come back, and your father killed the fat calf, because your brother came home safely." The older son was angry and would not go in to the feast. (Luke 15:25-28)

Ah, the case of the older son. It’s a difficult one because he looked so good. He kept his room straight and his nose clean. He played by the rules and paid all his dues. His resume? Impeccable. His credit? Squeaky clean. And loyalty? Well, while his brother was out sowing his wild oats, he stayed home and sowed the family’s crops. On the outside he was everything a father could want in a son. But on the inside? Well … he was kind of sour and hollow. Overcome by jealousy. Consumed by anger. Blinded by bitterness.

You remember the story, don’t you? It's perhaps the best known of Jesus’ parables. It's actually the third of three stories in Luke 15; three stories about three parties. The first began after a shepherd found a sheep he'd lost. He had ninety-nine others. He could have been content to write this one off as a loss. But shepherds don't think like businessmen. So he searched for it. And when he found the sheep, he carried it back to the flock, cut the best grass for the sheep to eat, and had a party to celebrate. The second party was held on the front porch of a modest house. A housewife had lost a coin. It wasn't her only coin mind you, but you would have thought it was by the way she acted. She moved the furniture, got out the dust mop, and swept the whole house until she found it. And when she did, she ran shouting into the cul-de-sac and invited her neighbors over for a party to celebrate.

Then there’s the story of the lost son. The boy who broke his father's heart by taking his inheritance and taking off. He trades his dignity for a whisky bottle, and his self-respect for a pigpen. Then comes the son's sorrow and his decision to go home. He hopes his dad will give him a job on the farm and an apartment over the garage. What he finds is a father who has kept his place set at the table and the porch light on every night. The father is so excited to see his son, he throws a party. And we party-loving prodigals love what that dad did, but it infuriated the older brother. "The older son was angry." (v. 28) And it's not hard to see why.

"So this is how a guy gets recognition in this family: get drunk, go broke, get busy with prostitutes and you get a party. Really?" So he sat outside the house and pouted. I’ve done that. In fact, one time, I pouted at a party. A Christmas party. I was in the third grade, and third graders take parties very seriously, especially when gifts are involved.

So, the class had drawn names. But since you didn't know who had your name, you had to drop hints very loudly. Well, I didn't miss a chance. I wanted a "Sixth Finger" – a toy pistol that fit in the palm of your hand and looked like an extra finger. (No, I’m not making this up)

        

          Well, finally the day came to open the gifts. I just knew I was going to get my pistol. Everyone in the class had heard my hints – I’d made sure of that. So, I tore into the wrapping and ripped open the box and there it was . . . stationery. Stationery? Yes, western-style stationery. Paper and envelopes with horses in the corners. Probably left over from the Christmas before.

Now, everyone knows that eight-year-old boys don't write letters. I mean, what was my gift-giver thinking? No doubt some mom had forgotten all about the gift exchange until that morning. So, she desperately went to the closet, looked through the box labeled, “Re-gifts,” and came out with the stationery. I was distraught. I was upset. Who wouldn’t be? So, I missed the party. Oh, I was present, but I pouted.

      

          So did the older brother in our story. He, too, felt he was a victim of inequity. When his father came out to meet him, the son started at the top, listing the atrocities of his life. To hear him talk about it, his woes apparently began the day he was born. "I have served you like a slave for many years and have always obeyed your commands. But you never gave me even a young goat to have at a feast with my friends. But your other son, who wasted all your money on prostitutes, comes home, and you kill the fat calf for him!" (vv. 29-30). Maybe both sons spent time in the pigpen. One in the pen of rebellion – the other in the pen of self-pity. The younger one had come home. The older one – apparently – hadn’t. He's still in the slop. He’s saying the same thing you said when the kid down the street got a bicycle and you didn't: It's not fair.

        

        That's what Wanda Holloway said. When it looked like her fourteen-year-old daughter wouldn't get chosen for the cheerleading squad, Wanda got angry. So, she decided to get even. She hired a hit man to kill the mother of her daughter's chief competitor, hoping to so upset the girl that Wanda's daughter would make the squad. Bitterness will do that to you. It'll cause you to burn your house down to kill a rat. Fortunately, her plan failed and Wanda Holloway was caught. She was sentenced to fifteen years. She didn't have to be put behind bars to be imprisoned, however. Bitterness is its own prison. Black and cold, bitterness denies easy escape. The sides are slippery with resentment. A floor of muddy anger mucks at the feet. The stench of betrayal fills the air and stings the eyes. A cloud of self-pity blocks the view of the tiny exit above.

Just step inside and look at the prisoners. Victims are chained to the walls. Victims of betrayal. Victims of abuse. Victims of the government, the system, the military, the world. They lift their chains as they lift their voices and wail – loud and long. They grumble. They're angry at others who got what they didn't. They sulk. The world is against them. They accuse. The pictures of their enemies are darted to the wall. They boast. "I followed the rules. I played fairly . . . in fact, better than anybody else." They whine. "Nobody listens to me. Nobody remembers me. Nobody cares about me." Angry. Sullen. Accusatory. Arrogant. Whiny. Put them all together in one word and spell it b-i-t-t-e-r.

The dungeon, deep and dark, is beckoning you to enter, too. You can, you know. You've experienced enough hurt, haven’t you? You've been betrayed enough times. You have a history of rejections, don't you? Haven't you been left out, left behind, or left out in the cold? You’re a candidate for the dungeon. And you can choose, like many, to chain yourself to your hurt. Or you can choose, like some, to put away your hurts before they become hates. You can choose to go to the party. You have a place there. Your name is on the placard beside your plate. If you’re a child of God, no one can take away your place as your Father’s child.

Which is precisely what the father said to the older son: "Son, you are always with me, and all that I have is yours." (v. 31) Interestingly, that is precisely what the Father says to you. How does God deal with your bitter heart? He reminds you that what you have is more important than what you don't. You still have your relationship with God. No one can take that. No one can touch it.

Your health can be taken and your money stolen. But your place at God's table is permanent. The brother was bitter because he focused on what he didn't have and forgot what he did have. His father reminded him – and us – that he had everything he'd always had. He had his job. His place. His name. His inheritance. The only thing he didn't have was the spotlight. And because he wasn't content to share it, he missed the party.

      

         It takes courage to set aside jealousy and rejoice with the achievements of a rival. Take Abraham Lincoln for an example. Standing before ten thousand eyes, he’s obviously uncomfortable. His discomfort comes not from the thought of delivering his first inaugural address, but from the very ambitious efforts of well-meaning tailors. He's unaccustomed to such attire – formal black dress coat, silk vest, black pants and a glossy top hat. He holds a huge ebony cane with a golden head the size of an egg.

So, there he is. He approaches the platform with his hat in one hand and his cane in the other, and he doesn't really know what to do with either one. In the nervous silence that comes after the applause and just before the speech, he searches for a spot to put them both.

He finally leans the cane in a corner of the railing, but he still doesn't know what to do with the hat. He could lay it on the podium, but it would take up too much room. Perhaps the floor . . . no, too dirty. Just then, and not a moment too soon, a man stepped forward and took his hat, returned to his seat, and listened intently to Lincoln's speech.

      

          Come to find out, that man was Lincoln's dearest friend. The president once said of him, "He and I are about the best friends in the world." He was one of the strongest supporters during the early stages of Lincoln's presidency. He even had the honor of escorting Mrs. Lincoln at the inaugural grand ball. And as the storm of the Civil War began to boil, many of Lincoln's friends left. But not this one. He amplified his loyalty by touring the South as Lincoln's peace ambassador: he begged Southerners not to secede and Northerners to rally behind the president.

            

           His efforts were great, but the wave of anger was greater. The country did divide, and civil war bloodied the nation. Lincoln's friend never lived to see it. He died three months after Lincoln's inauguration. Wearied by his travels, he succumbed to a fever and Lincoln was left to face the war alone. Upon hearing the news of his friend's death, Lincoln wept openly and ordered the White House flag to be flown at half-staff. Some have even suggested that Lincoln's friend would have been chosen as his running mate in 1864 and would thus have become president following the assassination of the Great Emancipator. No one will ever know for sure.

But we do know that Lincoln had one true friend. And we can only imagine the number of times the memory of him brought warmth to a cold Oval Office. He was a model of friendship. But he was also a model of forgiveness, because this friend could just as easily have been an enemy. That’s because long before he and Lincoln were allies, they were competitors – politicians pursuing the same office. Unfortunately, their debates are better known than their friendship: the debates between Abraham Lincoln and his dear friend, Stephen A. Douglas. But on Lincoln's finest day, Douglas set aside their differences and held the hat of the president.

Unlike the older brother, Douglas heard a higher call. And unlike the older brother, he was present at the party. And we would be wise to do the same. Wise to rise above our hurts. Because if we do, we'll be present at the Father's final celebration. A party to end all parties. A party where no pouters will be permitted.

So, come on; join the party. Be better – not bitter.

Grace,

Randy