Grateful

Grateful

During this time, before the first of the famine years, two sons were born to Joseph and his wife, Asenath, the daughter of Potiphera, the priest of On. Joseph named his older son Manasseh, for he said, “God has made me forget all my troubles and everyone in my father’s family.” Joseph named his second son Ephraim, for he said, “God has made me fruitful in this land of my grief.” (Genesis 41:50-52)

Some things just don’t go together, like long-tailed cats and rocking chairs, or bulls in a china shop. And when you combine blessings and bitterness? Well, that mixture doesn't go over very well with God, either. Because when you combine heavenly kindness with earthly ingratitude, you can expect a curdled mess, kind of like adding lemon and milk to your hot tea. Maybe you've sampled it.

Granted, gratitude doesn't come naturally. Self-pity does, instead, along with bellyaches, grumbling, mumbling and complaining. No one has to remind us to offer that kind of stuff. But they don't mix well with the kindness we’ve been given. A spoonful of gratitude is all we need, and Joseph took more than a spoonful, despite the fact that he had every reason to be ungrateful. He’d been abandoned, enslaved, betrayed and estranged. But try as we might to find tinges of bitterness in Joseph’s life, they’re just not there. What we do discover, however, are two dramatic gestures of gratitude: “During this time, before the first of the famine years, two sons were born to Joseph and his wife, Asenath, the daughter of Potiphera, the priest of On. Joseph named his older son Manasseh, for he said, ‘God has made me forget all my troubles and everyone in my father’s family.’ Joseph named his second son Ephraim, for he said, ‘God has made me fruitful in this land of my grief.’” (Gen. 41:50-52)

Child naming is no small responsibility. The name sticks for life. Wherever the child goes, whenever the child is introduced, the parents' decision will be remembered. For instance, what was former Texas Governor, Jim Hogg, thinking when he named his daughter Ima? But most parents go to great efforts to select the perfect name for their children. And Joseph did. These were the days of abundance. God had rewarded Joseph with a place in Pharaoh's court, and a wife for his own home. The time had come to start a family.

Picture it. The young couple is reclining on the couch when Joseph reaches over and pats Asenath's round belly and says, "Honey, I've been thinking about names for our baby." "Oh, Joey, how sweet. I have too. In fact, I bought a name-your-baby book at the grocery store." "Thanks honey, but you won't need it. I’ve already picked out the name." "Okay, what is it?" Asenath asks. "God Made Me Forget." Asenath looks at Joseph, just a little bewildered, and says, "If God made you forget, how can you name him?" "No, that’s the name, Baby; God Made Me Forget." At that point, she probably gave him that look that Egyptian wives always gave their Hebrew husbands and said, "God Made Me Forget? So, every time I call my son, I’m going to say, 'God Made Me Forget'?" She shook her head and tried it out: "'It's time for dinner, God Made Me Forget. Come in and wash your hands, God Made Me Forget.' I don't know, Joseph, but I was thinking something more along the lines of Tut or Ramses.”

"No, Asenath, my mind’s made up. Each time my son's name is spoken, God's name will be praised. God made me forget all the pain and hurt I experienced at the hands of my brothers, and I want everyone to know – I want God to know – that I’m grateful." Apparently, Mrs. Joseph eventually warmed to the idea because at the birth of son number two, she and Joseph called him God Made Me Fruitful. One name honored God's mercy; the other proclaimed his favor. Do you think God noticed Joseph's gesture? A New Testament story provides the answer to that question.

Many centuries later, "Jesus . . . reached the border between Galilee and Samaria. As he entered a village there, ten lepers stood at a distance, crying out, 'Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!'" (Luke 17:11-13) Maybe the men waited for Jesus as he turned a corner. Maybe they appeared from behind a grove of trees, or a bunch of rocks. We don't know how they came, but we know what they yelled: "Unclean!" Unfortunately, their warning was completely unnecessary because their appearance drove people away. Ulcerated skin, truncated limbs, lumpy faces. People avoided lepers. But Jesus pursued them. And when he heard their cry, he told them, "Go, and show yourselves to the priests." (v. 14)

The lepers understood the significance of those particular instructions. Only the priest could reverse the stigma. To their credit, then, the lepers obeyed. And to the credit of Jesus, they were healed. And as they walked, they dropped their crutches and discarded their hoods. Their spines began to straighten, skin began to clear, and smiles began to return. The mass of misery became a leaping, jumping, celebrating chorus of health as Jesus watched them dance their way over the horizon. And then he waited for their return. And he waited.

And he waited. The disciples stretched out on the ground. Others went to look for food. Jesus just stood there. He wanted to hear the reunion stories like, “What did your wife say? How did the kids respond? How does it feel to be healed?” Jesus waited for the ten men to return and say, “Thank you.” But only one of them came back. “One of them, when he saw that he was healed, came back to Jesus, shouting, ‘Praise God, I'm healed!’ He fell face down on the ground at Jesus' feet, thanking him for what he had done. This man was a Samaritan. Jesus asked, ‘Didn't I heal ten men? Where are the other nine? Does only this foreigner return to give glory to God?’" (vv. 15-18) Even Jesus seemed astonished.

You'd think that neither fire nor hail could have kept these former lepers from falling at Jesus' feet. So, where were the other nine? We can speculate. Some were probably too busy to be thankful. They’d planned to come back and say, “Thank you,” but first they needed to find family members, doctors, dogs, cats, and neighbors. They were just too busy. Some were maybe too cautious to be thankful. They guarded against joy, and kept their hopes down. They waited for the other shoe to drop. They waited to read the fine print. They waited to see what Jesus wanted in return. What's too good to be true usually is. They were cautious. Others were too self-centered to be thankful. The sick life was simpler. Now they had to get a job, play a role in society. And others were just too arrogant. They never were that sick. Given enough time, they would have recovered. Besides, to be grateful is to admit to being needy. Who wants to show weakness when you have an image to protect? Too busy, too cautious, too self-centered, and too arrogant.

Too close to home?

If this story is any indication, nine out of ten people suffer from ingratitude. That’s a disease of epidemic proportions. But why? Why the appreciation depreciation? Well, it’s kind of like a flight I was on from Portland to San Diego. I had raced to the gate in hopes of catching an earlier flight, but the airline had already loaded extra passengers on the plane. With all the charm I could muster, I asked the attendant, "Are any seats left?" She looked at her computer screen. "No," she replied, "I'm afraid . . . ," and I just knew how she was going to finish the sentence: "I'm afraid you'll have to catch your original flight," which was going to be significantly delayed – possibly into the next morning. But that’s not what she said. Instead, she looked up and smiled. "I'm afraid there are no more seats in coach. We’re going to have to bump you up to first class. Do you mind if we do that?" "Do I mind?" So I boarded the plane and nestled down in the wide seat with the extra legroom. Color me thankful.

But not every passenger was as appreciative. A fellow across the aisle from me was angry because he had only one pillow. With the attendants scrambling to lock the doors and prepare for departure, he was complaining about poor customer service. "I paid extra to fly first class. I’m accustomed to better attention. I want another pillow!" On the other side of the aisle, I was smiling like a guy who’d just won the lottery without buying a ticket. One passenger grumbled; the other was grateful. The difference? The cranky guy paid his way into first class. My seat was a gift.

Which side of the aisle are you on? If you feel like the world owes you something, brace yourself for a life of sour hours, because you'll never get reimbursed. The sky will never be blue enough; the steak won't be cooked enough; the universe won't be good enough to deserve a human being like you. You'll snap and snarl your way to an early grave. Unfortunately, pride keeps us from being grateful because we think that we don’t get as much as we deserve. The grateful heart, on the other hand, sees each day as a gift. Thankful people focus less on the pillows they lack, and more on the privileges they have.

Just like those lepers, Jesus has cured our leprosy. Sin cankered our souls and numbed our senses. Yet the Man on the path told us we were healed, and, lo and behold, we were. The grateful heart is like a magnet sweeping over the day, collecting reasons for gratitude. A zillion diamonds sparkle against the velvet of your sky every night. “Thank you, God.” A miracle of muscles enables your eyes to read these words and your brain to process them. “Thank you, God.” Your lungs inhale and exhale eleven thousand liters of air every day. Your heart will beat about three billion times in your lifetime. Your brain is a veritable electric generator of power. “Thank you, God.” From the jam on our toast to the milk on our cereal; from the blanket that calms us to the joke that delights us and the warm sun that reminds us of God's love. “Thank you, God.”

Gratitude gets us through the hard stuff. To reflect on your blessings is to rehearse God's accomplishments. To rehearse God's accomplishments is to discover his heart. To discover his heart is to discover not just good gifts but the Good Giver. Gratitude always leaves us looking at God, and away from dread. It does to anxiety what the morning sun does to a valley mist – it burns it up. Join the ranks of the 10 percent who give God a standing ovation. "Give thanks for everything to God the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ." (Eph. 5:20)

You don't have to name a child after God, but then again, you could. Or you could draft a letter listing his blessings, or write a song in his honor. You could sponsor an orphan, buy an appliance for a needy family, or adopt a child just because God adopted you. The surest path out of a slump is marked by the road sign that says, "Thank you." But what of the disastrous days? The nights we can't sleep and the hours we can't rest? Grateful then? Well, Jesus was. "On the night when he was betrayed, the Lord Jesus took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it." (1 Cor. 11:23-24)

Not often do you see the words “betrayed” and “thanks” in the same sentence, much less in the same heart. Jesus and the disciples were in the Upper Room. Judas, the traitor, sat in the corner. Impetuous Peter sat at the table. One would soon betray Jesus; the other would soon curse him. Jesus knew that, yet on the night he was betrayed, he gave thanks. In the middle of the darkest night of the human soul, Jesus found a way to give thanks. Anyone can thank God for the light, but Jesus teaches us to thank God for the night. He taught eight-year-old Daniel to do that.

Daniel was born with a double cleft palate, dramatically disfiguring his face. He had surgery, but the evidence of his disfigurement couldn’t be completely hidden. People constantly noticed the difference and occasionally made remarks. Daniel, however, was totally unfazed. He just tells people that God made him that way so what's the big deal? Because of his attitude, attendance and grades, he was named student of the week at school and was asked to bring something to show his classmates for show-and-tell. Daniel told his mom he wanted to take the pictures that showed his face prior to the surgery. His mom was a bit concerned. "Won't that make you feel a little funny?" she asked. But Daniel insisted. "Oh no, I want everybody to see what God did for me!"

So, try Daniel's defiant joy and see what happens. God has handed you a cup of blessings. Sweeten it with a heaping spoonful of gratitude. "Let me introduce you to my sons," Joseph would tell people. "Come here, God Made Me Forget and God Made Me Fruitful. Oh, what? Where did I get those names? Well, have a seat, and let me tell you what God did for me."

Gratitude can turn common days into thanksgivings, routine jobs into joy, and change ordinary opportunities into blessings.

Grace,

Randy

Calamities

Calamities

“This will happen just as I have described it, for God has revealed to Pharaoh in advance what he is about to do. The next seven years will be a period of great prosperity throughout the land of Egypt. But afterward there will be seven years of famine so great that all the prosperity will be forgotten in Egypt. Famine will destroy the land. This famine will be so severe that even the memory of the good years will be erased. As for having two similar dreams, it means that these events have been decreed by God, and he will soon make them happen.” (Genesis 41:28-32)

About 20 years ago, a German Shepherd/Wolf mix attacked my youngest son who was walking to school one day with a friend. The crazed animal, completely unprovoked, climbed out of his dog run and onto the sidewalk and nearly killed William. The dog left my son with dozens of cuts and gashes, all of which required stitches whose number are far too many to remember. The dog even came back for “seconds.” Fortunately, thanks to some courageous passersby, a second attack was averted. The cur’s name was Cujo, of all things, and this wasn’t his first victim. As you can imagine, William didn’t leave my sight the rest of the day, and neither did my un-Christian thoughts about Cujo. Amidst the trauma, however, I was able to reflect on the goodness of God, since the day’s events could have had a very different outcome. But if things had turned out differently, would God still have been good?

Is God good only when the outcome is? When the cancer is in remission, we say "God is good." When the pay raise comes, we say, "God is good." When the university admits us, like it did for my youngest daughter, or the final score favors our team, "God is good." But would, and do we say the same under different circumstances? In the cemetery as well as the nursery? In the unemployment line as well as the grocery line? In days of recession as much as in days of provision? Is God always good?

Many of us have this kind of quasi-contract with God – the fact that God hasn't signed it doesn't deter us from still believing it. “I pledge to be a good, decent person, and in return God will … save my child; protect my job; heal my friend; or ______ (Fill in the blank). Only fair, right? Yet, when God fails to meet our bottom-line expectations, we’re left spinning in a tornado of questions. Is he good at all? Is God angry with me? Is he stumped? Overworked? Is his power limited? His authority restricted? Did the devil outwit him? When life isn't good, what are we to think of God? Where is he in all of this?

Joseph's words for Pharaoh offer some help in this area. Granted, we don't generally think of Joseph as being much of a theologian – not like Job, the sufferer, or Paul, the apostle. For one thing, we don't have many of Joseph's words. Yet the few we have reveal a man who wrestled with the nature of God. To the king he announced: “But afterward there will be seven years of famine so great that all the prosperity will be forgotten in Egypt. Famine will destroy the land. This famine will be so severe that even the memory of the good years will be erased. As for having two similar dreams, it means that these events have been decreed by God, and he will soon make them happen.” (Gen. 41:30-32) Joseph saw both seasons, the one of plenty and the one of scarcity, beneath the umbrella of God's jurisdiction. Both were "decreed by God." But how could God do that?

Was the calamity God's idea? Of course not. God never creates or parlays evil. "God can never do wrong! It is impossible for the Almighty to do evil." (Job 34:10; see also James 1:17) He is the essence of good. So, how can God, who is good, invent anything bad? Furthermore, he’s sovereign. Scripture repeatedly attributes utter and absolute control to his hand. "The Most High God rules the kingdom of mankind and sets over it whom he will." (Dan. 5:21) So, in summary: God is good, and God is sovereign. Then how do you factor in the presence of calamities in God's world if he’s good and self-determining?

Here’s how the Bible explains it: God permits it. When the demons begged Jesus to send them into a herd of pigs, he "gave them permission." (Mark 5:12-13) Regarding the rebellious, God said, "I let them become defiled . . . that I might fill them with horror so they would know that I am the Lord." (Ezek. 20:26) The Old Law even speaks of the consequence of accidentally killing someone: "If [the man] does not do it intentionally, but God lets it happen, he is to flee to a place I will designate." (Ex. 21:13)

God, at times, permits calamities. He allows the ground to grow dry, and stalks to grow bare. He allows Satan to unleash mayhem, like that Allstate guy. But he doesn't allow Satan to triumph. Isn't that the promise of Romans 8:28? "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." The key is that God promises to render beauty out of "all things," not "each thing." Isolated events may be evil, but the ultimate culmination is good.

We see examples of this all the time. For instance, when you sip a Starbucks and say, "Now, that’s a good cup of coffee," what are you saying? That the bag that held the beans is good? That the beans are good? That hot water is good? That a coffee filter is good? No. “Good” happens when the ingredients work together: the bag is opened, the beans are ground into powder, and the water is heated to just the right temperature. It’s the collective cooperation of the elements that creates good.

Nothing in the Bible would cause us to call a famine good, or a heart attack good, or a terrorist attack good. These are terrible calamities, born out of a fallen earth. Yet every message in the Bible, especially the story of Joseph, compels us to believe that God will mix them with other ingredients and bring good out of them. But we have to let God define “good.” Our definition includes health, comfort and recognition. His definition? In the case of his Son, Jesus Christ, the good life consisted of struggles, storms, and death. But God worked it all together for the greatest of good: his glory and our salvation.

Joni Eareckson Tada has spent most of her life attempting to reconcile the presence of suffering with the nature of God. She was just a teenager when a diving accident left her paralyzed from the neck down. After more than forty years in a wheelchair, Joni has reached this conclusion: “[Initially] I figured that if Satan and God were involved in my accident at all, then it must be that the devil had twisted God's arm for permission . . . I reasoned that once God granted permission to Satan, he then nervously had to run behind him with a repair kit, patching up what Satan had ruined, mumbling to himself, "Oh great, now how am I going to work this for good?" . . . But the truth is that God is infinitely more powerful than Satan . . . While the devil's motive in my disability was to shipwreck my faith by throwing a wheelchair in my way, I'm convinced that God's motive was to thwart the devil and use the wheelchair to change me and make me more like Christ through it all . . . [He can] bring ultimate good out of the devil's wickedness.”

This was the message of Jesus. When his followers spotted a blind man on the side of the road, they asked Jesus for an explanation. Was God angry? Were his parents to blame? Who sinned here? But Jesus' answer provided a higher option: the man was blind so that "the works of God should be revealed in him." (John 9:3) God turned blindness, a bad thing, into a billboard for Jesus' power to heal. Satan acted, God counteracted, and good won. It's a divine jujitsu of sorts. God redirects the energy of evil against its source. God uses evil to ultimately bring evil to nothingness. He is the master chess player, always checkmating the devil's every move.

Our choice really comes down to this: trust God or turn away. The truth is that God will breach that “contract” of ours; he’ll shatter our expectations. And we’ll be left to make a decision. Because at some point we all stand at the intersection of the question, “Is God good when the outcome is not?” During the famine as well as the feast? The definitive answer to that question comes in the person of Jesus Christ.

Jesus is the only picture of God that we have in our photo album. And do you want to know heaven's clearest answer to the question of suffering? Just look at Jesus. He pressed his fingers into the sore of the leper. He felt the tears of the sinful woman who wept. He inclined his ear to the cry of the hungry. He wept at the death of a friend. He stopped his work to tend to the needs of a grieving mother. He doesn't recoil, run or retreat at the sight of pain, or life’s tragedies. Just the opposite, actually. He didn't walk the earth in an insulated bubble, or preach from an isolated, germ-free, pain-free island. He took his own medicine. Trivial irritations of family life? Jesus felt them. Cruel accusations of jealous men? Jesus knew their sting. A seemingly senseless death? Just look at the cross.

He exacts nothing from us that he did not experience himself. Why? Because he is good. God owes us no more explanation than that. Besides, if he gave us one, what makes us think we would actually understand it? Maybe the problem is not so much God's plan, but with our limited perspective.

Suppose the wife of George Frideric Handel came upon a page of her husband's famous work, “The Messiah.” The entire symphony was more than two hundred pages long. But imagine that she discovered a single page lying on the kitchen table one morning. On it her husband had written only one measure in a melancholic, minor key; one that didn't work standing on its own. But suppose Mrs. Handel, armed with this fragment of dissonance, marched into his studio and said, "What are you thinking, George? This music doesn’t make any sense at all. You aren’t a very good composer." What would he think? Maybe something similar to what God thinks when we do the same.

We point to our minor key – our sick child, joblessness, or famine – and say, "This doesn’t make any sense, God. I thought you were supposed to be good?" Yet out of all his creation, how much have we actually seen? And of all his work, how much do we understand? Not very much.

Is it possible, then, that some explanation for suffering exists of which we know nothing about? What if God's answer to the question of suffering requires more gigabytes than our puny minds can comprehend? And isn’t it possible that the wonder of heaven will make the most difficult life a great bargain? That was Paul's conclusion when he wrote, "Our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all." (2 Cor. 4:17) And he saw heaven. (2 Cor. 12:2-4)

Suppose I invited you to experience the day of your dreams. Twenty-four hours on an island paradise with your favorite people, food and activities. There’s only one catch: you must experience a millisecond of discomfort. For reasons I choose not to explain, I tell you that you will need to begin the day with a millisecond of distress. Would you accept my offer? Probably. Because a split second is nothing compared to twenty-four hours, right? Similarly, we’re all in the middle of our milliseconds on God’s clock. So, compared to eternity, what’s seventy, eighty, even ninety years? It’s just a vapor. Just a finger snap compared to heaven. Your pain won't last forever, but you will. "Whatever we may have to go through now is less than nothing compared with the magnificent future God has in store for us." (Rom. 8:18) Less than nothing? What?

That’s the same puzzling question that Wilbur asked the lamb in Charlotte’s Web. “What do you mean less than nothing? I don't think there is any such thing as less than nothing. Nothing is absolutely the limit of nothingness. It's the lowest you can go. It's the end of the line. How can something be less than nothing? If there were something that was less than nothing, then nothing would not be nothing, it would be something - even though it's just a very little bit of something. But if nothing is nothing, then nothing has nothing that is less than it is.” The lamb’s response? “Oh, be quiet. Go play by yourself. I don’t play with pigs.” Wow, that’s pretty harsh.

None of us are exempt from suffering, loneliness, discouragement, or unjust criticism, because God is developing within us the character of Christ. And, in order to do this, he must take us through all of the circumstances in life through which he took Christ. Does this mean God causes tragedies? No. God is good, and he will not cause evil or do evil. But God can use the dark and stressful times of our life for good. He'll use them to teach us to trust him, to show us how to help others and to draw us closer to other believers.

Still think you’re alone? Some 2,000 years ago, Christians, just like you and me, felt the same way: “We were crushed and overwhelmed beyond our ability to endure, and we thought we would never live through it. In fact, we expected to die. But as a result, we stopped relying on ourselves and learned to rely only on God, who raises the dead.” (2 Cor. 4:8-9) We all go through difficult times. The difference for those who believe in Jesus is not the absence of shadows, but the presence of His Light.

What’s coming will make sense of what’s happening now. So, let God finish his work. Let the composer complete his symphony. The forecast is simple: Good days. Bad days. God is in all your days. He’s the Lord of the famine and the feast, and he uses both to accomplish his will.

Even in life’s calamities.

Grace,

Randy

Ballast

Ballast

Pharaoh sent for Joseph at once, and he was quickly brought from the prison. After he shaved and changed his clothes, he went in and stood before Pharaoh. Then Pharaoh said to Joseph, “I had a dream last night, and no one here can tell me what it means. But I have heard that when you hear about a dream you can interpret it.”

“It is beyond my power to do this,” Joseph replied. “But God can tell you what it means and set you at ease.” (Genesis 41:14-16)

Don't hold me to all the details of this particular memory, because I can't recall the name of the birthday boy, or the games we played, or the names of the other guests. I’m not even sure how old I was, but judging from the surroundings I was probably seven or eight years old. But I do remember that bounce-back clown. He was pear-shaped – narrower at the top than the bottom, inflated and looked a lot like Bozo. He was almost as tall as I was, and all his facial features were painted on. His ears didn't protrude. His nose didn't stick out. Even his arms lay flat – if he had arms; I don’t recall. He didn't make music, or recite some phrase when you pulled a string. He didn't do anything except that he always bounced back. If you knocked him down, he’d pop right back up. Clobber him with a bat, punch him in the nose, even give him a swift kick to the ribs and he’d fall down – but not for very long.

Trust me, we did our best to level that clown. One punch after the other, each more vicious than the one before. None of us succeeded. Bozo had more comeback than the '69 Mets. He wasn't strong – he was full of hot air. He couldn't duck or defend himself. He didn't charm us with his good looks, or silence attackers with his quick wit. C’mon, he was a clown. Red lips and yellow hair. Yet there was something about him, or within him, that kept him on his feet. We'd do well to learn his secret.

Life comes at us with a flurry of flying fists – the right-hook of rejection, or the left jab of loss. Enemies sucker-punch below the belt. Calamities stagger us to our corner. It's a slugfest out there, and some people, once knocked down, never get up. They stay on the mat – beaten, bitter and broken. They’re down for the count. Others, however, bounce back like Bozo. Joseph did. The guy was a walking piñata: the angry double cross of brothers that sold him into slavery, the below-the-belt deceit by Potiphar's wife that landed him in prison, and the uppercut of the butler's broken promise that kept him there. Joseph staggered, but recovered. He reminds me of the movie, Rocky. By God's strength, however, Joseph pulled himself to his feet and stood, stronger than ever; in Pharaoh's court, no less.

Pharaoh was the unrivaled ruler of the land. He was his own cabinet and congress. He spoke the word, and it was done. He issued a command, and it was law. He entered a room, and he was worshiped. But on this particular day, Pharaoh didn't feel very worship-worthy. Imagine the prototypical Pharaoh: bare chested and rock jawed, a little saggy in the pecs, but solid for a middle-aged monarch. He wears a cloth on his shoulders, and on his head is a leather cone encircled by a rearing cobra. His beard is false, and his eye makeup is almond shaped. He holds a staff in one hand but rests his chin in the other. Slaves fan the air about him. A bowl of figs and nuts sits within arm's reach on a table. But he isn't hungry. He just frowns. His attendants speak in anxious, subdued voices because when Pharaoh isn't happy, no one’s happy. Crazy dreams had kept him up half the night.

In dream number one, cows were grazing on the riverbank. Seven were fine and fat, just like the ones you see on a Chick-fil-A commercial. But while the healthy bovines weren't looking, seven skinny cows snuck up from behind and devoured them. Pharaoh sat up in bed and broke out into a cold sweat. But after a few minutes, he dismissed the dream as indigestion and fell back asleep. But dream number two was just as bothersome. A stalk of grain with seven healthy heads was consumed by a stalk of grain with seven withered heads. Two dreams with the same pattern: the seven bad devoured the seven good. Pharaoh woke up and was freaking out. He assembled his counselors and demanded an interpretation. Cows consuming cows, stalks gobbling stalks. What did these dreams mean? His advisors had no response; they didn’t have a clue. It was then that the butler remembered Joseph from their days together in prison. So, the butler told Pharaoh about the Hebrew’s skills at dream interpretation.

The king snapped his fingers, and a flourish of activity erupted. Joseph was cleaned up and called in. In a moment of high drama, Jacob's favored son was being escorted into Pharaoh's throne room. What a picture. Pharaoh, the king; Joseph, the ex-shepherd. Pharaoh, urban; Joseph, rural. Pharaoh from the palace; Joseph from the prison. Pharaoh wore gold chains; Joseph wore bruises. Pharaoh had his armies and pyramids; Joseph had a borrowed robe and a foreign accent. The prisoner, however, was unfazed. He heard the dreams and went straight to work. No need to consult seers, or tea leaves, or chicken bones. This was pretty simple stuff, really. Kind of like basic multiplication for a Harvard math professor. "Expect seven years of plenty and seven years of famine." No one, including Pharaoh, knew how to respond because famine was a foul word in the Egyptian dictionary.

The nation didn't manufacture Fords or export T-shirts. Their civilization was built on farming. Crops made Egypt the jewel of the Nile, and agriculture made Pharaoh the most powerful man in the world. A month-long drought would hurt the economy. A year-long famine would weaken the throne of Pharaoh, who owned the fields around the Nile. But a seven-year famine would turn the Nile into a creek and the crops into sticks. A famine to Pharaoh was the equivalent of electric cars to an Arab sheik. The silence in the throne room was so thick you could hear a cough drop. So, Joseph took advantage of the pause in conversation to offer a solution: "Create a department of agriculture, and commission a smart guy to gather grain in the good years and to distribute it during the lean years."

Officials gulped at Joseph's chutzpah. It was one thing to give bad news to Pharaoh, but an entirely different matter altogether to offer unsolicited advice. Yet the guy hadn't shown a hint of fear since he’d entered the palace. He paid no homage to the king. He didn't offer accolades to the magicians. He didn't kiss rings, or polish apples. Lesser men would have cowered, but Joseph didn't blink. And the most powerful person in the room, Pharaoh (ruler of the Nile, deity of the heavens, Grand Pooh-Bah of the pyramid people), was in dire need of a stiff scotch. The lowest person in the pecking order, Joseph (ex-slave, convict, accused sex offender), was cooler than the other side of a pillow. So, what made the difference? Ballast.

Bozo had it. That clown at the birthday party, I came to learn later, was braced by a lead weight – a three-pound plate, hidden at his base, which worked as a counterbalance against the punches. Joseph, as it turns out, had a similar ballast. Not a piece of iron but a deep-seated, stabilizing belief in God's sovereignty.

We sense it in his first sentence: "It is beyond my power to do this, . . . But God can tell you what it means . . . ." (Gen. 41:16) The second time Joseph spoke, he explained, "God has revealed to Pharaoh in advance what he is about to do." (v. 28) Joseph then proceeded to interpret the dreams and explain to Pharaoh that the dreams were "events decreed by God, and he will soon make them happen." (v. 32) Five times in three verses Joseph made reference to God. Sound familiar? It should.

When Potiphar's wife attempted to seduce him, Joseph refused, saying, "How could I do such a wicked thing? It would be a great sin against God." (Gen. 39:9) When fellow prisoners asked for an interpretation of their dreams, Joseph said, "Interpreting dreams is God’s business." (40:8) He rested the gravity of his ballast on the foundation of his immovable God. He lived with the awareness that God was active, able, and up to something significant. And Joseph was right because at that, Pharaoh commanded a stunning turnaround: "Can we find anyone else like this man so obviously filled with the spirit of God?” (41:38) He turned the kingdom over to Joseph. And by the end of the day, the boy from Canaan was riding in a royal chariot, second only to Pharaoh in authority. What a rebound.

In the chaos called "Joseph's life," there’s at least one broken promise, two betrayals, several bursts of hatred, two abductions, more than one attempted seduction, ten jealous brothers, and a textbook case of poor parenting. Then there’s abuse, unjust imprisonment, and 24 months of jail food. Mix it all together, let it simmer for thirteen years, and what do you get? The grandest bounce back in the Bible. Jacob's forgotten boy became the second most powerful man in the world's most powerful country. The path to the palace wasn't quick, and it wasn't painless, but wouldn't you say that God took Joseph’s mess and made it into something good? If so, then can’t he do the same with yours?

Tally up the pain of your past. Betrayals plus anger plus tragedies. Poorly parented? Wrongly accused? Inappropriately touched? Life can be cruel. But consider this: Is the God of Joseph still in control? Can he do for you what he did for Joseph? Might the evil intended to harm you actually help you become the person God created you to be? Yes, he is; yes, he can; and yes, it will. Someday – perhaps in this life, and certainly in the next – you will tally up the crud of your life and write this sum: it’s all good. Captain Sam Brown did.

Two years out of West Point, he was on his first tour of duty in Kandahar, Afghanistan, when an improvised explosive device (“IED”) turned his Humvee into a Molotov cocktail. He doesn't remember how he got out of the truck. He does remember rolling in the sand, slapping dirt on his burning face, running in circles, and finally dropping to his knees. He lifted flaming arms to the air and cried, "Jesus, save me!" In Sam's case, the words were more than just a desperate scream. He is a devoted Christian, and was calling on his Savior to take him home because he assumed he would die. But death didn’t come. His gunnery mate did, instead.

With bullets flying all around them, Sam’s teammate helped them reach cover. Crouching behind a wall, Sam realized that bits of his clothing were fusing to his skin. He ordered the private to rip his gloves off the burning flesh. The soldier hesitated, then pulled. With the gloves came Sam’s index finger. Brown winced at what was the first of thousands of moments of pain. When vehicles from another platoon reached them, they loaded the wounded soldier into a truck.

Before Sam passed out in the medivac, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. He didn't recognize himself. That was September 2008. Three years later, he’d undergone 15 painful surgeries. Although 30% of his body had actually been burned, 85% of his body had been affected because the doctors used skin from areas that hadn’t been burned. The pain chart didn't have a number high enough to register the agony he felt. But in the midst of his personal horror, beauty walked into the room.

Dietitian, Amy Larsen. Since Sam's mouth had been reduced to the size of a quarter, Amy monitored his nutrition intake. He remembers the first time he saw her. Dark hair, brown eyes. Nervous. Cute. Perhaps more importantly was the fact that she didn't flinch at the sight of him. After several weeks he gathered up the courage to ask her out. They went to a rodeo. The following weekend they went to a friend's wedding. During the three-hour drive, Amy told Sam how she had noticed him months earlier when he was in ICU, covered with bandages, sedated with morphine, and attached to a breathing machine. When he regained consciousness, she stepped into his room to meet him. But there was a circle of family and doctors, so she turned and left. Nonetheless, the two continued to see each other.

Early in their relationship Sam brought up the name of Jesus. Amy wasn’t a believer at the time. Sam's story, however, stirred her heart for God. Sam talked to her about God's mercy and led Amy to Christ. Soon thereafter they were married. They’re now the parents of two toddlers, Roman and Esther, and Sam directs a program to aid wounded soldiers. He even took a stab at politics, losing in the 2014 Republican primary for Texas House District 102. Amy is now a retired Captain, and a very happy mother to two really cute kids.

No one can minimize the horror of a man on fire in the Afghan desert. And who can imagine the torture of repeated surgeries and rehab? Yet, Sam and Amy have come to believe this: God's math works differently than ours. “War + near death + agonizing rehab = wonderful family and hope for a bright future.” In God's hand, intended evil is eventual good.

Who knows? Your rebound may even happen today. On the morning of his promotion, Joseph had no reason to think that that day would be any different from the 729 days before it. I doubt that he got up that morning and prayed, “God, please promote me to prime minister of Egypt before sunset.” But God exceeded Joseph’s wildest prayer. Joseph began his journey in a prison, and ended it in the palace.

So, where’s your ballast? If it’s resting on the God of Joseph, you can bounce back, too.

Grace,

Randy