Pea shoots just up in Jonathan's garden.
They're a reminder that in God's economy, new life springs from death.
In practical ways, we often forget . . .
Much as I hate being sick, I have to admit that it has its benefits.
Often we don’t pause in the race of life until we’re sidelined by the flu. When else do we lie on our backs long enough to study the texture on our bedroom ceilings? Sickness focuses more important parts of life, too. It gives us time to stop and think.
Sickness possesses the amazing power to simplify. Our needs are consolidated and prioritized. “Where’s the Kleenex box and how far is it to the bathroom?” Life’s basics stand out from the non-essentials that crowd ordinary life.
This week I was forcibly reminded of one more advantage to sickness—a benefit that brings me face-to-face with the real idea of Easter.
Sickness drives home the reality that I can’t meet my own needs.
They say confession is good for the soul, so . . .
I must confess that I’ve been a bit troubled by Philippians 4:19:
“And my God will supply every need of yours according to His riches in glory in Christ Jesus.”
I’ve often quoted this verse and stood my ground on its promise. It’s better than money in the bank; the conduit of heaven runs straight to my account.
The supply is unending—it’s according to God’s riches in glory by Jesus. Stop and think for a moment how rich that is . . .
The currency is incorruptible—heaven’s treasures can’t be destroyed by moth or rust, and they can’t be stolen either.
What’s troubling about that?
“You didn’t close the door!” hollered an incensed voice from the boy’s bedroom last night.
When you’re changing into your pajamas you can understand why an open door might cause commotion. It’s been a long-standing sore spot in our home when those who are dressed walk out and fling a bedroom door open, revealing to the world (or at least whoever is standing in the hall) anyone still unclothed. Plenty of tears and spats have erupted from that single discourtesy.
We like closed doors—when we are on the inside. Behind the door, privacy reigns and quietness is king. We create our own atmosphere and breathe our own ideas without interruption.
And we can change our clothes in peace.
The effect is opposite when we are outside a closed door. Last week a child angrily informed me that he was locked out of the house by a sibling. The door that meant security and privacy from the inside, now spelled exclusion and discomfort. That closed door was a weapon, a movable wall, and through the window a small child could laugh in triumph at the fuming face on the other side.
Since work is slow, my friend and fellow artisan, Paul, invited me to do a job for one of his clients. He created the pattern and brought me the glass. I just had to cut the stencils and sandblast the design.
Diving into the project, I found out just how much there was to know about the simple line drawing he left for me. Lines my eye didn’t even notice became very important to the overall design and I found myself comparing my work-in-process to his original time after time.
As I aimed my sandblaster, slowly eroding the glass to create Paul’s pattern, I thought about the process of interpretation. Not just in the medium of sand and glass, but in life.