Everything good dreams are made of.

TapTapTapTapTap.

Each poke of her little index finger on my shoulder hit the elevator button on my slumber, bringing me up from a sub-terrainian Stage 5 sleep to the lobby of reality.

Ding.

“Huh? Hey, Emma…what is it, baby?”

“I have a headache and my stomach hurts.”

So much for the happy place. I’d love to close my eyes and go back. But on this day I’ve been tapped out of my dreams.

Dreams. We are fascinated by them. So much so that they are part of our speech. “You’re dreaming”, we say to someone we think to be living in La-La Land or are hoping for something impossibly out of reach. To which they may reply, “Oh well, I can dream can’t I?”, expressing that hope really does spring eternal.

“Dream with me!” says the team leader at work when he wants to inspire thinking outside the box, or cubicle, as it were. And when the cumulative results are presented to the boss, she may say, “This is what happens when we dream big!” Or she might say, “Nice try. But it’s a pipe dream…” a poetic way of saying you’d come up with better ideas after an all-nighter in an opium den.

Guys hope for their “dream girl”. Girls hope for their “dream guy”. And in the dreaming neither stop to consider that even if and when they find them they will be creatures who squeeze the toothpaste in the middle and leave wet towels on the floor.

People speak of their “dream job” and their “dream vacation” knowing that if they can ever figure a way to combine the two they’d be “living the dream”, a phrase that suggests there’s no point in sleeping because what you see with your eyes open beats anything you’ll see with them shut.

Dreaming is the hope for something better. Something grander. Something that takes us beyond ourselves. Out of the mundane mud into the golden glory. Wherever we find ourselves, we long to live and exist on a higher plane. A tall order in this broken world, but we still try because inherent in each of us is a desire to be more than we are. We all want to live the dream.

It’s the broken world part that gets in the way.

Some 55 days ago my friend Greg was living the dream. Beautiful wife, three precocious children, and a job he enjoys. Because of a senseless, thoughtless driver, Greg’s dream was shattered when his wife Leigh Ann was killed.

My high school friend Crysti watched her Mom pass away last week after a long battle with cancer. She already lost her sister to that disease.

A few days ago one of my Facebook friends sadly posted, “Baby Jackson lost his fight to survive today. At 6:52pm today, Jackson Thomas Watt took his last breath on earth & his first breath in Heaven…he’s with his Maker now…we love you little man…”

When it comes to dreams, Greg and Crysti and Jackson’s parents are all tapped out.

Maybe you are, too.

Psalm 121:4 tells us that God never sleeps. Nor does He slumber. And in that verse the Psalmist describes God as “Israel’s protector”. There’s a degree of security in having a body guard. But even they need sleep. Imagine a protector who never tires and never needs a nap? Better, imagine that same Protector as the One protecting you?

In this broken world, some of our dreams will turn to nightmares. They are awful and terrifying. Yet even in these, God is our protector who never sleeps. When our dreams are broken, when our dreams seem impossibly far away, God is wide awake; always paying undivided attention to the details of our lives. We may toss and turn, yet God is here for us with the divine calm that comes from having everything under control.

I did manage to go back to sleep. That happy place was just around the corner. I could feel it.

TapTapTapTapTap.

Ding.

“Daddy…I had a bad dream.”

“No worries, Annie. It’s all good. God’s right here.”

“I will lie down and sleep peacefully, for you, Lord, make me safe and secure.” – Psalm 4:8

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“Daddy, look! There’s Hazel!” Annie and Emma take off running to give her a hi and a hug.

At the other end of the long hall, sitting in her wheelchair, is Hazel. She came here a couple months ago after suffering a stroke. A Southern belle originally from Baton Rouge, her soft Louisiana voice is charm school sweet and dipped in Mint Julep.

During our first conversation the topic of her age came up. Her daughter told me she was 93.

“Hazel,” I said, “I’m gonna take you to the fair and make a lot of money having people guess your age because there’s no way you’re 93.”

“Why, thank you.” Her smile seemed to agree that I’d make bank.

Hazel’s memory has been affected by the stroke. Almost like a sporadic dementia. Some days we visit without difficulty. On this day, her short-term memory has stepped out for a bit. She is slowly wringing her hands; anxious, fretful and nervous.

“I’m hoping they’ll come for me. If I sit here I think I’ll see them. I hope they find me.”

Her daughter Nita is running errands and will be back in an hour or two. Hazel has forgotten that. She squeezes her hands together and leans forward in the direction of the elevator, anxiously looking for the familiar face that will put her heart at ease.

Emma pats her shoulder. “It’s ok, Hazel. We’re right here.”

Perhaps a distraction will help. “Hazel, I’m sure Nita will be back soon. You can hang out with us while we put out the flowers. Why don’t you come along with us to the rooms. Emma can push your wheelchair.”

“I can push you, Hazel.” Emma grabs the handles and Annie puts a hand on her shoulder.

Hazel is lost in her worry. “I hope they come for me. Because I’m here. I hope they come for me.” She looks up at me with tears in her eyes. “I’m right here, you know.”

“I know, Hazel. And we’re right here with you.” And we are. But we’re not sure if today is a day that Hazel can know that.

We begin putting out the flowers. Hazel doesn’t want to move, afraid she might miss whomever she is hoping for to come around the corner.

We make our rounds, visiting with our elderly friends while replacing last week’s roses with fresh ones. By the time we get around to Hazel’s room, a nurse’s aide has helped her into bed. Her demeanor is changed. She seems relaxed. At peace. I wonder what happened to make it so.

She points to Annie and Emma with excitement. “They found me! I was waiting for someone to find me. And they found me!” Hazel is happy now.

Making certain she has my attention, she points to Annie and Emma. “These are my precious little girls. They are my fairy princesses. I see their angel faces in my dreams.”

I don’t doubt that she does.

As I turn to leave for the next room, Hazel reaches up and squeezes my hand. Hard. With a relieved smile she says, “I’m so happy to be found.”

Sometimes we wander through our days oblivious that we are lost. Sometimes we feel lost and we’re fearful that what is comforting and familiar to us will never return. Sometimes we’re running hard away, knowing full well we are lost but afraid of what will happen if we stop long enough to admit it.

However it happens, being lost is scary.

Saying goodbye to the patient in the last room, I go looking for Annie and Emma. I hear crazy loud laughter coming from Hazel’s room.

Peeking in I see the three of them playing volleyball with a balloon. Hazel, laying down in her bed says, “Oh, girls, you’ve got to hit it harder than that. You’ve got to really smack it!”

Smack!

Hazel serves up a high floater.

The girls giggle and trip over themselves, whacking it back to her. The volley goes between them till Hazel’s return puts the balloon out of reach, stuck in the lamp.

“Hazel!”, the girls shriek, “What a shot!”

Hazel is proud. She showed them how to really smack it.

I step quietly away. It would be a sin to stop this game.

More giggles. More “smacks!”. More laughter.

Indeed, it is a happy thing to be found.

“Then Jesus told them this parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, “Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep. I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.”

- Luke 15:1-7

- Todd A. Thompson   www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“Grandpa, I don’t want to be 4. I want to stay 3.”

“Why is that?”

“Because after you turn 4, then you turn 5.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Because when you turn 5 you go to kindergarten and they make you spell hippopotamus…and I don’t know how!”

We’ve all been there. The unknown. We look ahead. We wonder. We worry. What waits for us? Will we be ready? Are we up to the challenge? Little Nathan was doing the “double jump ahead”; fearing an unknown twice removed from his present moment. We laugh at the story because we’ve done it, too.

President Calvin Coolidge said, “If you see ten troubles coming down the road, you can be sure that nine will run into the ditch before they reach you.” The wisdom being “don’t borrow trouble”. While President Coolidge’s advice is comforting, if you’re like me, instead of being relieved that nine troubles are dead in a ditch, you worry like crazy about the one trouble that will end up making the trip. What will it be? What will it look like? How will it affect me? We “what if?” ourselves into a tizzy.

What if…?

What if…?

What if…?

Allowed to run unchecked, our minds are masterful at creating imaginary crisis. Yet unless we’re terribly neurotic or boringly rich, rarely do we sit around and manufacture crisis out of thin air. Our worry usually stems from genuine present moment troubles. That one trouble that makes it down the road to our door. A chronic health problem. Financial pressure. An unstable job situation. A teenager running away with their desire for independence. A relationship that’s headed for the point of no return. These troubles are all very real.

I’ve been battling worry a lot lately. With due respect to President Coolidge, I have one or two or twenty troubles right now that ignored the ditch and are parked in my driveway. They don’t look like they’re moving on anytime soon. I’d like to say I’ve handled my worries well. But it’s been paralyzing at times.

So what to do?

I’m learning. Slowly, painfully, tearfully, imperfectly. I’m learning what God is trying to teach me about worry.

And trust.

“Todd, here’s the deal…

I told you that I’ll never leave you or forsake you. Others may have promised that and bailed, but I’m not them. I’m Me. I’m God. And I am not a man that I should lie. Simply put, you’re never alone. Ever. You might feel like you are, but you’re not.

Next, you need to understand that I understand your worries and your fears. I know that life is hard. I’ve never sugar coated that. “Many are the afflictions of the righteous” is how I put it in Psalm 34. You’re living in a broken world. Being a Christian doesn’t make you immune from that. Your problems are real. That is not lost on Me.

You need to understand something else. And it may not make sense to you. But everything that happens in your life, good and bad, passes through My sovereign hand. If I allow it, I have a reason for it. That doesn’t mean I cause bad things. It means I work all things, even the bad things, for good in your life. There are no loose ends in your life not connected to my perfect purpose.

You’ve asked me a few times, “Why am I allowing this @#$% to happen?” It’s a fair question. If I love you, why don’t I spare you? You might not like this, either. But there’s more at stake here than your present circumstances. See, I care more about your character than your comfort. I need you to come to grips with your faults, the things you need to change for your good and My glory. I need you to learn to trust Me with the injustices in your life. I need you to go through this. Not around it. The hard stuff, the pain, it’s all part of the process of making you like Jesus. 

And you have no idea how committed I am to that process. Does the phrase, “never stop this side of heaven” ring a bell?

I know heaven seems far away right now. That’s why I need you to believe Me when I say take life one day at a time. Don’t worry about tomorrow. Each day has enough trouble of its own. The things you need, I’ll provide. I promise. It’s about depending on Me every day. That’s why Jesus called it “our daily bread”.  Just do the next thing in front of you and trust me. Don’t waste your time on the “what if’s” about tomorrow. I’m already there. And I’m working in ways you can’t see or understand.

So keep talking to Me. All the time. It’s the best thing you can do. Don’t polish it, don’t edit it. Don’t spiritualize it. Just bring it. The angst. The tears. The passion. The needs. Just bring it. Your worries plus you equals fear. Your worries plus Me equals peace. And my peace passes all understanding.

Whether your circumstances get better or worse…and yes, they could get worse, remember that nothing separates you from My love. Come hell or high water, I love you. I’m for you. Do I need to state the obvious?

If God is for you, who can be against you?

I’m for you.

So keep going.”

- God

On my very first Sunday with the cribs and the crawlers I wasn’t there 10 minutes when my friend Mark brought his 8-month old daughter Amy. He handed her off to me so he could go to the church service. She was fine for all of five seconds until she saw him walking away. Then it was open the hydrant, turn on the faucet, open the flood gates it’s cryin’ time baby. How such a little girl could generate such big tears was beyond me. I tried everything to get her to stop. Toys, walking, talking, and saying please please please don’t cry. Nothing was working. If anything it felt like she was picking up momentum. She was crying louder and longer.

I wasn’t a pro at this but I figured that a noisy nursery isn’t the best place to try and quiet a screaming kid. So Amy and I went next door into the pastor’s study. He had a nice glider rocker in there. We sat down and she cried some more. And I kept talking to her. I told her in my best calm, logical voice that the situation wasn’t really as bad as it seemed. Her Daddy would be back in half an hour. He was still in the building. I told Amy that I wasn’t such a bad guy and that her Dad wouldn’t leave me with her if he didn’t trust me.

And you know what? She responded to that.

She cried harder.

After about ten minutes Amy just flat cried herself out. Now it was just short little breaths and some quiet tears. Finally after a time Amy did what little children do when they are afraid and confused. She pulled in, put her head down on my shoulder, and after a couple more minutes fell asleep to the rocking of the chair and the steady tick-tocks of mantle clocks.

Holding Amy and feeling my left arm joining her in a nap, I was so relieved to see her calm down. As proud as I was of myself for hanging in there until she went to sleep, the fact is Amy didn’t understand a thing I told her. In her little frame of reality, she didn’t know for sure if her Daddy would be back. She didn’t know if everything would be ok. The fact is as she sat on my lap she didn’t understand anything about the situation she was experiencing. So she did the best thing she could. She pulled in, settled in, put her head on my shoulder and went to sleep.

Friends, when life is hard, the best thing you can do is sit on God’s lap and let Him hold you. It might seem simplistic to say when life is hard, just be still and trust God. But that’s what God says we are to do. And please understand that sitting on God’s lap when life is hard doesn’t guarantee a full understanding of the pain you’re going through. There are some hardships of life that can never be humanly explained.

What explanation will comfort parents after their 11-year old son drowns in the bathtub after an asthmatic attack? How do you adequately explain a house fire that destroys every single possession? A drunk driver taking innocent lives? How do you explain a relentless cancer that refuses to be contained? How do you explain the abandonment of a spouse? There is so much pain and suffering that makes no sense and this side of heaven, never will.

We do one another a disservice when we say trite religious things to put a good face on what God openly acknowledges is heartbreak of the deepest degree. God admits to us that life is hard. “Many are the afflictions of the righteous” says God. (Psalm 34) Yet God also says that He is in full control of the chaos that surrounds us. When life is hard, God says, “Be still and trust me.”

Friend, when life is hard, the best thing you can do is sit on God’s lap. Be still and let Him hold you.

Life is hard. But God is good. That’s what we comfort one another with. Whatever our pain, in the middle of it we remind ourselves and one another that the God of the universe who created the world and hung the stars in the sky and calls them all by name is the God who knows us intimately. He loves us with an unconditional love, a patient and forgiving heart, and a perfect ability to work all things together for good in our lives. Even the gut wrenching, soul ripping pain we experience that we don’t understand.

When life is hard, take refuge in God.

When life is hard, be still and trust God.

When life is hard, crawl up on God’s lap. Be still and let Him hold you. He is our Heavenly Father who “has compassion on us as a father has compassion on his children.” (Psalm 103)

In His promises you and I will find the peace that passes understanding.

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in time of trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, and though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea;

“Cease striving and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” The Lord of hosts is with us, the God of Jacob is our stronghold.” – Psalm 46:1-2; 10-11   

“No, Annie. You’re five now. Happy Birthday!”

For weeks Annie and Emma have been talking about how they would soon be five years old. Now that the day is here, they seem a tiny bit wistful pondering that being five means they are no longer four. I understand that. We look forward to arriving and when we do we can’t help but look back.

Driving them to pre-school, we stop at Fry’s Grocery to buy some cookies to share with their classmates. Annie and Emma announce to the checkout clerk that today is their birthday and they are now five years old.

“Really? If it’s your birthday then you need balloons!” An attentive employee walking by hears the conversation and is back in a flash with two balloons, one pink and one orange. The girls giggle, toss a thank you over their shoulder and bounce out the door.

We are pulling out of the parking lot when my Dad calls. He can barely find the words to say that Steve Logemann, a high school acquaintance of mine, has died in a farm accident.

Steve was a couple grades ahead of me at North Kossuth High School. I didn’t know him well except to say hi to him in the hall between classes. He was very tall and very nice. The kind of person your parents would describe as “a good kid”.

Two years ago and 23 years removed from our high school days I received an email from Steve. Somehow one of my “Slice of Life” columns had found its way to his inbox and he asked to be added to the distribution list. Steve and his wife Gail now had four kids and a family website with pictures of their Iowa farm and of their children. The website is called www.twinkleye.com, a not so subtle reference to the Biblical passage in 1 Corinthians 15 that speaks about how believers in Jesus Christ will be changed in the “twinkling of an eye” when He returns. And that because of Jesus’ death on the cross, “death is swallowed up in victory”.

Pressing the end button on my cell phone, I turn right on to 40th Street. Annie and Emma are chattering happy twin talk in the back seat. Driving a little slower than normal, I look around. Palm trees are swaying and gray clouds are rolling on an unusually cool and windy Phoenix day. A phone company technician bends over a junction box, making repairs. Kids with packs on their backs and I-Pod’s in their ears head for the bus stop. A McDonald’s semi truck on its way with a supply of everything needed to make Big Macs and Egg McMuffins. Two ladies aerobic speed walking down the sidewalk. A Dad pushing a stroller. And me driving my kids to preschool on their 5th birthday before going off to work.

The thing about death is that it happens in the middle of life.

Pulling into the school parking lot the kids unbuckle their seat belts and we do what we always do. We have a little talk. We talk about how important it is to be a good friend to others, to be respectful of their teachers, to take care of each other and to remember that they can talk to God anytime about anything. On this day I add that 5 years ago my whole life changed when God blessed me with their lives. I tell them how proud I am of them and how much I love them. We hug for a little longer than usual.

Getting out of the car, Emma says, “Daddy, let’s let the balloons go and watch them go high in the sky.”

“Is that ok with you, Annie?”

“That’s a great idea! I go first!”

“Ok, go ahead…no. Wait Annie. Please. Just a second. Daddy needs to get something.”

Maybe it’s because today is their birthday. Maybe it’s because I’m thinking about Steve’s wife and kids and how terribly much they are going to miss their Daddy. Maybe it’s because with all my formal theological training I don’t have a single satisfying answer as to why bad things happen to good people. Maybe it’s because all of the above makes me remember that life is short and oh so unpredictable.

Whatever it was made me grab the camera.

“Ok, girls! Let ‘em go!”

Annie was right. It was a great idea. We watched them dance into the clouds and out of sight.

Happy Birthday, Annie and Emma. I love you more than you’ll ever know.

See you later, Steve. Thanks for reminding me to look forward to the “twinkle eye” time. You’ve arrived. I’m sure there’s lots to do on your first day in heaven, but if you happen to see a couple of pink and orange balloons float by, just know they’re from friends in Phoenix who are looking forward to the day of no more looking back.

“Show me, O Lord, my life’s end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life.”
-Psalm 39:4

“Thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” – 1 Corinthians 15:57

A gathering of friends to watch Monday Night Football. A Pampered Chef party. A Neighborhood Watch meeting. Maybe even a Bible study.

There’s lots of houses in this valley of 3 million people and more cars than houses. So many cars that to the eye they become invisible moving pieces against a background of stucco houses and palm trees.

The extra cars parked in front of the house could have been there for any reason. Those that drove by in their minivans full of kids coming home from soccer practice or clarinet lessons probably didn’t give it a second thought, save an extra tap on the brake to cleanly split the middle between the Ford Expedition and the Chevy Silverado pickup parked on either side of the street. We live in a big city. Cars park anywhere and everywhere at every hour of the day. As long as we get from A to B and back again without a scratch to ours or anyone else’s, it’s a good day.

The extra cars parked in front of the house could have been there for any reason. Unless someone told you, you wouldn’t know their drivers were inside doing their human best to comfort the family of a young man who, for reasons no one will ever know, made the decision to silence the ghosts of his mind with a bullet through his head.

There was an extra car parked in East Mesa a couple nights before. The young man behind the wheel, parked in a favorite spot. He’d been there many times before to escape the city lights and look up at the stars. No one knows if he looked up this night or if he looked only at the gun in his hand. Only God knows what his thoughts were, what words were spoken, or how he expressed the torment and pain that pushed him to his limit. Only God knows.

From now on there will be one less car in the driveway of this house. Unless we’ve experienced the same, we can only imagine the pain. We can only imagine the reality of living the rest of our life without a beloved son or grandson or brother. Only God understands what happened. Only God has the answers. Only God knows. We make ourselves too big and God too small when we pretend otherwise.

The extra cars parked in front of the house were there for a reason. The pickup was big, but not big enough to hold any answers. Just big enough to bring people to gather around the grieving. To hug and to hold. To cry and to comfort. To sit and stare. To pause and to pray.

The stucco houses all look the same. Yet behind every front door are unique human beings created in the image of God who share the common burden of living in a fallen world. We don’t always have answers but we have God and we have each other. In the face of tragedy, we often discover both. When ours is the extra car in front of the house, we’re showing the love of God as best we can by “comforting one another with the comfort with which we ourselves have been comforted by God”.

On its best days, life is rough and tumble. You don’t have to wait for a crisis to comfort and encourage. Be the person who drops by to say, “I was thinking about you today. How’s life?” Be the person who makes dinner and brings it over to your friend just because it’s Tuesday. Be the one who sends the funny email to give someone a laugh. Be the person who buys the coffee and listens to the concerns. Be the friend who says, “I’ve been there and God helped me through.” When you bring comfort and encouragement, nobody minds if you park in front.

Be the extra car in front of the house.

Because the day will come for all of us when we’ll want a crowd in our driveway.

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort; who comforts us in all our affliction so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” – 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

After stuffing ourselves with this delicious food, the five of us decided to take a walk downtown along Michigan Avenue. It was a quintessential summer evening in the Windy City. Lots of hustle and bustle around the Old Water Tower and in the midst of incessant traffic, starry-eyed couples rode by in horse drawn carriages.

After a time we found ourselves in front of the John Hancock Building. Inside the lobby, a marble floor led to gold elevator doors. Nearby an elegantly dressed young woman seated behind a cherry wood desk rose to greet us. She politely asked our names before we stepped onto the elevator for a rocket ride to the top. The doors barely opened before a tuxedoed maitre de extended his hand, “Ah! Welcome! Good evening, Mr. Thompson” as if I dropped by every weekend for lobster with a view. It’s nice to be shmoozed once in awhile. But we won’t be dining under his chandeliers. We’ve already had dinner.

Above the restaurant was a lounge called “Images”. It’s on the 96th floor. We found an open table right next to the full length windows and though the night was partly overcast, the panorama of the city was breathtaking. Through wisps of clouds floating by we saw a giant blanket of multi-colored lights spread out in every direction. Below, tiny threads of freeway full of Friday night traffic rushed past the steady rolling waves, breaking gently along the shore of Lake Michigan.

Looking out from one of the highest vantage points in the city I couldn’t help but feel struck by the irony. It was for me the lowest time in my life. I faced problems and pain the scope of which I could never have imagined. My heart was broken. Over my shoulder I heard my buddy Mike punch-lining a joke. I didn’t think my tears would mix well with the laughter of my friends so I hid them behind a smile while twirling my swizzle stick counter-clockwise in my beverage. That’s when I first noticed it.

In the two inch gap between the inside window and the panes of glass attached on the outer structure of the skyscraper, was a spider. A big fat spider, bouncing quite comfortably in his wind blown web. On closer examination, I observed that he had friends; all apparently as healthy as he. This was curious. How can a spider be well fed 96 stories high on the outside of a skyscraper? Was he patronizing this fancy restaurant a couple times a week? Or do flies and other such spider cuisine hang out in the clouds, too?

Watching this eight-legged wonder, I was reminded that if God cares for spiders on the 96th floor, He would also take care of me.

He did. He has. And He does.

In His Sermon on the Mount, Jesus reminds us that God the Father cares about all of life, right down to the smallest details. In Matthew 6 Jesus says, “Look at the birds of the air, that they do not sow, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single cubit to his life’s span?”

Jesus pointed to the birds of the air as proof of God’s provision. If He feeds the sparrows, how much more will He do for His children? God is a God of loving detail. His faithfulness and provision are freely given at every level. He takes care of us during times of peaceful order and He cares for us when we’re hiding our tears behind a smile. God is faithful.

Whatever problems you’re facing, whatever is breaking your heart, whatever it is that’s heavy on your mind while you’re twirling your swizzle stick…remember the fat spiders on the 96th floor of the John Hancock building. God takes very good care of them. Don’t worry. God will take very good care of you, too.

“Cast all your care on Him, because He cares for you.” – 1 Peter 5:7 

A pleasant discovery upon moving to the Phoenix valley was how much life exists in the desert. God has created a number of both plants and animals to thrive in this climate.

One enjoyable way to get some exercise during the months October through May, the time when it isn’t a gazillion degrees hot, is to hike in the Superstition Mountains. Besides getting away from the incessant noise of the city, it’s fascinating to get a close look at the plant life. The green bark of the Palo Verde trees. The rubbery feel of the jojoba leaves. The spiny needle tips of the agaves. Fiery orange blooms of the ocotillo. And if you’ve ever been in the desert after a rain, you’ll never forget the scent of greasewood in the air.

And there are cactus. The names describe them well. Chain Fruit Cholla. Strawberry Hedgehog. Fishhook Barrel. Clock-face Prickly Pear. A couple of my visiting friends have gotten a bit too close to some of the cactus. They learned the hard way that the plant is called “Jumping Cholla” for a reason.

To me, the most impressive cactus in the desert is the Saguaro. Carnegiea gigantea for you botanists. Like human beings, it is the only living species in its genus. The usual life span of the saguaro is between 150 and 200 years, yet the odds against these giant cactus becoming giant are more than great. A saguaro may produce as many as 40 million seeds in its lifetime while only one of these seeds will likely mature into a plant that outlives its parent. A saguaro fortunate to develop as a seedling will, at the age of 3 years, measure only one half an inch in height. They don’t bloom for the first time until they are about 50 years old, and grow their first arm around age 75.

A fascinating feature of the saguaro is the way it responds to being wounded. When a Gila Woodpecker or a Northern Flicker pecks through the thick waxy skin and hollows out a hole to make a nest, the saguaro seals that part of itself with a callus. It limits the damage and prevents decay from taking over the rest of the plant.

When it comes to the wounds in our life, we can all learn something from the saguaro. This giant cactus can’t stop woodpeckers and flickers from poking holes in its skin. Instead it seals the wound to keep from “bleeding to death”. Otherwise the wound would be allowed opportunity to decay. Necrosis would set in and eventually kill the plant.

We don’t have woodpeckers trying to poke holes in us. But we get wounded just the same. Life is rough and tumble. The Bible is right up front about that. It says in Psalm 34:19 that “Many are the afflictions of the righteous…”. Which is another way of saying that life is hard for even the kindest among us. Being a good person doesn’t make you immune from pain. We can’t control that. We’ve all been wounded.

We can’t always stop people from poking emotional holes in us. But we do have full control of our decision to treat, or not treat, our wound. Some of us are emotionally bleeding to death because we have chosen not to seal off our wound. Some of us are decaying from a wound inflicted on us many years ago. We’re playing the blame game, replaying in our mind the injustice done to us like a loop tape in a VCR. Blame and self-pity are drugs we’ve become addicted to. In the meantime, we look for some park ranger to feel sorry for us while we sit and decay, bitterly waiting for the woodpecker to come back and apologize.

Yet even if the woodpecker returns, full of remorse and contrition,  a hole is a hole. An apology might make us feel better, but a wound is a wound. When choose not to treat our emotional wound, we’re choosing not to grow.

Reality is that we won’t begin to heal until we decide to seal off the wounded area, limit the damage, and focus on growing up. There’s a reason 200 year old saguaros grow to be 200 years old. They don’t allow one woodpecker hole to determine their future.

How are you doing with your woodpecker holes? Are they sealed off? If you still have some open wounds, you’re not alone in your experience. God cares about you. And your wounds. With gentle grace and forgiveness, He wants to heal and seal; for the purpose of strong growth. God wants you to grow tall!

Sometime soon go for a hike out in the desert. Even if you have to hop a plane to get here, it’s worth it. Take a close look at the saguaros; these stately persevering creations of God. Run your fingers over a cactus callus and see the beauty of a century old plant that refuses to quit.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18