We were on the ground in Albuquerque last Monday night, waiting for passengers to board for the next leg to Phoenix. A few minutes earlier we were in the clouds, a 737 jet being bounced around like a ping pong ball in a lottery machine.

Looking out the window all you could see was gray sky pressing its face against the glass. The plane lurched up and diagonally, then a sudden drop that made you glad for the seatbelt. Bump, bump, big bump, huge bump, lurch. Then the back end of the plane jerking to the right, like a cat’s toy ball would feel when batted across the floor.

Except for the commuter flight I once had in a 17-passenger turbo prop during a thunderstorm that threw the ice out of my glass, this was the worst I’ve ever experienced.

A white haired elderly lady in the row ahead of me was quite frightened. From her thick accent, she sounded Russian. She was squeezing the arm of the female stranger next to her and a 40-something man across the aisle was trying to talk her into a happy place. “This is just like deep sea fishing. Come to think of it, that’s no fun either. But don’t worry, we’ll be on the ground soon.”

All I could think was that after this flight, all the rides at Disneyland won’t be fun anymore.

In the middle of the turbulence I noticed myself gripping the arm rests and bracing my foot against the metal base of the seat in front of me.

Then I thought about what I was doing. 

Steadying oneself while walking on the ground has some merit. Out for a stroll and hit a patch of rough sidewalk? Grabbing for a street sign or an oak tree makes sense. Keeps you from falling down.

Steadying oneself in a plane? Doesn’t make much sense, does it?

A firm grip on the arm rests and bracing with both feet while riding in an aluminum tube at 500 miles per hour 30,000 feet above the ground is, at best, a good isometric exercise. It won’t smooth the ride and it sure won’t help if the plane crashes.

The obvious truth in that moment was that there was only one person with any control over the outcome. It’s all up to the skill and experience of the pilot. As he goes, so goes the flight. That’s why airlines require a high standard when entrusting the person in the cockpit with the safety of hundreds of passengers.

We live in a rough and tumble world. Our best efforts to smooth the bumps with our jobs and our education and good planning help some. But turbulence is inevitable. And bracing ourselves against it won’t spare us from being knocked around. In the middle of it there’s only One with ultimate control.

Thankfully, God can be trusted to get us through. We may look every bit like a storm tossed mess on the other side, but we’ll have been brought through. Bedraggled and soaking wet maybe. Hopefully stronger. But through.

From Albuquerque to Phoenix there was another patch of bumpy air. This time I crossed my arms, relaxed my legs and resisted the urge to brace myself. It didn’t make it smoother, but why worry about something I can’t control, right?

Right.

Then I laughed at myself. Hard. Because I have a PhD in worrying about what I can’t control.

Oh well. At least I gave up being a control freak for 50 minutes. That’s pretty good for me.

Actually, it might be a personal record.

It’s a new week. Fasten your seatbelts. Enjoy the ride.

“Now this is what the Lord says…Fear not, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior…” – Isaiah 43:1-3 

For him, it was. A rooster.

In a metro area of 3 million people I’m being jarred from sleep by a rooster. Try telling your 12-year old dog who’s never even seen a chicken that it’s nothing to get excited about.

The lot behind my house is known around here as a “horse property”. Even though the city has grown up around it, it’s still under zoning that allows for animals. This particular family keeps a cow or two, several horses, the occasional sheep and goat, and now apparently a rooster and some chickens.

Next morning at 4 AM, same Green Acres wake up call. This can’t be happening.

Didn’t hear the rooster again after that. Bumped into the owner a few days later. He said, “Had to get rid of it. Too many people complaining. So I just kept the chickens.”

One of the chickens thought the grass might be greener on the other side of the alley and made a break for it. She made herself at home in my next door neighbor’s yard and never left.

They call her “Henny Penny”. A beautiful bird, as chickens go. All black and all attitude. Henny Penny rules the roost. Which is impressive, seeing as how they also have three big dogs and a tom cat.

According to my neighbor Donna, “She flew in over the fence one day and just sat up in the tree. I thought the dogs would kill her as soon as she hit the ground. But she has no fear. She made a nest and lays eggs in the oleander bush. She hangs out with the dogs and comes in the back door with them to eat out of their dish.  The kicker for me was when I came out one morning and saw Henny Penny and the tom cat sitting next to each other on the porch. She’s got attitude for sure.”

Henny Penny’s a chicken. Which is a bird. Which is a cat’s lunch. So either Henny Penny has above average relational skills or she communicates an intimidating self-assurance. Watching her strut across my driveway from time to time, I can see why the cat would choose to peacefully co-exist.

Chickens aren’t what we normally look to as examples of bravado, but I’m learning something from Henny Penny. Something about confidence.
 
Life being what it is, we all get run over sooner or later. Maybe it’s a situation that didn’t turn out well and you’ve assumed the negative end result as your identity going forward. Maybe someone’s been giving you a verbal and emotional beat down over a long period of time and the only thing you feel confident doing is opening a bag of chips and hiding from the world. Maybe it’s something that’s your fault and God’s forgiven and forgotten but you’re stuck in the mud of your mistake; unable to forgive yourself. Whether the bus ran you over or you were driving when it crashed, you’re stuck. Spinning your wheels, pinned down by guilt and fear.

When we’re beat down, it’s easy to feel like we have nothing to offer. Humanly speaking, that’s true. The Bible says that “we all sin and fall short of the glory of God”. On our own merit, we bring nothing to God’s table. Were that the end of it, we’d all be doomed to a life of futility.

But God goes on to say that when we believe in Jesus and His sacrificial death on the cross, we are “a new creation”. We are no longer defined by our human failings. We are now defined by who we are in Christ; a person forgiven, saved, justified, and standing tall in the grace of God. Because of what God did we are “no longer under a spirit of bondage again to fear” but rather should possess the confidence of God’s children; fully adopted, fully accepted and fully loved. (Romans 8:15-17)

Henny Penny doesn’t act like a chicken.

Neither should we.

“For God has not given us a spirit of timidity, but of power and love and discipline.” – 2 Timothy 1:7

I was blessed to live near all my grandparents. I got to see them all the time. Grandpa and Grandma Thompson lived the closest. A short half mile down the gravel road on the farm. In the summer of 1981 they had been married for 56 years. That the marriage happened at all was a tribute to my Grandfather’s considerable charm and persistence. In a letter my Grandmother wrote to my cousin, she said, “I once told your Grandfather it would be a cold day before I would ever marry him. And it was. 34 degrees below zero on Christmas Eve in 1924.”

Grandpa Thompson was quite a character. A gifted conversationalist. A skill that served him well as a salesman and in talking his way out of speeding tickets. He had a dry sense of humor and a keen wit. He was a great story teller. An excellent woodworker. He taught himself to paint in his 70’s. He had a green thumb, loved to grow raspberries and roses. Best of all he was a quietly strong Christian role model. A Grandpa who was a wealth of wisdom and seasoned life experience for his grandkids.

About a month before he passed away, a big storm blew through. Summer storms in our part of Iowa always came from the northwest and this one had been building all day. It wasn’t a matter of if it was coming, but when it would arrive. We knocked off work at 4 pm, poured some lemonade, watched the horizon and waited. According to the radio, this one wasn’t some wannabe wind. This was going to be a “head for the basement and it wouldn’t hurt to pray” kind of storm.

The clouds were more ominous than anything I’d ever seen. Rolling, dark blue, then fading to black. The radio station said this weather cell had spawned a couple tornados and was leaving a trail of serious damage. I stayed out by the field taking pictures until I felt the air temperature quickly drop. Then it was a sprint to the house with my Shetland Sheep dog right on my heels.

Everyone went to the basement but me and my Dad. We looked out the window and watched the wind flip the switch to high. It was as impressive as it was sobering. Then just as quickly, the switch flipped off. Completely off. It was the first and only time I’ve literally experienced the “calm before the storm”. Everything outside in an instant went eerily still. Not leaf moved. There was no sound. The sky was a scary green gray. The air felt charged. It made my skin crawl.

Dad said, “Look out. Here it comes.”

Wham!

The storm after the calm shook the house. Trees bending, shingles flying and it sounded like a train was rolling through our living room. We went to the basement to ride it out. Time passes. Slowly and fearfully when you’re thinking your house could blow away.

After the noise died off, we went upstairs. The house was still there. But outside, what a mess. We’d be cleaning this up for days.

My cousin Jack, in a voice of urgent concern, said, “Man, we better get down the road and check on Mom and Pop. I hope they had time to get to the basement.” They were 81 and 82 years old. Trying to navigate those stairs in a hurry would be dangerous for them.

We jumped in the truck and headed south. All the way down the road we zigzagged to avoid the debris. Heading up the lane we saw chunks of corrugated steel roofing draped over power lines like laundry hung out to dry. A couple small buildings had fallen in. The tornado had hit the edge of Grandpa’s farm. It tore the roof off the hay shed and sent it screaming across the acreage. There was a ten inch hole in the siding where the wind had javelined a tree limb into the side of the house. A huge branch was blocking the front door. Jack and I scrambled to lift it out of the way.

Flinging open the door we instinctively headed for the basement but there was no light on down there. Curious. We poked our heads around to look up into the kitchen. There sat Grandpa and Grandma at the table, drinking coffee and having an afternoon snack.

Jack went off. “Pop, what the heck are you doing up here? Why aren’t you in the basement?! Didn’t you know it was storming outside?”

“Yep.”

My turn. “Then why the heck are you up here? Don’t you know a tornado lifted the roof off the hay shed and blew it over your house? It knocked your chimney down!”

“I thought I heard somethin’.”

“Heard somethin’?! You’ve got a hole in the side of your house! Another two feet over and that tree’d come right through the window and killed you. Why aren’t you in the basement?!!!”

He looked at us and without pause graced our 18 year-old questions with an 82 year-old answer.

“Because if you’re gonna go, you may as well go eating pie.”

And with that he put down his fork.

I can’t speak for Jack. But in my memory that was perhaps the first time I realized that in the sovereignty of God, when it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go. The best we can do is make sure we’re living life to the full every day, even in the storms, until we go. In this, we have a choice.

Several weeks later the entire extended family was gathered at our house for dinner. We grilled steaks and hamburgers, ate sweet corn, drank iced tea and enjoyed being together as we had so many times before. Grandpa Thompson was at the table, relishing the conversation and the laughter and his family when he fell out of his chair and died. A massive stroke or heart attack. I think he was gone before he hit the floor.

He was drinking a cup of coffee.

And eating a piece of apple pie.

“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

It’s 8:40 PM. I smell water in the air.

The palm trees are swaying in a breeze that is more than a breeze but not yet a wind. It feels like the atmosphere is getting ready to take a really deep breath before exhaling.

The rain starts falling on my drive home from downtown Phoenix. There are no proper introductions, no polite pitter patter. These are big, kamikaze raindrops hurling themselves into my windshield. My car stereo’s auto-volume turns itself up to compensate for their noisy splats.

At home, my dog greets me with more sincerity than usual. Thunder bothers him and from the looks of his brown eyes he’s been bothered a lot in the last hour. I stop at the fridge to pour a glass of iced tea before finding my seat in the dark theater that is my patio. It’s time for the storm show.

I sit far enough back to stay dry and far enough out to feel the cool gusts of wind. The canopy of grapevine, long branches hanging full with fruit and wide beautiful leaves make a picturesque frame around the moving pictures of clouds and sheets of rain.

Just to listen. So many sounds within the storm. Big drops pelt the grape leaves then, momentum gone, slowly drip from top to bottom, leaf to leaf like a Slinky moving down a flight of stairs. A roof river waterfall, thunk thunk thunking an empty plastic bucket below. And the incessant din of water hitting concrete.

The backdrop of sky is ever changing. Endless blue and clear just hours ago, it is now gray and hulking. Like a surly fat man in an overcoat in no hurry to move along. Rolling angry clouds filter the lightening which, like an irregular strobe, lights up the dance floor for my rose bushes. Pink and white and coral colored blossoms moving to the music of the storm.

I sit and watch the show thinking it the best I’ve seen in a very, very long time.

My dog is close by. Content to stay because my right hand is stroking his fur. His loyalty keeps him near me, though his back is turned. One eye on me and one eye on his doggie door.

I drink my tea and count the seconds between flash of light and sound of thunder. One thousand one, one thousand two. Then, no chance to count. A lightening bolt strikes all too close. A piercing laser clap I see and feel and sends my dog scrambling into the house. A magnificent display of raw, unbridled killer energy; as if God unplugged His bass guitar before turning off His amp.

The smells.

Of water in the air and wet bark and mud.

The sounds.

Of raindrops and a rumbling sky. Of trees shaking in the wind. The sound of the water is a comfort. It rocks me into a few brief moments of sleep before jostling me awake with far away thunder.

I watch the rain fall and the wind blow knowing this is a one night only engagement. This is the desert. Rain doesn’t play one venue for very long.

As the party moves to the south I walk into the yard, take a deep breath of wet wonderful air and raise my glass to the sky. A toast to the smiling moon peeking through the mist, watching me enjoy this magic moment of monsoon.

“O, Lord, our Lord, how majestic is Your name in all the earth, Who has displayed His splendor above the heavens!” – Psalm 8:1

Several days ago I was taking some pictures and was able to photograph a honeybee burrowing into one of my Midas Touch roses. She hovered then disappeared into the center of the flower. I say “she” because all worker bees are female. (I know. That’s a great straight line for any female readers. Have fun with the punch lines, but please be kind to the men in your life.) After a couple minutes she moved on to another flower, carrying a load of pollen.

Individually, a honeybee is fascinating to observe. But the results of their corporate effort are astounding.

The average American consumes 1.3 pounds of honey per year. If we round it down to an even pound, what must honeybees do to produce one pound of honey?

According to the Texas A&M Department of Entomology, an average hive contains up to 50,000 bees. On a warm to hot day, half the worker bees go out to gather pollen and nectar. The other half of the bees stay inside the hive and have the job of providing the air conditioning. A honeybee’s wings move at approximately 11,400 strokes per minute, hence the “buzz” you hear. Thousands of bees moving their wings at such speed actually causes the temperature inside the hive to be about 10 degrees cooler than it is outside.

The bees rotate duties. Bees that cool the hive one day are gatherers the next. To make one pound of honey, worker bees must collect nectar from 2 million flowers. 2 million flowers! And in collecting the nectar for that one pound of honey, they fly a combined 55,000 miles. That’s one and a half times around the world. All to make just one pound of honey.

Since the average worker bee makes about 1/12th of a teaspoon of honey in her lifetime, it’s pretty clear that honeybees are better together than they are alone. Alone they can’t produce enough honey to flavor a cup of tea. Together, they take care of themselves and in the process produce enough honey for everyone in the country to have a jar in the pantry.

A healthy beehive is full of bees, honey, honeycomb and activity. What you won’t find in a bee hive is ego. Be they queen bee, drones or workers, all the insects do their job. The bee in the photograph had a hive to go back to at night because 25,000 co-workers stayed behind to protect it and keep it cool. The honey she produced was a team effort.

As humans, we tend to think of our accomplishments as individual in nature. Yet be assured, wherever you are today and whatever position you’ve attained, you didn’t get there on your own. There are no self-made men. No self-made women.

If you’re a top notch sales manager you wouldn’t be noticed without the reps on your team consistently putting up great numbers.

If you’re a respected teacher you owe something to the elementary teacher who taught you to read.

If you’re a scholar, you earned your PhD and contributed to the body of collective knowledge only after reading the works of the masters. Or, as Toynbee put it, “we see farther when standing on the shoulders of giants”.

If you’re a master mechanic, you likely attribute some of your skills to your Dad who let you slide under the Chevy on the creeper and watch him turn a wrench.

If you’re a good parent, you owe something to those older and wiser who cared enough to impart their wisdom and life experience from raising their own kids.

Above all, you and I owe everything to a gracious God whose faithfulness is great and whose mercies are new every morning. (Lamentations 3:21-23)

Wherever we are and whatever we achieve is due to our hard work, persistence and the contributions of others in our life. Alone, we are, well…alone. Together we accomplish great things. We are better together.

This week take time to reflect on the people who have contributed significantly to your life. Then write a note of thanks to them or give them a call and tell them specifically what they did for you and what you learned from them. In doing so you’ll encourage them beyond measure.

Because no one ever forgets hearing these sweet words:

“You made a difference in my life.”

01:02:03; 04/05/06

It won’t happen again for a hundred years.

We tend to take note of events that don’t come around often. Halley’s Comet makes an appearance every 76 years. If you didn’t see it in 1986, you have to wait till 2061. Which for many of us means we won’t ever see Halley’s Comet. It’s the same feeling I have when I try to put “Super Bowl Champions” and “Minnesota Vikings” in the same sentence.

When thinking of things astronomical, we understand that certain alignments of planets and stars happen only once, if you’ll pardon the metaphor, in a blue moon. So what is it about the ordinary moment that makes us think they are ordinary?

This morning I took my parents to the airport. They have been visiting for the past week. I remember thinking when I picked them up that the days would fly and before I knew it I’d be taking them back to the airport. And that’s what happened. We thoroughly enjoyed our time together but the week was a blur. This morning it dawned on me that we were so busy having fun that I didn’t take a single picture while they were here. So engrossed in the moments that I didn’t think to capture any of them to look at later.

It’s good to be fully alive in the present moment. Yet this week I was reminded again how easily it is to take the present moment for granted. My parents commented on how much Annie and Emma have grown since they last saw them. It’s not as obvious to me because I see them everyday. Yet how important to pay attention to the ordinary day. Each day, a little growth. A little change. A little here and a little there and before you know it you’re picking out high school graduation announcements.

It’s a wonderfully cool, Winnie the Pooh blustery day in Phoenix. All my windows are open. The leaves of my orange/lemon tree are scratching on the window screen to my office. Roses are blooming in my backyard. My grapevine is leafing out. The chimes hanging on my patio play random compositions with each gust of wind. Palmer the Eskimo Dog is chilling in the grass. And I’m about to go play Chutes and Ladders with Annie and Emma while we listen to some Big Band music.

We won’t see 01:02:03; 04/05/06 on the calendar again for a hundred years.

We will never be where we are with the people we’re with on this day again…ever.

That makes this ordinary day extraordinary.

Carpe diem.

“This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” – Psalm 118:24

It’s dry in the desert. That’s why they call it a desert. On a good year, the Phoenix valley receives only 7″ of rain. This hasn’t been a good year. Until God turned on the faucet last Saturday, it had been 143 days in a row with no rain. The last time water fell from the sky was October 18th. My twins’ birthday. When you’re 5, not seeing something for 143 days can make you forget you ever knew what it was. Annie looked out the window with disbelief and asked, “Daddy, is that rain?”

Rain here is a tease. Sometimes it’s spotty. It might be pouring buckets at your friend’s house a half mile away while you’re washing your car under sunny skies. Rain is especially fickle here during monsoon season. It’s a seasonal weather pattern of hot, moist air that blows up from Mexico during July and August. You see the clouds form in the late afternoon and you think it’s finally going to pour. More often than not, all you get is a dust storm; a wall of wind whipped dirt followed by 12 drops of rain on your windshield. A little mud in your eye as it laughs going away.

Saturday was not a tease. It really rained. The clouds rolled into town, took off their coats and stayed awhile. In a place where the sun shines 330 days a year, a day like this is more than a treat. It’s an event not to be missed. Gray skies. The steady sounds of water dripping off bougainvillea leaves onto the sidewalk. The splash of tires rolling through puddles. The smell of water in the air. The feel of raindrops on your face. The sight of accumulated dust and grime being washed away clean.

I worked the Suns game that Saturday night. Fans came through the doors from the parking garage and the street, coats damp and dripping, no one complaining. When you’ve been dry and dusty for five months, you welcome the shower. Wet rubber soles squeaked on the floor and folks stopped to wipe off their glasses before moving along the concourse. It was easy to see the rain made people happy. It had been 143 days. Now the wait was over. The rain came.

Waiting.

We do a lot of waiting.

In Phoenix, we wait for rain. In Seattle, they wait for sunshine. We all wait in line at the grocery store. Some waiting is expected. No one in their right mind ever goes to the Social Security office or the Department of Motor Vehicles expecting to be in and out in five minutes. Some waiting we plan for.

It’s waiting when we didn’t plan to wait that is the hardest.

Like waiting for a job when we’ve been unemployed two months after the savings runs out. Waiting for the doctor to say this round of chemo therapy finally worked. Waiting for a baby to place in the nursery that’s been ready, and empty, for years. Waiting for that estranged relationship to be reconciled.

This is the waiting that exasperates and exhausts us. And if we’re honest, it is a waiting that frustrates and angers us. Because deep down, whether we admit it or not, we realize we’re waiting on God. He could do something about it if He wanted to. So why doesn’t He? Why doesn’t He do something? Anything to show us a glimpse of forward progress?

Most of the time we want our waiting to be over because we’re ready for a change of scenery. We want to be delivered from our immediate circumstances. All we can see is what’s in front of us. God has a different vantage point. He sees the big picture.

Though it pains me to say it, our waiting may be God’s working.

Abraham was an old and childless man when God promised him a son. If it was a hilarious thought that at 75 years old Abraham would be shopping for bottle warmers and a bouncy seat, then it was beyond incredible for him to be in the delivery room at age 100. But that’s what happened. God promised Abraham a son. And delivered on His promise 25 years later. They named him Isaac. It means “laughter”. Being a new dad when you’re 100 is pretty funny.

We can read the account in the book of Genesis and we can wonder about the wait. But God must have had His reasons. Albert Baylis put it this way,

“It appears God wants to do more with Abraham than drop promises on him. Abraham had received an irrevocable promise from God. But being God’s candidate for blessing is not a trip to Disneyland. Because God is going to bless Abraham, he’s going to make him into a man of faith. Because He is going to make Abraham a blessing, God will take whatever time is necessary. And God has never let time bother Him.”

Time bothers us. But it doesn’t bother God.

If you’re waiting, know that God is working. It’s ok to yell and scream about it. It’s ok to wonder how and why. The Bible is full of people who, in the middle of their dry dust wait, threw up their questions to God. No worries. He is big enough to handle them. You may not get the answers you like. You may not get answers at all. But this much is true. God always delivers on His promises. In His time and in His way. And always for your good and His glory.

Hang in there.

The rain is coming.

“Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.” – Proverbs 13:12

“The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, to the person who seeks Him.” – Lamentations 3:25

Growing up in Iowa, fall was my favorite season. Cooler days and nights sent the chlorophyll into retreat, revealing brilliant reds, yellows and golds in the maple leaves. When their colorful autumn show closed in late October and the leaves took their final bows, the resulting leaf piles were magnificent to kick through and jump in.

Here in Phoenix, October temperatures can still be 100 degrees. For the leaves on the trees, it’s business as usual. Not until late December or early January do trees start looking fall like. Until then, the only way we know winter is approaching is to watch the license plates change colors.

“Daddy, can we make a pile of leaves and jump in them?”, Annie and Emma ask again. I start to say no. I mean, really. Fig leaves? It doesn’t seem right. When’s the last time you heard someone reminisce about their childhood saying, “Fig leaves were my favorite. The boring browns and dull greens. Fabulous.” No, when it comes to leaf piles, I’m pretty sure fig leaves aren’t regulation.

“Daddy, can we? Make a pile and jump in?” Annie and Emma persist. I look at them and feel sad. Sad that they have so little to work with. My kids want to jump in a pile of leaves just like Linus in “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving” and the best I can do is a shallow pile of pathetic fig leaves. What kind of Dad am I?

“Daddy, please!!!”

Then I realize that Annie and Emma don’t care about the leaves. They care about the moment. Taking what they can find in front of them and having fun with it. Twenty minutes ago it was a couple of river rocks they put in a plastic pail. Twenty minutes from now it might be a pretend tea party with their stuffed animals. Right now it’s a pile of fig leaves.

“Sure. Why not?”

God, thanks for the privilege of learning from my kids. They teach me the value of the present moment.

That it’s a pile of fig leaves isn’t important.

What’s important is that they jump.

“This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” – Psalm 118:24

I have a jar of sand from Newport Beach, California. Now, I know what you’re thinking…a person would have to be out of their mind to count sand in a jar.

I started on a Monday. And this is what I did…I went to the kitchen and pulled out the smallest measuring spoon I could find; one eighth of a teaspoon. Sitting at the table I dipped this measuring spoon into the sand, leveled it off with a knife, and tapped it out on to a sheet of grid paper. I turned on a small overhead light, picked up a straight pin and started to count.

Some of the grains were small. Some were very small. And some were so tiny that I’m quite sure an ant could walk over them without noticing. Guess how many grains of sand were in my one eighth of a teaspoon? Approximately 32,500…give or take a thousand. That means that in this jar there are approximately 15,600,000 grains of sand.

Have you ever been to Newport Beach? How many “15 million grain jars” do you think we could fill? In Psalm 139, King David paints a beautiful picture of God’s intimate care for us. In verses 17-18 he makes this most wonderful statement, “How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God! How vast is the sum of them! If I should count them, they would outnumber the sand.” Imagine! God’s thoughts toward us are more than all the grains of sand in all the sandboxes and all the beaches and all the deserts of the world. God’s thoughts toward us are countless.

As human beings we know what it’s like to be ignored. We’re familiar with that. We could all go to the mall right now and be ignored by hundreds of people. Yet the Biblical truth that God pays infinite attention to us isn’t so familiar. We simply can’t begin to comprehend anyone thinking that much about us. But just for a moment let’s suppose that when you’re born, along with a slap on your tush and a Social Security number, you’re given a jar of 15 million thoughts from God for your lifetime. I wonder what kind of thoughts are in here?

During the first several years of our life there are a few thoughts in here to protect us from ourselves. You know, a thought or two to keep us from kissing the electrical outlets or pulling the ironing board down on our head. There are thoughts about our growing up and how to get along with our family. Thoughts toward keeping us safe from the playground bully. Thoughts to help us survive puberty, first dates, and algebra. Thoughts about what college He wants us to go to, the direction of our studies, the friendships He wants us to develop and if and when and who we should marry.

There are “God thoughts” in our jar about the gifts and talents He has given us, and how we can best utilize them in ministry within the body of Christ. Thoughts about wisely using the money and resources God will entrust to us. Thoughts about how we can someday best raise our children in the fear and wisdom of God. And lots and lots of thoughts about growing and maturing into the godly person He desires us to be.

While 15 million thoughts will take us a long way, in reality our jar of thoughts from God will never be empty. In His great love for us, God pays eternal attention to the details of our lives. There is nothing that happens in our lives, whether big or small, that He is not concerned with. With God we are never alone and never ignored. His thoughts toward us flow from His heart of goodness and kindness, of mercy and grace, forgiveness and love.

“How precious also are Your thoughts toward me, O God! How vast is the sum of them! If I should count them, they would outnumber the sand…” – Psalm 139:17-18

I remember my Grandfather saying these words. “My roses are blooming. Wanna come see?” He’d want me to follow and I would. Not because I had a passion for roses. More out of respect for Grandpa. Oh, I liked them ok. But he loved them. He even painted pictures of them. Me, I would lean over and smell them and say they were pretty with as much enthusiasm as a kid could.

Now that I’m (much) older I’m seeing what my Grandfather saw. I’m developing a passion for roses. Not just for the beautiful blooms, but for the entire process of cultivating and tending them. For example, since we don’t have a real winter in Phoenix, roses won’t go dormant on their own. If you want beautiful flowers in the spring, you must force them to take a three month rest. You accomplish this by stripping them of their leaves in January and pruning them back to naked canes. When you finish, if you step back and think you’ve surely killed them then they are probably pruned about right.

In March the rose bushes begin to wake up. They begin leafing out. Roses are big drinkers and big eaters. Ample amounts of water and fertilizer help the buds begin to form and in April they begin to bloom. I have twenty rose bushes in my small backyard. Hybrid tea roses, grandifloras, climbing roses and floribundas. They have delightful names like Rio Samba, Moonshadow, Sheer Bliss, Brigadoon, Midas Touch and Garden Party. Everyday I go out to enjoy the palette of colors and literally stop to smell the roses.

A few days ago I laid my nose on a perfect rose. I closed my eyes and inhaled the intoxicating scent. That’s when I noticed the bloom next to it. It had opened several days earlier and looked nothing like the one I was admiring. Its petals were spread out and displayed a different shade of yellow and pink. Only several days earlier it was a perfect rose.

Looking at the two of them I was reminded of a truth that God reminds us of. Our life, He says, is like the flower of the field. We bloom and then the wind passes over and we fade away. Which is to say our life, even if it’s long, is short. What’s 80, 90 or even 100 years in the span of eternity?

The challenge when you’re not a rose is that you’re slow to see your bloom fading. We tend to think of ourselves as younger than we are until birthdays and class reunions remind us that time is passing quickly. God instructs us to number our days so we’ll make the most of the time He gives us. Given that, it’s good to ask each other questions while the wind of life is blowing over us.

Do your kids know how much you love them? Have you told them specifically how they delight you? That you love to hear them giggle? That you are proud of them? That when you look in on them when they are sleeping you’re so overwhelmed by God’s blessing that it brings tears to your eyes?

Do your co-workers and employees know you as more than the person who gives the orders and checks off the checklists? Are you using your God-given talents and abilities? Are you chasing the American dream at the expense of God’s peace in your life?

Are you living today? Or are you wasting valuable time trying to change the past and/or fret over the future? Are you making a daily difference in the lives of others? What are you doing today that will last forever?

What are you doing while the wind is blowing over? What are you doing before your bloom fades?

My roses are blooming. Wanna come see? Better hurry. They won’t last long.

“As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more.” – Psalm 103:15-16

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

In a way I understand. I don’t miss scraping ice off my windshield or trying to jump start an Oldsmobile when it’s 10 degrees below zero. But I do miss the snow. Especially at Christmas time.

For those who dwell in the land of the frozen north, snow is like the weird uncle in your family. You talk about him every time you get together, but you’d miss him if he wasn’t around. One Christmas, back in ‘87, we didn’t have snow. Oh, there was a sparkling hoar frost on the trees Christmas morning. But no snow. Everything was brown. It was still Christmas, but it wasn’t the same. All day I kept looking out the window the way you do when you’re expecting a friend to pull in the driveway at any moment. That particular day the snow didn’t show.

When your family has lived in cold country for generations, snow becomes part of your family history. In the early 1920’s when my Grandfather was pursuing and courting my Grandmother, she told him it “would be a cold day” before she would ever marry him. It was. A stormy 30 degrees below zero on Christmas Eve 1924.

Blizzards worthy of reputation are known by the year of their occurrence. The March Blizzard of ‘66, The January Storms of ‘75 and ‘83. And if Christmas dinner conversations among my elders are any indicator, the winter of ‘36 was the Grand Pooh-Bah of snow and cold. My Grandmother was snowbound in her farmhouse from December until March with a colicky one year old baby. My Grandfather joined with other neighbor men in walking six miles to town to get supplies because the drifts were too deep for cars or horses to move.

In the Midwest, snow rarely arrives as a solitary guest knocking softly on your door. Most often it pounds and wails against your house with a fierce wind. Snowflakes are like people that way. Alone, they’re pretty easy to get along with. But when they start running with the wrong crowd, they change. When snow runs with the wind it changes; from a soft white blanket into a wet leather glove, slapping you in the face. Icy and mean with a cold snarl it mocks you, “Go ahead. Grab your down vest. Put on that high-tech Thinsulate parka. Get as warm as you can. Then step outside, pal. I’ll blow through you like a screen door.” There’s nothing like the experience of opening the door to a wind chill with an attitude.

Yet there are moments. Brief and beautiful moments of winter that drop by unexpectedly to apologize for months of blowing and bluster.

It was a few days before Christmas in my thirteenth year. A neighbor kid and I were standing on the sidewalk along Main Street in Fairmont, Minnesota. It was an unusually quiet evening, save the music of the season piped over the downtown speakers and the jingle of bells on store doors announcing the comings and goings of holiday shoppers. We had just walked out of Jake’s Pizza when it happened. From a seemingly clear night sky, snow began to fall. Big fluffy wet flakes, floating straight and silent toward the ground. It was the loveliest snow I had ever seen. Embarrassingly polite, these snowflakes gently tapped you on the shoulder and whispered, “We’ll be no trouble. We’re just here to make things pretty.” It was a snow so magical and quiet that folks on the street just stopped to watch. In five minutes it was over.

It was only a moment on Main Street in a small Minnesota town. I’m glad I stopped to watch. Those big snowflakes melted into a memory. One I can enjoy anytime and share with anyone. Like right now with you.

Here’s hoping that in this week before Christmas, you and yours will stop to watch the simple beauties of the season.