Do you like to please others? I like to see people smile!
Sometimes there are other sweet things that are evidence of being pleased such as…
a baby’s responsive cuddle as she falls into her mama’s outreached arms;
a puppy’s tail wagging to a bowl of food; or
a cheerful, belly-filled family excitedly chattering over a special homecooked meal by mom.
The responses of others can speak volumes on approval.
Jesus’ focus from the beginning of His ministry was that direct. The people were loving the healing miracles; whereas, telling as many as He could the good news of the kingdom was why He was sent.
Remember our definition of a parable: “an illustrative story that compares or contrasts an earthly reality with a spiritual truth.”* I am intrigued as Jennifer Kennedy Dean** describes the Incarnation as the “lived-out parable” of the love of God. After all, Jesus was not only with God in the beginning; He was God. And with His birth, life, and death among us He would illustrate the spiritual truth of God’s love. A parable “puts flesh on the eternal truth so we can see it.”**
Working my way through my garden the other day, pruning, picking, reveling in the care God took to create such beauty—how blessed we are! How little I know about the growth process, except that it begins with a seed.
Jesus’ urgency to reveal the secrets of the kingdom to those who believe was prefaced by a connection on a personal level with His true followers. His prayer to the Father for the “little children”—those humbly open to truth—is underlined with love for them: “Yes, Father, for this was your good pleasure” (11:25-26).
Ah, parables! There had been a shift in Jesus’ teaching, an urgency to make the secrets of the kingdom clear. Now that He was on the road to the cross, it was imperative His followers understand these truths and pass them on. Parables would touch their hearts and be remembered when He was gone.
During the dedication of the Temple in Jerusalem, Solomon prayed with his arms stretched toward heaven. He pleaded with God to hear, to listen, to respond, and to forgive the sins of the Israelites. He followed his prayer of dedication with sacrificial offerings.
Our young family moved twelve times. Each move felt more chaotic and unceremonious than the last. In comparison, move-in day for Solomon’s Temple must have transpired very differently! Enormous crowds, prayers, and a fourteen-day celebration marked the occasion. On the first day, Solomon asked an interesting question during his prayer of dedication: “But will God really dwell on earth? The heavens even the highest heaven cannot contain you. How much less this temple I have built” (1 Kings 8:27).
Coco, my pup, notifies me when it is time to retrieve the day’s mail. One day, after our trip to the mailbox, she watched curiously as I opened a package containing a small, yellowed classic--Lewis Smedes’ book on forgiveness. Its size betrayed its reputation.
Millie, my daughter’s dog, chases moving shadows in almost frantic obsession. Her shadow-chasing reminds me of James’ description of God as the Father of heavenly lights who does not change like shifting shadows (James 1:17b).
The compassion for God’s creation lingers as part of the legacy of St. Francis* of Assisi. In fact, a crumbling statue of St. Francis embracing a small bird graces my garden and reminds me of my own increasing sensitivities to God’s creation.
I admire people who have the natural gift to build things with their hands. My Dad is one of these types of individuals who can build just about anything. He has made me furniture, accessories for my kitchen, and small trinkets. His gifts are treasured and appreciated. As much as I love these pieces, I would never worship them
“Mom, I want you to homeschool me,” replied my daughter. I could not help but laugh at that comment. The idea of me homeschooling my kids was a hilarious thought, at least that it was I told myself. However, my daughter was very serious about her comment. I knew my only response was to pray about it. When God made it very clear homeschooling was what I was supposed to do, I felt completely unqualified for the task. I struggled in school academically, how in the world could I teach my own? I started bringing all kinds of excuses to God.
When I was in middle school and high school I used to get made fun of because of my name. Smart remarks or jabbing insults about it would cause me to resent the name I was given. As I matured in my walk with the Lord and allowed Him to build my confidence regarding my name, I learned to love and appreciate it.
When I walk into my Mom’s closet her perfume scent immediately reaches my sense of smell. Her clothing, even after washing, still releases that sweet fragrance. Every time I open the door it makes me smile because that aroma is my Mom.
In highschool I had several friends who moved away but we continued to keep in touch by writing each other letters. It allowed me to catch up with what was happening in their lives. Reading their sweet words made it seem as if distance was not a hindrance to our relationship.
I was recently asked the question, “What do you delight in?” Numerous things came to mind, but I can tell you what never crossed my mind—my weaknesses and my difficulties.
My sister and I recently visited Zion National Park with the intention of hiking the easier trails. (We aren’t quite as agile as we used to be.) As we hiked one trail, we were surprised at its steepness and difficulty. We figured the hardest part of the trail must be at the beginning.
These sentiments were spoken by Israel, but I suspect we’ve all felt this way at some point. Trials loom, and God seems absent. We don’t see God working for us, and we wrongly assume He has disregarded us.
I remember the year this verse became permanently embedded in my faith. I was in my thirty’s and was called to lead a ministry that required time, skill, and wisdom I didn’t have. Frankly, I couldn’t understand why God had chosen me for the position. Throughout the year difficulty after difficulty surfaced. In my weakness, I remained bowed spiritually and often physically.
