Featured

What Color Is Jesus?

“He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.” Isaiah 53:2

On my kitchen windowsill is a Christmas card I received a couple of years ago. It is a simple but colorful drawing of the Christ Child in the manger, with several shepherds kneeling in adoration. All the people in the picture are jet black.

Am I offended by the lack of historical accuracy? Not at all. Nor have I written back to the sender, saying “By the way, Jesus was Jewish, and the shepherds were Jewish, and that picture makes no sense.”

Nope. I love that card, because of who sent it and where it came from. The greeting inside is a hand-written note from one of my friends in Uganda – “To my favorite author.” Elsewhere in the note is written in big letters, “UGANDA LOVES YOU!”

Lately there has been some heated discussions regarding the question of “what color was Jesus?” This question was the basis for accusing whole cultures of racism, western European types in particular. It seems that some European paintings of Jesus show Him looking, well, like a European.

But then, why not? I would expect pictures of Him in, say, a Mexican church to look more Hispanic. In Asia you can find pictures of Jesus looking Chinese or Indian.

There’s a reason for this, and I’m guessing those reasons were more theological than historical.

These artists were probably aware of where Jesus lived and died, and yet they decided to paint Him in a way that made Him more relatable to the people of their own culture. These artists weren’t ignorant. On the contrary, I would respectfully suggest that their critics are the ones who might be missing the point.

And what is the point? What is the message of the Incarnation?

The point is, the Son of God – God Himself – left His home in heaven to become one of us (“us” being Humanity).

As a Man, Jesus went through the same experiences we go through. He was hungry. He got thirsty. He experienced weariness and pain and loneliness. He knew fear and stress and the sting of other people’s hatred. He empathized, He grieved, He knew anger and frustration. These are things experienced by every person that ever lived, every color, in every era, and in every corner of the earth. He came for all of us – for black and white, Hispanic and Asian, Middle Eastern and Native American. And for every race, every nationality, every ethnic group, He took our sins upon Himself and took them to the Cross, where He died for the forgiveness of all of us.

One of my favorite outreaches, the Jesus Film Project has been showing the gospel in video form for decades. Their movie, “JESUS,” the dramatization of the gospel according to Luke, has been translated into more than 1800 languages! Until the pandemic shut down the world, small teams of technicians and evangelists would trek into the remotest places, set up their equipment, and show the film to whole villages at a time. The people would gather to watch and be mesmerized to see the gospel story played out in their language! Now of course when Jesus was on earth He didn’t speak in the tribal languages of these obscure groups, but that doesn’t matter to them. They watch, they listen, they understand – and they believe!

SIDE NOTE: If you are a linguistics expert and want to get nitpicky about the language Jesus really spoke, you might want to rent “The Passion of the Christ,” where the dialogue is in the original Aramaic. (You might also want to make sure the subtitles are turned on.)

The Apostle John’s description of Heaven in Revelation describes a multitude of people that could not be counted, people “from every nation, tribe, people, and language.” (Revelation 7:9) I’m guessing none of those people got hung up what Jesus looked like when He walked the earth as one of us. Who knows? When we enter into eternity, He may show Himself to us in a glorious new color we have never seen before in this life! (Yes, my imagination can go wild when I think of entering eternity after leaving this finite world.)

The Incarnation is a profound reality, one well worth reflecting on. John 1:14 says, “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” In these days of arguing about anything and everything, let’s focus less on the flesh and more on the Word.

Prayer: Lord Jesus, thank You for leaving the throne room of Heaven to live in this fallen world as one of us. Thank You for offering Your life for all of us as the perfect sacrifice. You paid the debt we could not afford, so our sins might be cancelled out and we might live with You forever. And now, as we place our faith in You, we can look forward to eternal life in Your glorious kingdom, along with Your children from every nation, tribe, people and tongue! What a glorious day that will be! Lord, help us to focus less on the superficial and more on what’s truly important – how much You love us, how much we love You, and how much we should love one another in Your name. Amen.

Featured

To Seniors and Others Missing Out

Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things. Colossians 3:2

This piece, originally entitled “What Else Matters?” was posted May 3 of last year. I wanted to share it again, for all my readers who are or have seniors missing their prom, graduation, and other festivities they thought they would be enjoying now. Feel free to share this with them. I hope it encourages those who are feeling the loss.

It was the morning of the National Day of Prayer. I was sitting in the auditorium at City Hall, listening to my daughter’s school choir singing a goosebump-raising rendition of “You Are God Alone.” They were warming up for the city-wide prayer meeting that was starting in half an hour. And I was crying.

My daughter Kelly had been having a rough time in high school. The migraines that had first appeared when she was four years old had continued to plague her through grade school and middle school and had caused her record absences through high school, in spite of years of prayers and attempts to find a solution through medicine, both traditional and “alternative.”

But in spite of enduring more pain than some people suffer in a lifetime, Kelly had found a few sources of pleasure in her life. By far her greatest joy was singing, and her favorite part of school was choir. When the students performed, Kelly’s face radiated with unmistakable joy. She had looked forward to the national Day of Prayer and taking part, and as I had said goodbye to her that morning and she left for school, I had whispered a special prayer of thanks to God for this special day.

My optimism had been short-lived, however. Kelly had called me from the parking lot of a McDonald’s half a mile from school to tell me about the migraine that had assaulted her shortly after she had walked out the door. When I had suggested that she come home, take some medication, and rest until the assembly, she had sobbed that if she didn’t show up at 8:00 she wouldn’t be allowed to sing with the choir.

There are definite advantages to a small Christian school, one of them being teachers who know each student well and practice grace along with discipline. As I called the office to explain Kelly’s dilemma, the choir director, who “happened to be” right by the phone, responded with compassion. She said to let Kelly come home, take a pill and a nap, and meet the choir at City Hall at 11:30 if she was feeling better.

But the medication that knocked out the migraine had a way of knocking out the patient as well, and when I had tried to rouse Kelly for the prayer meeting, she had been hopelessly (and predictably) dead to the world. Now as the choir finished their warm-up and filed off the stage, there I sat, with nothing to do but feel sorry for Kelly, thinking of all the important high school events she had missed and would never again get a chance to do. And yes, I’ll admit I was feeling pretty sorry for myself, as well. (When “BabyBear” hurts, “MamaBear” hurts, too.) So in spite of my efforts to contain them, the tears flowed.

I was digging through my purse, looking for a tissue when I came across my small New Testament. Since the prayer meeting didn’t start until noon, I knew I had twenty minutes to kill, and the last thing I wanted to do was spend them wallowing in self-pity. So I pulled out the Bible and prayed.

Lord, Jesus, please encourage me. I don’t want to feel this way today!

I was not in the habit of looking for answers to problems by haphazardly opening the Bible; I hadn’t done that since college. But since I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, I opened the Book at random, planning just to read until I found something helpful, or until the prayer meeting started, whichever came first.

The scripture that first caught my eye was the last chapter of Mark:

When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices so that they might go to anoint Jesus’ body. Very early on the first day of the week, just after sunrise, they were on their way to the tomb, and they asked each other, “Who will roll the stone away from the entrance of the tomb?”

But when they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had been rolled away. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man dressed in a white robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who was crucified. He has risen!” (Mark 16: 1-6)

Something told me I had seen enough, so I stopped reading.

OK, what does that have to do with Kelly’s migraines? I wondered. But then I pondered the significance of the passage.

Jesus is alive … JESUS IS ALIVE! That means that death is not the end … for Him or for us! And it certainly means this life isn’t the be-all and end-all for those who trust in the Lord. – It’s barely the beginning!

Yes, my daughter had missed the National Day of Prayer, over a hundred days of high school, and numerous weekend festivities. She had missed Homecoming, but someday she would be at the greatest Homecoming in history. She had missed singing in the choir that day, but someday she would sing in heaven’s choir forever. Kelly loved Jesus, and she would get to spend forever with Him, at the never-ending, greatest celebration of all time. When one had that to look forward to … what else mattered?

What else matters? I asked myself, and I found that in spite of my pity-party, I was smiling. I decided that I would pour myself into the Day of Prayer and keep a better perspective on life from that day on, by remembering the one thing that really matters –

Jesus is alive!

Excerpted from BARRIERS (So, if prayers are so powerful, how come mine don’t get answered?) c 2015 Ann Aschauer

Prayer: Lord, we rejoice that You are alive! Keep us mindful of what really matters. In Your name, amen

Featured

On Being Transparent

All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags. Isaiah 64:6a

I don’t do windows.

Well, every few years I try. There will be that bright sunny morning when the light is streaming in, and the need for cleaning is so obvious, I grab the window cleaner, spray bottle, rags, paper towels, and squeegee and get to work. Two or three hours later I throw in the towel (and everything on it) and once more promise myself, never again!

Every summer we go to the house in Michigan that my grandparents built it in the 1940s. It was elegant then and it is still elegant now. Forty-six years ago, my husband Marty and I got married there, and two years ago our youngest daughter was married there. The house has French provincial architecture, fireplaces, a bay window, and French doors that open onto a patio overlooking the lake.

It also has windows that have had a curse put on them. Or maybe it’s just the paint on the frames that dissolves every time any liquid touches it… Each magical little pane is specially made to get dirtier the more it’s wiped. After several attempts at cleaning, the glass will go from mildly dirty to ridiculously streaked on the outside – when you’re looking out. Of course, when you’re outside looking in, all you see are the streaks that are inside. I have on occasion treated the job like an Olympic event, “the Window Sprint” – Can I run outside and get that streak off before I forget where it is? Pretty soon I’m streaked too, with sweat and dirt, and breathless with exasperation. No gold medal here.

(Now please don’t write and tell me how you clean your windows. Believe me, I’ve heard the advice, all about vinegar and newspapers and yada-yadda-yadda… I’ve tried it all.)

A few years ago, we put our house in Port Huron up for sale, and one of the many jobs that needed to be done was … clean the windows. [Insert scary horror movie music here.] When a perfectly gorgeous day came up and I had absolutely nothing on my schedule, there was no excuse to put off the job, however desperately I wished for one.

I was delightfully surprised to find the job was not only effective but surprisingly fun when it actually worked! I found myself singing as I got into the rhythm -squirt-squeegee-wipe, squirt-squeegee-wipe – and pretty soon I was looking around for more windows to clean. At the end of the day, I was standing in the living room, gazing out at the Lake Huron, relishing the fact that the windows were virtually invisible, and I may as well have been standing outside. >Eureka!<

For some reason I took this to mean I now knew how to clean windows, so when we later went to Portage Lake, one bright, sunny day I confidently grabbed my trusty squeegee and began to make the dining room gorgeous, one little pane at a time, forgetting that these windows were cursed… Two hours, one roll of paper towels, one bottle of Windex, and one tantrum later, there was not one pane that was totally clean. I threw up my hands and yelled “I GIVE UP!” followed by a few other things that were probably inappropriate for a Christian to be saying.

Have you been there? I don’t mean just with windows, but anything that you’ve tried to “fix,” that only gets worse the more you try? As I stood there that day, hot and exhausted, scowling at the streaks blocking the view of the beautiful lake, I figured the only way to get a clear view would be just to break the windows. That’s it! Just take out the pains – er, panes – completely, and the view would be great. Of course, that would have made the house a bit drafty and buggy, so Marty didn’t go for that idea.

It occurred to me that I was looking at a picture of sin. The Bible tells us that ever since Adam and Eve disobeyed God in the Garden of Eden, all of Mankind has been under the curse of sin. For many people, their lives may seem “good enough.” But then the light of God’s truth shines through, and it becomes painfully obvious that we “all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.” (Romans 6:23) The more we look at our sin, the more it bothers us.

So, what do some of us do? We try to clean up our act. Somehow, we think we can make it right on our own, although it should soon be apparent that if we were so capable of doing good, our lives wouldn’t be such a mess in the first place. After trying to make things right, we see that we have failed, and more often than not, our feeble attempts have made the situation worse than ever. At this point we should see that we can’t do this ourselves. But some of us refuse to believe we’re that helpless. So, we try harder, thinking if we could just try hard enough, we’ll finally clean up our lives.

The bottom line is, we can’t fix the mess ourselves. We have only two choices. We can avoid the Light and hope nobody notices the dirt, or we can go to God and ask Him to help us. Fortunately, He can. In fact, He sent His Son, Jesus, to take all our dirt onto Himself. When He died for us, He was taking our sin and nailing it to the Cross, and we never have to be enslaved by it again. He can make our lives clean, and He can shine His light through us. Isn’t it a relief to know we don’t have to try to clean ourselves up?

I haven’t yet figured out how to get Jesus to do my windows for me, but two years ago before our daughter’s wedding, we did hire a professional exorcist – er, window cleaning service. Now when I look out through the crystal-clear glass and remember how it used to be, I know what a mess I would be without Jesus. I’m just grateful that I’m not without Him, and that He was willing to do what was necessary to make me clean, so He could shine His light through me.

Prayer: Lord Jesus, in ourselves we are powerless to clean up our own lives. Thank You that You have not left us on our own, but You have shed Your blood to cleanse us from all unrighteousness, that we can live the lives You want us to live – the lives we truly want. We choose to trust You to shine through us today, in Your power, in Your name. Amen

“Good Christian Men,” Repent

To some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everyone else, Jesus told this parable: “Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people—robbers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.’

“But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’

“I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” – Luke 18:9-14

This was found on X recently. I don’t know who wrote it, but it is a good reminder/wakeup call:

Satan is not opposed to good morals.

He’s opposed to Jesus Christ.

Read that again because most Christians miss this completely.

Satan doesn’t care if you’re a “good person.” He doesn’t care if you volunteer at the food bank, recycle your trash, and help old ladies cross the street. He doesn’t care if you’re kind, generous, and well-liked by everyone in your community.

He cares that you don’t bow the knee to Jesus.

Here’s the deception that’s damning millions:

Satan has convinced people that morality equals spirituality. That being a “good person” is the same as being a Christian. That if you just live right, treat people well, and avoid the “big sins,” you’re acceptable to God.

This is a lie straight from the pit of hell.

The Pharisees had impeccable morals. They followed the law meticulously. They were respected, disciplined, and religiously devoted.

Jesus called them children of the devil.
Why? Not because their morals were bad. Because their morals replaced Christ.
Satan’s greatest trick isn’t making bad people worse. It’s making good people think they don’t need a Savior.

Think about it:

The atheist who feeds the homeless thinks he’s good enough without God.

The Buddhist who meditates and practices compassion thinks she’s enlightened without Christ.

The Muslim who prays five times daily thinks he’s righteous without Jesus.

The moral Christian who goes to church, pays his tithe, and avoids scandal thinks he’s saved without surrender.

All of them are headed to the same place: eternal separation from God.

Because morality doesn’t save. Jesus saves.
“For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast.” Ephesians 2:8-9

Satan loves moral people who reject Jesus. They’re his best advertisement for the lie that you can earn your way to heaven.

They’re living proof that you can:

•Be kind without Christ
•Be generous without God
•Be disciplined without the Holy Spirit
•Be respected without redemption

And still be lost.

The most dangerous people in hell won’t be the murderers and rapists. They’ll be the moral, upstanding citizens who thought their goodness was good enough.

Their morals became their idol. Their goodness became their god.

And Satan smiled because he’d accomplished his goal: Keep them from Jesus.

Here’s what most Christians don’t understand:

Satan doesn’t need to make you do bad things. He just needs to keep you from doing the ONE thing that matters: surrendering to Christ.

If he can get you to:

•Trust your morals instead of Christ’s sacrifice

•Rely on your goodness instead of God’s grace

•Believe in your works instead of Jesus’ finished work

He’s won.

You can live a moral life and still die lost. You can be a good person and still face judgment. You can avoid all the “big sins” and still end up separated from God forever.
Because the only sin that damns you eternally is rejecting Jesus Christ.

“He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life: and he that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but the wrath of God abideth on him.” John 3:36

Not the murderer who repents and believes in Christ is damned.

Not the thief who turns to Jesus on the cross is damned.

Not the prostitute who washes Jesus’ feet with her tears is damned.

The moral, religious person who rejects Christ is damned.

That’s why Satan loves morality without Jesus. It sends people to hell with a smile on their face, convinced they were good enough.

Stop trusting your morals. Start trusting Jesus.

Your goodness won’t save you. Your works won’t redeem you. Your morality won’t justify you.

Only the blood of Jesus Christ can wash away your sin and make you acceptable to a holy God.

Everything else is just Satan’s distraction from the one thing that actually matters.

(Annie) So, as we finish up buying, making, wrapping, and giving our gifts this Christmas, let’s remember what Christians are really celebrating, which is the greatest gift of all – eternal life through God’s Son – Emmanuel, “God with us,” “the Way, the Truth, and the Life” – Jesus.

Blessings to you all.

So Thankful for Them

This story was posted by a man named Paul Widener. It moved me to tears, and I just had to share it with y’all. This Thanksgiving let’s show our gratitude and love for the generations who came before us.

I stopped breathing at exactly 10:15 AM inside a Goodwill on the south side of town.

I was only there because my daughter, Sarah, is moving me into “Sunrise Meadows” next week. That’s the polite name for the place old people go when their kids run out of patience and spare bedrooms. Sarah was three aisles over, aggressively sorting through my life, tossing things into donation bins while talking loudly into her AirPods about square footage and “decluttering.”

I let her do it. When you are eighty-two and your knees click like a rusty gate, you learn that fighting takes too much energy. You just become a passenger in your own life.

I wandered off to the men’s section to escape the noise. The store smelled like other people’s laundry detergent and forgotten dreams. I was shuffling past a rack of oversized hoodies and flannel shirts when the room suddenly started spinning.

There it was.

Olive drab. M-65 Field Jacket. The zipper was still busted on the left side, stuck halfway up. The right cuff was frayed—I did that, chewing on the fabric during the monsoon season of ’69 when the rain didn’t stop for three weeks.

Someone had slapped a neon yellow sticker right over the breast pocket: $14.99.

My chest tightened. I reached out, my hand shaking. The moment my fingertips touched that rough canvas, the fluorescent lights of the thrift store vanished.

I wasn’t an old man with a pacemaker anymore. I was nineteen. I was standing on red dirt, the humidity thick enough to drink, feeling invincible because I had a rifle in my hand and three brothers at my back.

I pulled the jacket off the rack. It felt heavy. Heavier than I remembered.

I turned it inside out. My breath hitched.

There, on the inner lining, written in black permanent marker that had faded to a ghostly gray:

MAC. RIZZO. “DOC” MILLER. ARTHUR.

We wrote those names forty-eight hours before the ambush near the border. We passed that marker around, laughing, making jokes about who would get the girls when we got back to the States. We thought we were writing in a yearbook. We didn’t know we were signing a last will and testament.

I was the only one who came home.

And now? Now Mac, Rizzo, and Doc were hanging on a discount rack between a stained polo shirt and a ugly Christmas sweater. Priced cheaper than a DoorDash lunch order.

“Yo, that fit is fire.”

The voice snapped me back to 2024.

I turned around. A kid was standing there. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Curly hair falling over his eyes, oversized jeans that dragged on the floor, phone glued to his hand.

He reached out, not asking, just assuming. “You buying that, Pops? ‘Cause if you aren’t, that’s a serious find. Vintage military is trending right now on TikTok.”

I held the jacket tighter. “I… I’m just looking.”

“Let me see it?” The kid stepped closer. He didn’t look mean, just fast. Everything about his generation is fast. Fast scrolling, fast talking, fast fashion.

I handed it to him. My hands felt empty and cold immediately.

He slipped it on. It was too big for his skinny frame, but he popped the collar and turned toward the smudged mirror at the end of the aisle. He pulled out his iPhone, snapped a selfie, and swiped.

“Sick,” he muttered. “Actual authentic wear. Look at that distressing on the cuffs. You can’t fake that.”

“No,” I whispered. “You can’t fake that.”

He shoved his hands into the pockets. He paused. He felt the uneven lining. He took the jacket off and looked inside. He saw the names.

“Whoa,” he said, his thumb tracing the faded ink. “Who are these guys? Previous owners?”

I stepped into the reflection of the mirror with him. The contrast broke my heart. A boy with his whole life ahead of him, and an old man whose life was being packed into cardboard boxes.

“They weren’t owners,” I said, my voice cracking. “They were brothers.”

The kid looked up, phone lowered for the first time.

“We were your age,” I told him. “Mac—the first name there—he wanted to be an architect. He drew sketches in the mud with a stick. Rizzo could fix any engine with a paperclip. And Doc… Doc wrote letters to his mom every single day.”

The store went quiet around us. The hum of the vending machine seemed to stop.

“What happened to them?” the kid asked softly.

“They stayed nineteen forever,” I said. “I’m the only one who got old enough to shop at a thrift store.”

The kid looked down at the jacket. He looked at the $14.99 sticker. Suddenly, the “vintage aesthetic” didn’t seem so cool. It seemed heavy.

He started to take it off, peeling it from his shoulders with a sudden reverence. “Here. Take it. I didn’t know. You should have it, sir. It’s yours.”

I looked at the jacket. If I took it, I’d just hang it in a closet at the nursing home. It would sit in the dark, smelling of mothballs, until I died. Then Sarah would donate it right back to this same rack.

History dies when you lock it away.

“No,” I said.

The kid froze. “What?”

“I’ve carried the weight of that jacket for sixty years,” I said. “It’s heavy. I’m tired, son. Maybe it’s time for it to go on a new adventure.”

“I can’t take this,” he shook his head. “It feels… wrong. Like stealing.”

“I’m okay with you taking it,” I said, locking eyes with him. “On one condition.”

He straightened up, pulling his shoulders back. “Name it.”

“If anyone asks you about that jacket—if anyone compliments your ‘drip’ or asks where you got that ‘vintage look’—you don’t tell them you got it at Goodwill for fifteen bucks.”

My voice stopped shaking. It became the voice of a Sergeant again.

“You show them the names on the inside. You tell them that Mac wanted to build skyscrapers. You tell them Rizzo loved classic cars. You tell them Doc loved his mother.”

I poked a finger at his chest, right over where the heart is.

“You tell them that the freedom to stand here, scrolling on your phone, safe in a warm store… it was paid for by boys who never got to come home. You make them real again. Can you do that?”

The kid didn’t look at his phone. He didn’t look around. He looked at me.

“I promise,” he said. And he meant it.

He walked to the register. I watched my youth, my pain, and my friends walk out the door with a teenager who listens to rap music and probably has never held a rifle.

It hurt. But it healed, too.

Because that jacket isn’t collecting dust anymore. It’s walking down the street. It’s going to concerts. It’s living.

As I walked out to the parking lot to meet my daughter, I passed a bin of old photo frames. $1.99 each. Beautiful black and white wedding photos, pictures of babies laughing, soldiers saluting. Someone once loved those people more than life itself. Now, they are just clearance items.

We all end up on the clearance rack eventually. Our favorite songs become “oldies.” Our clothes become “costumes.” Our stories become “too long” for the younger generation to listen to.

But here is my favor to you:

The next time you see an old man moving slow in the checkout line, or staring a little too long at a coffee cup in a diner… don’t look through him.

We aren’t invisible. We aren’t just obstacles in your busy day.

We are walking libraries. We are holding onto names that no one else remembers.

Say hello. Ask us how we are. Give us ten seconds of your glowing, buzzing, high-speed life.

Because one day, sooner than you think, a kid will be trying on your favorite hoodie and calling it “vintage.” And you will pray to God that someone, somewhere, still believes your name is worth more than $14.99.

(Annie) The older I get, the more I appreciate stories like this. This is the kind of respect I tried to instill in my students when I showed them the black-and-white pictures of my parents, looking like movie stars of the 40’s, and telling them a little about the history they had lived through. This was shortly after we had taken my mom home from Florida after the fall and head injury that ended up taking her life. I remember when we were wheeling her through the airport and getting her on the plane, I saw the way most of the airline staff treated her. It wasn’t mean, it just made me want to scream, “Hey, this is not just some old lady, this is my mom!” Thanks for this beautiful reminder that every wrinkled face we encounter is telling a story. Now I’m seeing a wrinkled face in the mirror, and I guess one of the reasons I write is to keep from becoming invisible.

Are We Forgetting Something?

Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good. His love endures forever. – Psalm 136:1

So, it’s been ten days since Halloween, and some of our neighbors still have skeletons in their yards. Remnants of jack-o-lanterns can still be seen withering on some porches.

Meanwhile, every store in town is decorated for Christmas, encouraging us to jump into the season of “Buy-buy-buy!” lest we find ourselves falling short, come December 25.

(What’s wrong with this picture?)

So far, I have seen one lone house decorated for Thanksgiving. I walked past a couple setting up an inflated, smiling turkey, wearing a pilgrim’s hat, and a sign saying, “THANKS.” (I resisted the urge to tell them it might be more appropriate for a chicken or cow or pig to be thankful – thankful they aren’t turkeys.)

All kidding aside, what happened to Thanksgiving, that special time to reflect on our blessings? Between the season of celebrating death and what seems to have become the season of greed, has giving thanks been lost in the busyness?

It’s easy to point to the kids, who now have their own app for posting lists of what they want for Christmas. But a lot of us adults can fall into the same trap. Commercials on TV and internet are designed to make us covet stuff we don’t have, at least the ones that aren’t trying to persuade us to take the newest drug. And for those less selfish, we’re told we should be getting our loved ones more stuff! applying the strategy of the guilt trip.

Can we all just slow down and be thankful for what we have? Can we sit back and enjoy a holiday whose main focus is bringing people together and being grateful, before the “Black Friday” sales – which used to be on Friday but now are starting to encroach even on Thanksgiving evening?

At the risk of this post’s being seen as yet another commercial (Please read to the end!), I do want to tell you/remind you that my children’s book, “Grumpy to Grateful,” is available on Amazon (A search for “Ann Aschauer” will take you to my book page.) and can be ordered now to arrive by Thanksgiving. It’s written to remind kids (and adults) how blessed we are when there’s food on the table, clothes to keep us warm, and loved ones to share our lives with.

If ordering the book seems like “just one more thing to do!” – I understand! Please feel free to read your children or grandchildren the story right from this blog. My point isn’t to sell books, but to focus our attention on being thankful, even if it’s just for the time it takes to read the story of Jackson, the grumpy boy, and what it took to make him appreciate the life God has given him. Whether you order the book or read it here, I would love to have you share how the Lord used it in your children’s (and your) lives.

From Grumpy to Grateful (A Story of Thanksgiving) Chapter 1

From Grumpy to Grateful (A Thanksgiving Story) Chapter 2

From Grumpy to Grateful (A Story of Thanksgiving) Chapter 3

From Grumpy to Grateful (A Story of Thanksgiving) Chapter 4

From Grumpy to Grateful (A Story of Thanksgiving) Chapter 5

Happy Thanksgiving, friends. ❤

Prayer: Dear Lord and Creator of all good things, forgive us for the way we pass up what You’ve already given us in the pursuit of more. We do thank You now for the gift of life here, with all its blessings, both the material gifts and the intangible gifts of love, laughter, joy, and peace. And when life is less than joyful, thank You for Your promise that we never are never alone. Fill us with Your Spirit and make us blessings to the people around us, both those we know and those we are meeting for the first time, because we know that we are all made in Your image, to be vessels of Your love. Keep us from succumbing to the evil one’s attempts to corrupt our hearts by making us proud, selfish, and ungrateful. Make us more like You, Jesus. In Your name we pray. Amen.

Nyah-nyah! … and I Mean That in the Best Way.

For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain. – Philippians 1:21

Sandy was one of the first kids in my youth group in Manistee when I started it back in the late 70’s, and we have kept in touch all these years. Since we first met, Marty and I have had three children and four moves. Sandy has gotten married (I wrote a song and sang it at their wedding.) and had one child and two moves.

Sandy and Paul’s present house in Indiana is at about the halfway point in my drive between Louisville and our family summer home in Manistee, and often I would break up the trip by staying there. Sandy and I will stay up ’til the wee hours of the morning, “catching up.” Sometimes when Sandy was back in the Manistee area to visit her family, she would carve out some time so we could take a long walk and “catch up” some more.

Lately, Sandy’s mom was taken to a medical care facility in Traverse City after a fall. Sandy asked me to go to “T.C.” and sing for her, and I said sure. Sandy spoke to the director, and I wound up singing a concert for all the residents. I was chatting with Sandy’s mom afterwards when her other daughter Sue popped in. Sue was fighting cancer at the time and was a little weak, but she still seemed in good spirits. The three of us had a nice talk about music, God, and our faith, and how the older we get, the more precious the idea of heaven becomes. I shared with them a couple of encouraging dreams I’ve had lately related to our eternal home, and I think they were encouraged, too. I later told Sandy that I would love to sing for her mom again; maybe we could do it together next time she was in the area.

A couple of weeks ago I got a text from Sandy, saying Sue was in hospice care and was close to the end. Sandy was planning to come up to see her that Saturday to tell her goodbye, but she wasn’t sure she would get there in time. She asked if I would be available go and sing to her before Saturday, and I said of course. Because Sue was being given morphine, Sandy wasn’t sure when she would be awake, but a few phone calls later, we determined that I should go sing to her, anyway; even if she was sleeping, she could still hear and be blessed by the music of Scripture.

When I got to the little house and the friend let me in, I found Sue lying on the couch, pale, skin-and-bones thin, head wrapped in a scarf, and eyes closed. I sat by her and took her hand. She opened her eyes, and when our eyes met, her face broke into a huge, almost smug grin.

The words she whispered were barely audible, but I understood them clearly.

“I’m going to get there before you do,” she breathed, smirking as if to say, “Nyah-nyah, I get to go to heaven soon, and you have to wait!”

I faked a pout. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said defiantly. (I’d almost gotten into an accident on the way over. – None of us is promised tomorrow, are we?) We both chuckled, and I got out my guitar and sang her some songs about the peace of God, His incredible love, and the promises He always keeps. Sue drifted in and out of sleep, but she seemed not only peaceful but also, in a strangely wonderful way, excited. I could almost envy her.

Sandy did make it in time. I think Sue was waiting for her. She went to be with Jesus at about 8:30 Saturday night. And now her whole being is full of life and light, along with that smile that remained radiant until the end of her earthly existence.

Today it seems there’s more trouble, more lies and hatred in the world than any time in history, that I can remember in my lifetime, anyway. I started this blog in an attempt to spread “divine perspective” and get readers’ minds on the things that really count – eternal things. If our minds are on those things, we won’t have so many battles with rage, discontent, frustration, and despair.

These are the things to remember and focus on: That we were created in the image of our Creator, to reflect His glory. And even though we have all failed miserably to live up to our divine purpose, we can be forgiven, washed clean, and given a new heart, a renewed mind, a new body, and the “abundant life” we were created for. Because even though justice demands a penalty be paid for sin, God loved us so much that He gave His only begotten Son to pay it, so we don’t have to. When Jesus was nailed to the Cross, all our sins were nailed there with Him. If we accept His sacrifice as our atonement, we can be forgiven and start a brand-new life – “born again” – adopted into God’s family as His child. And as Jesus was raised to life on the third day after His death, we (those who have placed their faith in Him) will be raised with Him, to eternal life!

That’s what put that beautiful smile on the face of a woman on the threshold of eternity, the joy of knowing that “death” for her would be temporary – then real life would start and never end.

It’s my prayer that everyone reading this has that kind of faith, and if not, that we can discuss it. (My email is bascha3870@yahoo.com.)

Prayer: Lord Jesus, we are not our own, we were bought with a price – the price You paid. We could never thank You enough, but we will praise and serve you throughout eternity, in the life You died to give us. Until then, keep our faith strong in this life, in Your name. Amen.

Attention Health Care Workers

Recently I was very pleasantly surprised to read a post on the blog “Wearing Two Gowns,” reviewing my book BARRIERS from the perspective of a health care worker. I wanted to share with all of you (not just health care workers) what “Nurse Will” wrote. He even wrote a study guide!

https://wearingtwogowns.com/2025/10/26/minibook-review-when-god-heals-the-neighbors-cat-but-not-your-daughter-a-book-every-healthcare-worker-needs-to-read/

Thanks, Will, not just for the review, but for all you and your people do for those who are suffering. You are angels on earth! ❤ – Annie

Have We Learned Anything?

Always be prepared to give an answer to anyone who asks you to give a reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect.” I Peter 3:15

Every Christian I know (including myself) struggles with this verse.

Being prepared to discuss spiritual matters involves diligent study of Scripture, and we often neglect this important discipline. We’re distracted, we’re “too busy,” or we’re just plain lazy. It also helps to know how to approach a subject logically and be informed about recent discoveries.

Those of us who want to be “nice” all the time are often not prepared to speak up and “give an answer” about our faith. We freeze up, afraid we’re going to “offend” someone, as if offending is the cardinal sin of Mankind. (Whatever the world may tell you, it is not...)

Others of us fall short of gentleness and respect. We’re bold and ready at any time to speak up, whether or not the audience is ready to hear us. We fail to take into account the person’s background, where (s)he may be emotionally, or even what (s)he is interested in. Often, we forget to pray for wisdom and sensitivity, so we plow full speed ahead with our speech, forgetting that “They won’t care how much you know, until they know how much you care.”

So, does anyone have all three of these qualities mastered? Probably not, but the person who seems to me to have come as close as anyone I know is the late Charlie Kirk.

Everyone, it seems, is talking about (ranting about, arguing about) Charlie. Whether or not I agree with absolutely everything he said (I doubt anyone does.), I do admire the way he lived out his faith in the way described in the opening verse.

*”Always being prepared” certainly involves doing one’s homework. Charlie never went to college, but he read hundreds of books and showed up prepare for an informed and intelligent discussion. He alluded to his knowledge of history, science, and statistics and used logic rather than emotional manipulation to persuade. He was ready to give a (valid) reason for the hope he had.

*He wasn’t lacking in courage to give an answer when asked about his faith; on the contrary, he went into environments where Christianity was met with disdain or downright hostility by the majority. (I wonder how many pastors would be willing to do that.) He didn’t avoid the other side, he reached out to them, engaging in civil discussion whenever allowed to do so.

*As for sharing the gospel with gentleness and respect, Charlie displayed the spiritual gift of self-control. In his Q & A sessions, most were polite in their questioning, some were rude, sarcastic, or unruly. But Charlie never (to my knowledge) lost his temper, yelled, or resorted to name calling or demonizing his opponents. He didn’t cut off, cancel, or shout down his opponents. In fact, anyone who disagreed with him was invited to the front of the line. (Kirk has been called a fascist, but I looked up the definition of “fascist,” and fascists do not give the mic to dissenters.)

The young man who shot him may or may not have had illusions of silencing him, but Charlie Kirk’s videos have gone viral. People who had never heard his name are listening to him share his beliefs, the most important being the way to God through Jesus Christ. What excites me is the number of people saying, “I’m an atheist, but today I bought my first Bible,” or “I stopped going to church years ago, but I’m going back this Sunday.” These comments are coming from all over the world. What Christian wouldn’t want to have that kind of impact?

Those of us who desire to evangelize our world can learn from watching and listening to him, whether we need more education, more heart, or more backbone.

Maybe you have criticism regarding some of the things Charlie did or didn’t say or the way he presented himself.

First, he wasn’t trying to present himself, he was trying to present Jesus.

Secondly, if you have a better way of doing it – by all means, get out and do it!

Prayer: Lord, we are so quick to judge others, whether out of irritation, pride, defensiveness, or envy. Take our eyes off the faults of others and onto You. We submit to You our own faults and thank You for forgiving us and giving us a fresh start every day. Help us to follow every good example in those who have gone before us and leave good examples for those who come after us, in Jesus’ name, amen.

Some Things Don’t Change

Then Jesus told his disciples, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? – Matthew 16:24-26

Stephen was a faithful follower of Jesus. He wasn’t one of the original Twelve. In fact, we don’t know whether he had ever encountered Jesus in the flesh. We do know that he was “full of the Spirit, faith, and wisdom,” and “God’s grace and power.” (Acts 6:3,5,&8)

Stephen had been one of seven men chosen to wait on tables, because the Grecian Jews had been complaining to the Hebraic Jews that their widows were being overlooked in the daily distribution of food (6:1) But he also “did great wonders and miraculous signs among the people.” (vs 8) We aren’t told what these were, but he got the attention of men from different provinces who gathered to oppose him. But as much as they argued with Stephen, “they could not stand up against his wisdom or the Spirit by whom he spoke.” (vs 9)

Since debating Stephen didn’t succeed, their next tactic was to stir up false witnesses against him. Their accusations spread quickly (Today we would say they went viral.). When the people were stirred up, they seized Stephen and took him to the Sanhedrin. (vs 12) There the false witnesses came forth and repeated their lies.

When it was finally Stephen’s turn to speak, he gave a lengthy and eloquent speech. He recounted the history of the Jewish people, beginning with God’s call to Abraham and continuing up to the building of the Temple by Solomon, after which he stated, “However, the Most High does not live in houses made by men,” (vs 48) quoting Isaiah for emphasis.

One could wonder why Stephen was allowed to speak for so long uninterrupted, but he was stating the truth right from the Scriptures – what could his opponents say?

But when he turned to the leaders and confronted them personally, he sealed his fate:

“You stiff-necked people, with uncircumcised hearts and ears! You are just like your ancestors: You always resist the Holy Spirit! Was there ever a prophet your ancestors did not persecute? They even killed those who predicted the coming of the Righteous One. And now you have betrayed and murdered him— you who have received the law that was given through angels but have not obeyed it.” (vs 51-53)

That was all it took. The infuriated leaders stoned Stephen for what he said. Even so, his last words were in prayer for those who were killing him, just as Jesus had prayed on the cross for His executioners.

Up until that time, for the most part, the fledgling Church had remained in Jerusalem, “praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord was adding to their number daily those who were being saved.” (Acts 2:47) Some call this the Church’s “honeymoon stage.” Life was pleasant and easy.

But after Stephen’s death, persecution broke out against the Church. As a result, believers scattered in all directions, taking the Gospel with them, telling the Good News wherever they went.

Which was what they were supposed to be doing do in the first place!

Charlie Kirk reminds me of Stephen, whose enemies could not refute what he said. Charlie always showed up prepared. He knew the Scriptures (in context!), he was logical, and he challenged opponents without losing his temper or resorting to name-calling or yelling. He clearly had self-control, one of the fruits of the Spirit. It wasn’t long before lies about him were being spread online, but one had only to watch a complete interview or Q&A session to see the kind of person he was – not perfect but living out his faith with everything he had.

Like the Church in the earliest days, the Church in America, unlike any other place or time in history, has enjoyed a rare level of freedom and, if not favor, at least a modicum of respect from the general population. As a result, many of us have grown complacent and spiritually lazy. If we doubt that, we have only to ask ourselves, “When was the last time I shared the gospel with an unbeliever?”

(But the Great Commission does not have an expiration date.)

Charlie Kirk was one of the exceptions. He didn’t wait for unbelievers to come to his church. He went to where they were, in an environment where people were open to new ideas and not afraid to challenge and be challenged. In a world where nastiness is too often the norm in “discussions,” Charlie encouraged civil discourse. And among Christians, millions of us watched his debates and cheered him on.

But just as Stephen was murdered by those who weren’t able to defeat him with words, Charlie Kirk was killed by one man who resorted to a gun instead of words to make his point. And from the level of public rejoicing over his death, it is apparent that there are many who believe violence is an acceptable way of solving differences. For us spoiled American Christians, this is a disturbing wakeup call.

But just as the persecution ignited by Stephen’s martyrdom caused the Church to finally carry out the Great Commission, Charlie Kirk’s assassination has awakened today’s sleeping, complacent Church. Countless believers, especially the young, are coming forward, inspired to be more like him and carry on his work of sharing the gospel boldly, respectfully, and intelligently.

We’re finally ready to start doing what we all were supposed to be doing all along.

The world hasn’t changed much in the last two thousand years. The Gospel hasn’t changed. Human nature hasn’t changed. And the Great Commission hasn’t changed.

Are we ready to get to work?

Prayer: Jesus, You have called us to take up our crosses and follow You. You ask us to do what takes strength and courage – more than we have in ourselves. But Your Spirit lives in us, and as You empower us, we are ready to be obedient. May the pain of last week’s tragedy be the birth pangs of revival in our nation and the world, in Jesus’ name. Amen.

The Cross Still Offends

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. – John 1:5

The Cross Still Offends

by Pastor Rich Bitterman

The bullet tore the air in half.

A folding chair rattled. A Bible dropped. A young man slumped sideways beneath a white event tent, eyes wide with the weight of eternity.

It was supposed to be a conversation. A “prove me wrong” segment. But this time, rebuttal came not with words, but with a rifle.

Charlie Kirk didn’t get to finish his sentence.

I got the news just before prayer meeting. I contemplated this death as I prepared to lead the saints in prayer. But I didn’t feel like praying. Not tonight. My hands were still. My mouth was ready. But my soul was pacing. Angry. Grieving. Tempted.

Tempted to grow quiet. Tempted to sit this one out. Tempted to wonder if any of this, faith, boldness, public gospel witness, is still worth it.

Because hatred in this country isn’t simmering anymore. It is boiling.

Europe is trembling. Israel is burning. Rockets lit the sky over Gaza again. And now, here on American soil, the blood of a Christian apologist paints the pavement of a university quad.

What do you do with that?

What do you say when courage gets gunned down in daylight?

Charlie Kirk was no perfect man. None of us are.

But he had backbone where most of us don’t anymore. He was a believer. Unashamed. Unafraid. He understood that real conversations only happen when truth is welcome at the table. And the truth he carried most was Christ.

He brought the gospel into public space on purpose. Because the gospel isn’t supposed to stay in church basements and private Bible studies. It is meant to confront. It is supposed to offend. It was not made for safety.

The Word became flesh and they nailed Him to a tree.

So of course they came for Charlie.

Of course they reached for a gun.

This is what evil does when it runs out of arguments. It doesn’t reason. It kills.

That’s the part that catches in my throat. Not just the sadness, but the strategy of hell behind it.

The Enemy wants us afraid. He wants us to see what happened to Charlie and backpedal. He wants the rest of us to whisper, to soften the message, to believe the lie that faith should stay private.

But Christ never whispered. He preached in temples, on hillsides, in courtrooms, at dinner tables. And when they told Him to be quiet, He picked up His cross.

Not a symbolic one. A real one. Heavy. Bloody. Splintered.

When Jesus said, “Follow Me,” He didn’t hand out maps. He handed out crosses.

That’s what I remembered tonight.

I sat in our prayer space, surrounded by saints who had brought prayer lists and worn Bibles. And I realized I didn’t want to lead them in mourning. I wanted to lead them into battle. Not with banners or fists, but with open Bibles and tear-stained prayers.

The kind of war that kneels in gravel beside the wounded, hands them living water, and refuses to leave. The kind that speaks both mercy and judgment without flinching. The kind Charlie died for.

This world is not a friend to grace. But grace isn’t fragile.

“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” Paul didn’t leave that question unanswered.

“Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword?” —Romans 8:35

He piles up every fear you and I carry and then sets them on fire.

“No. In all these things we are more than conquerors.”

That means bullets don’t win. Slander doesn’t win. Prison bars don’t win. Death doesn’t win.

You can lose everything in this world and still walk into glory with your head lifted high. Because the love of God in Christ Jesus isn’t suspended by headlines or gunfire.

There are two worlds unfolding right now.

The one you see. And the one you don’t.

One is filled with chaos. The other is filled with crowns.

I believe that when Charlie Kirk’s body slumped to the concrete, his soul stood upright in heaven. Not limping. Not silenced. Not stunned. But crowned.

He didn’t fall. He crossed.

The great cloud of witnesses gained another voice. And I wonder if Stephen met him there. The first martyr. The man who got stoned for preaching what the crowd didn’t want to hear. The man who, in his final breath, saw the heavens open. The only time in all of Scripture we see Jesus standing at the right hand of God, rising to receive one of His own.

I like to believe He stood again.

Are you afraid?

Do you feel the tremble in your spirit?

Do you wonder if it’s still worth it to speak boldly, to carry your Bible, to preach the gospel in a world that doesn’t just disagree but wants you gone?

You’re not alone.

You’re not weak for feeling that. But you are called to something stronger than silence.

Don’t let fear become your theology.

The cost is high. But the reward?

The reward is Christ. And He’s not a concept. He’s a King.

Heaven is not empty.

It is filled with scarred saints who refused to bow to fear. Men who were stoned. Women who were burned. Children who sang while the flames climbed.

And every last one of them arrived.

There is no difficulty that can cancel the promise of God. There is no persecution that can derail your destination. There is no sniper’s bullet that can separate a soul from Christ.

Your life is not measured by how long you live on earth, but by how much of it was spent pointing to heaven.

Paul said, “I have fought the good fight… I have kept the faith.” Then he looked toward the reward. Not a monument. Not a mention in history books. But a crown. Handed to him by the One with nail marks still in His hands.

So let me say this clearly. We do not mourn like the world mourns. We do not write eulogies dripping with sentiment. We sing songs of resurrection. We carry the banner of a Kingdom that does not tremble.

Charlie Kirk did not die for nothing. He died carrying the same message you and I must now carry forward.

The cross stands tall. The tomb is still empty. And the gospel has not lost one ounce of power.

So pick up your cross. Wipe your eyes. And keep going.

The crown is worth it. The King is coming. And there’s still time to speak.

Even if they shoot.

Lord, give us courage. And if not safety, give us joy. For we carry not just the message, but the marks. And You are worth every bruise.

Prayer: Lord of eternity, give us the strength not to shrink back, not to slow down, but to follow You wholeheartedly, fearlessly. Help us to walk with You, run with You, and finish well. We thank You for the promise of eternal rewards in Heaven, most of all the promise of meeting You face to face and hearing the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” In Jesus’ name, amen.

Taking the Guesswork out of Big (and Small) Decisions

“Follow your heart.” – 21st Century Cliché

“The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked.” – Jeremiah 17:9

I couldn’t help myself. When I read the familiar advice written by a sweet, well-meaning young blogger, I had to respond. If I weren’t retired, I wouldn’t have taken the time. But having the luxury of a daily schedule that moves at a slower pace, I seized the opportunity to “sow some seeds” into this young person, who seemed almost as naive as I had been at that age.

I commented:

“If you can tolerate another perspective from someone who has seen 72 years of life and has “gone with my heart” more than once …

“You’re right, if we do that, maybe it’ll turn out well, maybe not – maybe it’ll be disastrous! (Please don’t ask me how I know!)

“Truth is, ‘The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked.’ (Jeremiah 17:9) That’s just one of thousands of nuggets of truth found in the Bible, a.k.a. ‘God’s Word.’ Another is, ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding [or gut!]. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and HE will direct your path.’ (Proverbs 3:5-6)

“The more I study the Scriptures, the more I understand the mind of God, the better I can make these ‘leaps’ according to what God wants and KNOW I am making the right choice. (And the fewer disasters and regrets.) If I had known at your age what I know now, my life would be even better today, and today it’s pretty great! Because when a decision is to be made, I stop and ask, ‘What does God’s Word say about this?’ If I act accordingly, I see the outcome, sometimes something I never would have planned myself.

“…I’m guessing you weren’t looking to be discipled on a random September morning, but there it is.

“May God bless you and give you wisdom beyond your years. ❤ “

In closing, I want to share the prayer I pray every day as I give the Lord my heart and “put on the breastplate of righteousness”:

Lord, today I give You my heart. I give You my emotions, my passions, my desires, my affections, my will, my motives, and my attitude. Please remove every shred of selfishness – for self is the root cause of every sin in existence. Fill my heart instead until I overflow with love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. *

Lord, I thank You for emotions that confirm the Truth. But I recognize that Your Truth stands on its own and needs no confirmation from me or anyone else. I thank You for emotions that motivate me to serve You. And I thank You that I can choose to serve You, whether I feel like it or not.

Thank You that my emotions don’t define me, and they don’t get to dictate what I say, do, focus on, believe, or choose. Jesus, I choose You. You are my sovereign, my king – not my emotions. You are my Master, my Boss, my Lord and my God.

Jesus, thank You for being my Savior, my Redeemer, the Atoning Sacrifice for my sins. (I am not my own; I was bought with a price.**) Thank You for being my Shepherd, my Provider, my Protector, my Defender, my Healer, and the Lover of my soul. You are my First Love. Let it never be said by anyone, especially not You, that I have left my First Love.***

Lord, I delight in You; give me the desires of my heart.**** Instill in me the desires You want me to have, the desires You want to fulfill in my life, so that I can live in the center of Your will.

Lord, I desire to know You and to make You known. I desire to know You intimately – to see Your face and hear Your voice, to feel Your embrace and have my heart beat in sync with Yours. Give me a heart like Yours, even if that means my heart will be broken by the things that break Your heart.

I want to smell Your fragrance, to be surrounded by it, enveloped in it, and saturated in it. Make me “the aroma of Christ” – the aroma of life to those who are being saved, even if that means being the stench of death to those who are perishing.***** Jesus, I realize that if I follow You, and if I’m doing it right, I will become like You, and the more I become like You, the more I will be hated by those who hate You, and I have to be okay with that. I only pray that when I am despised, it’s not because I am a despicable person with a despicable attitude, doing despicable things for despicable reasons. But if I am despised and rejected by those who despise and reject You, and if it’s because I am like You, I can wear their rejection like a badge of honor, because it identifies me with You.

And I want to be identified with You. I want to be in You and I want You to be in me. I want to be in the center of Your will, not playing around the edges. I want to walk with You, not running ahead and taking the wrong path, not dragging my feet and slowing down Your plan, and not wandering down any rabbit trails, making messes, and wasting time. I want to walk with You, run with You, make You smile – I want to make You laugh with pleasure! I want to be the child that delights You, not a child that grieves, frustrates, or embarrasses You.

Jesus, thank You for doing everything necessary to make me that child, for dying on the cross so my sins could be done away with and Your righteousness imputed to me. Teach me to translate that imputed righteousness into a righteous life and wear it over my heart like a breastplate,****** so the enemy can never penetrate my heart ever again! This is how I set my heart at rest in Your presence, whenever my heart condemns me. For You are greater than my heart, and You know everything. ******* In Jesus’ name.

(AMEN.)

*Galatians 5:22 ** I Corinthians 6:19-20 ***Revelation 2:4

****Psalm 37:4 *****II Corinthians 2:15-16 ******Ephesians 6:14

*******I John 3:19-20

Let Him Finish!

Being confident of this: that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. – Philippians 1:6

Our family’s summer home is on a little peninsula on a small lake, which is connected to Lake Michigan by a channel with piers and lighthouses on either side.

This place is paradise in the summer. It’s also a place of nostalgia for us. It’s where Marty and I came as children, where we met, where we got married, where we lived for about eight years, and where we spend summers, now that we’re retired.

Here I take daily walks down the road toward the “big lake” and out to the end of the pier on our side of the channel. From there I usually look over at the lighthouse on the other side, the one that has an American flag painted on the base. (The one on our side just has a “SLOW NO WAKE” sign. Not nearly as classy.) I look at the flag and smile, because I remember when that flag was painted, and it was not the U. S. Coast Guard that did it. It was some gutsy teenagers.

It was back in the early 70’s, when I was one of a bunch of young people who spent summers in Michigan. We were the lucky kids who had stay-at-home moms or parents that were teachers and had summers off. We spent our days sailing, water-skiing, playing volleyball, and splashing in the Lake Michigan waves. Our evenings were often spent around a beach fire, where certain members of the group would come up with their latest schemes. One of them, a brainy-type freshman at M.I.T., thought the concrete pier looked a little drab, especially after the old lighthouse had been removed. (Apparently, it had been too tempting for certain individuals to climb, in spite of the “Keep Off!” signs, so it had been replaced with the plainest lighthouse one could imagine and have it still be a lighthouse.) The blank, grey concrete base was begging to be painted.

In those days of the Vietnam War, anti-American sentiment was rampant. Not one to follow the crowd, the M.I.T. student opined that what that empty slab of concrete needed was an American flag. So, he and two friends set out one night to do their patriotic duty, albeit without permission from the local authorities.

The three of them waited until after dark, then sneaked out to the end of the pier with paint cans, brushes, and a long straightedge. In the wee hours of the morning, they painted a blue rectangle, surrounded by an L-shaped block of white. They then went their separate ways, leaving the paint to dry.

After a few hours’ sleep, the artists reconvened and set out to finish the job before sunrise. This time they had red paint for stripes and white paint and stencils to create fifty perfect stars.

It was vital that they finish the project in one night, because, of course, anyone seeing three teenagers painting public property unsupervised would think they were your average run-of-the-mill vandals. There would be arrests before they’d had a chance to show that, “Really, this is gonna look great, if you’d just let us finish it!” (“Tell it to the judge, kid.”)

As it turned out, when the sun rose and the first fishing boats were heading out the channel to Lake Michigan, the work of art was completed and had its first admirers.

“GOD BLESS AMERICA!” one woman cried passionately, as her husband stood up and saluted. Still, the kids thought it best to leave the scene of the crime before anyone with authority saw them.

The Coast Guard must have liked it, though, because no one ever heard any complaint, and to this day, the flag remains. It even seems to have been touched up from time to time by whoever is in charge of such things. (Either that, or we used really good paint.) The image of that iconic lighthouse has popped up in videos and on mugs, stickers, caps, water bottles, and anything else you would find in a local gift shop.

As for the kids that painted it, they were never caught, and after 54 years, I suspect the statute of limitations has passed.

Two of those kids ended up getting married, and last month we celebrated our 52nd anniversary.

When I look back on that night, I remember the excitement. I also remember the sheer terror I felt as a young goody-two-shoes who had never been in trouble with the law … well, not counting being stopped for speeding. I had moments where I was convinced I’d spend the last years of my adolescence in “juvie” – my reputation stained for life. But as decades have gone by, and as the pier with the American flag has become a popular landmark of the area, I find myself telling the legend of three kids that made their mark (literally) on the area.

(“And now you know the rest of the story.” – Paul Harvey)

So, what’s the “divine perspective” in all this? If you find yourself in the middle of something that seems awful, something that makes you wonder if God’s been paying attention, and if so, why He would let this happen to you?

Of course, the answer is yes, He’s always paying attention. But He’s been known to do some of His best work through what may look like a chaotic mess that doesn’t make sense – that is, not until the last piece is put into place. Just as seeing our project when it wasn’t finished would cause people to come to the wrong conclusions, chances are your experience may seem like a colossal mistake on the part of the One in charge. But you know that’s not the case.

Some advice: Take a deep breath. Say a prayer. Let it out. And let Him finish! He just might surprise you with something that will bless you for years to come.

Prayer: Lord, Your thoughts are higher than ours, and our thoughts can be so short-sighted! Forgive us, and help us to trust You, even when things don’t make sense to us at all. We know “You’ve got this,” and Your finished work will be wonderful. In Jesus’ name, Amen.