Only God’s supernatural power can enable us to change. Only His love can so radically transform us that our lives are never the same. And only then, out of gratitude, can we live the lives we were destined to live.
Source: Do Not Read this Blog Post
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When my daughter was a baby, we frequented many doctor’s appointments. She especially enjoyed one where I had to get my blood drawn, laughing hysterically throughout, clearly relieved (if not entertained) by the fact that she was not on the receiving end of all the needles this time. I, on the other hand, was not amused.
Once the nurse finally found my vein, the blood was not flowing freely. After watching my blood drip slowly into the vial, the nurse asked, “Did you drink anything today?”
Apparently juice didn’t count, so the nurse gave me two cups of water to drink immediately. A mere two minutes passed after I swallowed. The nurse prepared my arm and stuck me with another needle (to my daughter’s great delight!), and the vials were filled within seconds.
I had just seen a vivid illustration of what I’ve known for years: our bodies require water just to function at a normal level. My blood didn’t flow freely until I drank the water I needed. That day, I left the doctor’s office with a renewed resolve to drink more WATER.
Most of us would admit we’d rather have our water in some other form: flavored, sweetened, carbonated. And while these drinks may satisfy us temporarily, they don’t have the lasting benefits of water.
Our attitude toward water reflects our view of what satisfies in life. We often pursue things that have no lasting benefits—things that leave us just like we started: thirsty.
Jesus said he is the water of life, and whoever drinks the water he gives will never thirst again. In other words, we need God just like we need the water we drink. God is the giver and the sustainer of all life. We can search for satisfaction in other ways, but nothing will quench our thirst like knowing the God who created us and fulfilling the purpose he created us to fulfill.
One popular commercial says, “Obey your thirst.” To do this, we have to know what we’re thirsty for. We can continue to pursue things that leave us empty, or we can let God quench our thirst permanently with the knowledge of His perfect love, which has the power to satisfy our deepest needs.
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Will not the Giver of Words grant us the right words in due season to speak to the injustices of our generation, and to bring truth and life where there is deception and death? Will not the maker of the tongue loosen it to speak order into the chaos and confusion? If our heart is for the afflicted and oppressed, will he who hears their deepest cries not empower us to labor on their behalf?
Source: Blank Pages
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My son piled books on the couch, next to me, until they towered so high one wrong move would send them crashing down. I woke up early that day, anticipating some much-needed quiet time, but my son had other ideas about how I should spend that time. “Teach me these words,” he pleaded, adding another book to the pile.
Admitted: at this point, I was too tired and desperate for some alone time to be taken in by his charming smile and heart-melting dimples. “How about you look through the pictures in your books while Mommy reads her Bible?” I suggested. “We’ll work on teaching you those words later.”
He reluctantly obliged, though my devotional time was consumed with one thought. Among my greatest of missions in life will be to teach the next generation the power of words—how to speak them, handle them, read them, and write them.
I’d spent the days prior at a writers’ conference, learning to hone my craft. Yet what’s the point of writing to the greatest of my potential if the next generation doesn’t benefit from it? Writing is a high calling, but my higher call involves teaching my kids and my students.
Much of what I’ve written has remained in obscurity for twenty-plus years. It’s just now that I’m teaching some of my songs to my own kids, and to the kids in my classroom, and reading them stories written years ago. I’ve learned that my labors were never meant to benefit me, but generations to come.
The same is true in anything we may be called to do. It’s not ultimately about us chasing our dreams, fulfilling our calling. It’s about investing in the next generation, helping them to find and fulfill their purpose in life.
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What do you picture when you hear the word servant? Probably not a person sitting at a computer keyboard. The more typical image associated with servanthood would be a person tending to the sick or helping in the food line at a soup kitchen. Or maybe you picture someone on their hands and knees, scrubbing a dirty floor or washing filthy feet. And such people truly are servants.
But did you ever think that you could serve through writing? I didn’t used to think so. After working all day at an inner city outreach, I’d come home hungry to write, yet feeling a tinge of guilt that I wasn’t doing something more worthy of a servant. Though I’d be up late into the night for days on end, wrestling for the right words, I was convinced that those doing the more evidently sacrificial works were the only real servants.
True servanthood is using your gifts, whatever they may be, to bless others. Yes, there are times we’ll be called out of our comfort zones to serve in less-than-ideal settings. Yet if your gift of words will challenge, encourage, or inspire others, it is a pure act of service.
I’m grateful for those nameless ancient scribes who translated scriptures that we might have wisdom for today. I’m grateful for those authors who speak encouragement from beyond the grave because they devoted themselves to pouring out their lives in ink. I’m grateful for those living servants who write words in season for our generation.
To be a servant is to invest your talents for the benefit of others. It’s to sacrifice your time and resources that others may reap from your labors. For those who write, your words may travel to places where even the greatest missionary could never go. And they may touch lives even the most devoted of servants could never reach.
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Sitting on a padded lounge chair on a sandy beach, waves lapping over my feet as my pen easily flows across the paper to the rhythm of the swaying palm trees. That’s how I envisioned the writing life. How wrong I was.
For me, the ink has flowed more like blood than anything else. And the view has been a far cry from the idyllic writer’s retreat. But at least I’m not alone. Some of my favorite writers have written from depths far deeper than I’ve ever gone.
The world’s most meaningful words are wrought in the fires of affliction. They often go unread, unnoticed by the masses for years, decades, centuries, until they, and their writer, have stood the test of time. When they finally emerge, they are as liquid gold, yielding wisdom for generations to come.
Today’s bookstores are filled with words that will fade with the passing seasons, blowing away like dust from the shelves. They’ve endured a short while to feed a passing trend. Yet they’ll be long forgotten as time moves on.
As for me, I’d rather write with red ink, words written from a life of sacrifice and struggle. Words that stand through the fires of adversity. Words not meant for the fickle masses, but words for those hungry for something more substantial than a quick fix. Words that don’t fade with the passing of time and trends.
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The other day my son was begging for one of his toys while on a short drive. “Just be patient,” my hub told him. “I’ll give it to you when we stop the car.”
My son replied with his signature, charming pout. “I’ll be patient if you give it to me nooow.”
I often respond in the same way when waiting on something I really want. “If only I could have it now,” I think. “Then I could really be patient.”
Unfortunately, that’s not how patience works. The very nature of patience involves waiting. And ironically, it sometimes involves waiting for the very patience we need to endure the wait. Ugh.
Patience doesn’t magically emerge when we get our hearts’ desire. Instead, it’s cultivated through a long process of letting go, of releasing our desires again and again to the One who knows what we need and when we need it.
As for my son, he forgot all about that toy he so desired. When the car finally stopped, he saw that his daddy had something better in mind. A beautiful day at the park is enough to make any kid forget a whole pile of plastic toys.
Maybe once we master the art of patience, we, too, will forget what we thought we wanted. In the midst of the waiting, we’ll find our Daddy had something better in mind all along…something far more worth the wait.
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This Life & Beyond 
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