“What we call ‘being in love’ is a glorious state, and, in several ways, good for us. It helps to make us generous and courageous, it opens our eyes not only to the beauty of the beloved but to all beauty, and it subordinates (especially at first) our merely animal sexuality; in that sense, love is the great conqueror of lust. No one in his senses would deny that being in love is far better than either common sensuality or cold self-centredness. But, as I said before, ‘the most dangerous thing you can do is to take any one impulse of our own nature and set it up as the thing you ought to follow at all costs’. Being in love is a good thing, but it is not the best thing. There are many things below it, but there are also things above it. You cannot make it the basis of a whole life. It is a noble feeling, but it is still a feeling. Now no feeling can be relied on to last in its full intensity, or even to last at all. Knowledge can last, principles can last, habits can last; but feelings come and go. And in fact, whatever people say, the state called ‘being in love’ usually does not last” (C. S. Lewis, Mere Christianity).

“Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn’t want what it doesn’t have.
Love doesn’t strut,
Doesn’t have a swelled head,
Doesn’t force itself on others,
Isn’t always ‘me first,’
Doesn’t fly off the handle,
Doesn’t keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn’t revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end” (1 Corinthians 13: 4-7, The Message).

Ultimately, love is not a feeling. It is an act of the will. It is a deliberate choice to seek the good of someone else, often at your own expense. Jesus is the supreme embodiment of what love looks like, eventually laying down His life for His beloved, us. Love is more than something we feel — it’s something we do. Love is a verb.

It’s not the end of the week. Alas, it’s only Monday. But what I’ve discovered is that God’s office hours aren’t like most university professors. It’s not Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from 3-5 pm. God’s doors are always open and He is always ready to receive His wayward and willful children back.

You don’t have to wait until the end of the week to realize that you’ve made a mess of things and need a Father’s embrace. The Heavenly Father stands just as ready to welcome you right now as He has ever been — 100% willing.

Someone posted on Facebook recently about how God is constantly evolving, and since we’re made in His image, that means we should be okay with us constantly changing. I agree with the second part. Not so much with the first.

I believe that God is the one unchanging constant in a world full of turmoil, chaos, and upheaval. He’s the one rock I cling to in a sea of shifting sand. If I strive to keep Him at the center, He will keep all the pieces of my life in orbit from flying apart.

For something to evolve means that it has room to improve, not one who is all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-loving. To me, that’s making God in my image rather than me being in His. I would classify such a deity as a god with a little g rather than God. Such a being would not be one that I’d want to serve or to trust with my life.

In the Bible, all God’s promises are staked on His character. If His character is not static but in flux and changing, then none of His promises are sure. There is no certainty of heaven or even of good ultimately triumphing over evil. There is no guarantee that all the wrongs will one day be made right or that we will ever see our lost loved ones again. There is no reason to believe that throughout all our lives God will still love us or keep us in His care and never leave us or forsake us.

One of God’s name that He has chosen to reveal Himself by is I AM. That speaks to permanence and unchanging. That is the God of Abraham, of Isaac, of Jacob. That is the God who became incarnate in the person of Jesus. That is same God from the garden of Eden in Genesis to the heavenly city in Revelation. That is the God I believe in.

Though I may not always understand His ways, I can trust His heart. I may not be able to fathom His actions, but I know everything He does flows from an unchanging and constant character of goodness and love and holiness. I can speak the words of Job, “Though He slay me, I will hope in Him,” because I know He will always act and speak for His glory and my good. Always.

As I type these words, I can hear the thunder booming and the rain lashing against the windows of my bedroom. I’m thankful to be inside rather than out in the rain or trying to drive home in the storm. I can appreciate the majesty of the storm without having to be afraid of it.

That’s a good analogy for what it means to fear God. It doesn’t mean cowering in terror from God, but having a healthy and reverent awe and respect for the God who made everything. The God who isn’t simply a bigger and stronger and better version of me, but something that is Wholly Other. The God who owes me no explanations for what He says or does. The God who does not change but who is eternally true to His nature and to His promises.

There is a bit of inherent fear that comes with not being able to fully comprehend or understand all of who God is. It’s a bit unsettling to know that I could never wrap my brain around God, and even what little I know is because He has chosen to make Himself known to me. Otherwise, a lifetime of searching could never hope to unravel the mysteries of God.

S. D. Gordon once said that Jesus is God spelling Himself out in a language humanity could understand. Everything that is important and vital for us to know about God is revealed through Jesus. That’s why the incarnation is at the core of the Christian faith — without it, there is no hope of knowing God.

I used to be terrified of thunderstorms, especially of the loud noise of the thunder. Now, I understand them better and appreciate them more and am less afraid of them. The more I know of God, the more I can truly fear Him in a holy reverent awe and the less I am afraid of Him.

I’m just gonna leave this one right here. And no, I could not work at a bubble wrap factory.

“Comparison is the kiss of death to gratitude.”

Just let that sink in.

If you spend your entire life comparing yourself to others, you’ll never gain a true appreciation for the uniqueness of who God created you to be. You’ll focus on what others have that you don’t and never be thankful for what you already have.

It seems like advertising and marketing are almost solely driven by creating envy and covetousness designed to get us to buy what we don’t need to impress others we don’t even know in a race where winning or losing is pointless and irrelevant. Whoever dies with the most toys still dies and doesn’t take any of them with them.

But when you give thanks, what you have becomes enough. God becomes enough. Anything else is gravy.

“Overcome there, Jesus was himself overcoming. Crushed by the ruthless power of Rome, he was himself crushing the serpent’s head (Gn 3:15). The victim was the victor, and the cross is still the throne from which he rules the world” (John Stott).

Presidents come and go, Prime Ministers come and go, governments come and go, and all the while, Jesus is still King. One day, America will pass away, but there will never be a day that will see the end of Jesus’ Kingdom. It shall never end.

11 years ago today, I had the idea to start writing blog posts and posting them to see what would happen. The goal is to discipline myself to write something every day, regardless of whether 1,000 people or just 1 person will read it.

Some days, the words flow like they’re coming from somewhere else and flowing through me. Some days, it feels like a chore to put anything together. On those days, it’s best to say, “I will try again tomorrow.”

That goes for most of life. Some days are good, some are not. Some days, you feel like everything goes right. The other days, you can’t do anything right. On those days, you can say, “I will try again tomorrow.”

That’s what courage really is. It’s not always heroic sacrifice or roaring. Sometimes, it’s that quiet voice that says, “I will try again tomorrow.”

I found this on a friend’s Facebook page and decided to “borrow” it because it speaks so powerfully and beautifully to the deep mystery of grief. I’m reminded of Queen Victoria who after her husband Prince Albert’s death, used to wrap herself in one of his old coats when she slept at night. I hope this little story of an orange cup will speak to those who are passing through the dark valley of the shadow of death over someone they loved:

“I washed the orange cup today.

‘The orange cup’ is not a metaphor. It’s a small, plastic cup—one of several in a multicolored set. It is small, and just perfect for the bathroom sink. It’s just big enough for a sip of water in the middle of the night, or to wash down daily meds. I had not washed it since before January 1st. Before you get too grossed out I had not used it either. You see, that little orange cup is the last thing in the house that Mark’s lips touched on January 1st, before he was loaded into an ambulance never to return.

I had picked up the orange cup several times before, thinking it was time to wash it and put it away. But each time it wasn’t. I would hug that little cup, cry a little (or a lot) and return it to the counter next to the sink. It wasn’t time to wash it—until today.

Today, I washed the cup.

When my mother died, her house coat (bath robe) was hanging on the back of the door in the bathroom. When my Dad died 5 years later, it still hung in the same spot. He had given away or tossed a lot of Mom’s items, but just not that house coat. Had he lived another 10 years, I think that it may still have been there… or maybe not.

Deep, profound grief is just weird. So, keep that in mind when you wonder why grieving people do (or don’t do) what you think they should do, or what seems normal. Grief is really weird. They’re just not ready to wash the cup” (Amy Boardman Rejmer).

That’s right, people. 59 days left until the official start of fall. Not that I’m counting or anything.

I’m tired of sweating so much. I’m tired of feeling I’m stepping into a sauna every time I step out the door. I’m tired of the rain only making it muggier instead of bringing refreshing coolness.

I’m ready to start wearing flannel again. I’m ready for a good bonfire with s’mores and hot dogs and crisp breezes. I’m ready for carving pumpkins and Halloween. I’m ready for carving turkeys and Thanksgiving. I’m ready for decorating trees and Christmas.

In the meantime, I’d settle for 75 degrees and low humidity. I’d settle for not sweating through my clothes after being outside for five minutes. God bless you if summer is your favorite, but please understand that you wearing a full-on sweater in 90+ degree weather is only going to make me sweat vicariously for you on top of the already profuse sweating I’m doing on my own behalf.

But there’s only 6 more days until August. That means school is starting back and the end of summer is nigh. Then September where we in Tennessee may or may not get a sneak preview or two of the upcoming fall season. Then comes pumpkin spice everything, whether it actually feels like fall outside or not.

But in the meantime, I hold out hope. 59 more days, people. We can do this.