I realize that it’s been a four-day work week. I also realize that it’s Thursday, which means that tomorrow is the day that inspires happy dances everywhere, better known as Friday.

I’m learning how to appreciate the weekdays as much as the weekends, so that I’m not rushing from one weekend to the next, missing out on 5/7ths of my life.

But still, Fridays are nice. It’s like a little reward for surviving whatever the work week threw at you.

It’s even nicer still when you get to sleep in on Saturday.

Tonight, I began a six-week class covering the Minor Prophets. I believe they’re called that because none of them could hit a curve ball and make it to the majors, like Isaiah and Jeremiah.

There’s a reason why you hear precious few sermons from these little books at the end of the Old Testament. They’re not easy reads. They can get brutal and brutally honest at times.

The reality is that sin and the consequences of sin are serious business. God doesn’t wink at our sin and brush it under the proverbial rug. As a pastor once said, sin always has a cost, and that cost always involves death. We die a little every time we give in to the choice of sin.

But underneath all the woes and warnings is grace. Even in the scary Old Testament, there’s grace. On the flip side of justice is mercy.

The Gospel isn’t “I’m okay, you’re okay. Let’s all just try a little harder to be nice to people.”

The Gospel is “I’m broken. You’re broken. We’re all messed up because sin entered the picture and messed everything up. Sin has a price, but Jesus paid that price by taking the punishment of that sin fully upon Himself on the cross.

Grace isn’t denying sin but declaring that you can be saved from it to an abundant life in God. Up until your last breath, there’s always a chance for grace.

I confess that these Minor Prophets aren’t something you pick up for a light summer read. There’s a lot that I don’t like in there, but if I’m honest, I know that says more about me than about the Bible. That means something in me needs to change.

So begins a fun quest to cover 14 little books of the Old Testament in 6 weeks. I think I’m up for the challenge.

I honestly can’t think of a single solitary thing I can add to that, so I’ll let it speak for itself. That Elisabeth Elliot was a very wise woman.

I’ll be honest. Ever since I started my quest to watch all the Classic Doctor Who episodes, a small part of me has been looking forward to the Peter Davison era.

I grew up watching All Creatures Great and Small, with Mr. Davison as Tristan Farnon, so I eagerly anticipated seeing him as the Doctor. So far, so good.

I can imagine he had big shoes to fill, stepping into the role after everyone’s beloved incarnation of the Doctor, Tom Baker, had ended his 7-year run in the role. But he seems to have risen to the challenge admirably, at least as far as I’ve gotten so far.

That’s the genius of Doctor Who. Every few years, whenever the show gets stale or whenever the actor wants to move on, the character goes through a regeneration and transforms into a new personality. There’s really nothing in American television that even comes close to it in terms of longevity or popularity.

Once again, thanks to the good folks at Britbox for making this beloved classic series accessible again (and for turning my wish to see all the surviving classic episodes from a pipe dream into reality).

It’s been spiffing great fun.

It’s September 2, the day before Labor Day, and it’s still muggy where I live. It can be deceptively mild the first moment you step outside, but give it a moment, and once you’ve done some time in the outdoors, your sweat glands will begin working overtime. At least mine do.

I anxiously await in 20 days the advent of fall. Not because the temps will automatically drop to fall-like weather, but because I know the end of hot stinky heat draweth nigh.

Until then, I thank God every day for air conditioning and iced water.

Tonight, I finally got around to watching an animated film called Loving Vincent. Actually, the film was entirely hand-painted by over 100 artists over what I imagine was a considerable amount of time.

Visually, the film is stunning. It’s like stepping inside of a Van Gogh painting and watching it come to life. All his paintings that I’ve loved for a long time were in there at some point.

The story was beautifully told and more than just a little sad. Vincent Van Gogh was an incredibly talented painter who only sold one painting during his lifetime. He took his own life because he was tired of feeling useless and didn’t want to be a burden on his brother anymore.

In a career that lasted just 8 short years, Van Gogh produced 800 paintings, many of which are now worth in the millions. It seems a pity that he died never knowing his own true worth.

Maybe the people in our lives need to know their true worth. Perhaps we should quit assuming that people know how we feel about them, about how God feels about them, and let them know in our words and actions.

With the recent upsurge in suicides, it’s vital that we address the issue of mental illness and increase awareness of a subject that sadly is still too often seen as taboo or a stigma. People who suffer severe depression and anxiety, as well as other maladies, need to know that they are not alone and that people out there do care for them. They need to know that there’s hope and help out there.

I definitely recommend Loving Vincent. I believe it’s available through Amazon Prime and Netflix. It’s an hour and a half well spent.

It feels like more and more we’re confronted with the growing reality that more people are choosing suicide as a way out of severe depression and anxiety. It hit very close to home recently when a lead pastor in California took his own life.

At some point, I probably bought into the idea that pastors were somehow superhuman and above such things as depression, anxiety, addiction, and mental illness. Society has turned the contemporary pastor into kind of a rock star with unrealistic expectations of what he should or should not be or do.

I’m beginning to understand that the role of pastor isn’t for the faint of heart. In fact, it’s impossible unless a person is called and equipped by God through the Holy Spirit. Even then, there are times when it can be overwhelmingly stressful.

Maybe this is a call for all of us to pray for our pastors and church leaders. Maybe it’s a wakeup call for us to realize that we are all called and sent, not just the ones who get paid for it. We can’t expect one person or one small group of people to do all the work.

The Great Commission isn’t for a select few. It’s for all of us.

I read this open letter than Kayla Stoecklein, wife of Pastor Andrew Stoecklein who took his own life, wrote to him. It’s completely heartbreaking but I think it’s something every believer should read to understand the reality of what he suffered through.

http://godsgotthis.org/post/177492799313/to-my-andrew-its-only-been-3-days-nothing-can

I’m reminded of something Ruth Bell Graham said about when a believer takes his or her own life. She said that when a child of God ends their life, God hasn’t called them home but welcomes them home just the same.

If you’re one of the ones who battle depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts, do not struggle alone. Find someone to confide in and get help.

“God says, ‘I am offering you life or death, blessing or curse. Choose life, then, so that you and your descendants may live’ (Deuteronomy 30:19).

‘Choose life.’ That’s God’s call for us, and there is not a moment in which we do not have to make that choice. Life and death are always before us. In our imaginations, our thoughts, our words, our gestures, our actions … even in our nonactions. This choice for life starts in a deep interior place. Underneath very life-affirming behaviour I can still harbour death-thoughts and death-feelings. The most important question is not ‘Do I kill?’ but ‘Do I carry a blessing in my heart or a curse?’ The bullet that kills is only the final instrument of the hatred that began being nurtured in the heart long before the gun was picked up” (Henri Nouwen).

Choose life. Choose words that are a blessing and not a curse. Choose to build up and not to tear down. Choose life, so that others may live, but most of all, so that you may live.

“The prayer of a Christian brother who was in prison for years in Romania during the difficult years of the cold war. He prayed:

‘Lord, I look forward to the great day I see you and your family in heaven. I look forward to seeing the great evangelists standing before you. I look forward to the day I see all the missionaries coming home rejoicing with their sheaves. I look forward to hearing all the great singers of the world praising you. I look forward to seeing the great preachers of the ages standing before you.

“But Lord, I have one special request. When that day comes, allow me to be there in the clothing of a prisoner. I want to praise you throughout eternity in my prisoner’s clothes to always remind me that I was a prisoner for you.'”

I can’t imagine how I’d ever pray that prayer if I’d been imprisoned for years solely for my faith. In my own strength, I know I couldn’t.

But as Jesus promised, when that hour of testing comes, He said not to worry about what we’d say but that the Holy Spirit would give us utterance and the right words to say in the right moment. And perhaps the right words to pray as well.

Some days I wish I could switch places with my cat Peanut. Let her drive the red Jeep to work and spend 8 hours in front of a computer. Let me lounge around the house all day in my birthday suit, napping whenever the mood takes me and eating whenever I get the least bit bored or hungry.

The best part of being a cat is that the fatter you are, the more cuddly you are and the more people like you. You have extremely low expectations, so when you do anything at all remotely interesting, it’s either cute or funny or amazing. You can spend time with your people or you can be alone, and either way, your humans will understand.

You never have to set an alarm. You never have to pay taxes. You never have to sit in traffic that inexplicably won’t move even though there’s no wreck.

All in all, being a cat isn’t a bad life in the least.