What Does the Fox Feel?

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A friend of mine posed a very good question tonight at Chick-fil-A. I mean, everyone knows what the fox SAYS, but does anyone care about how the fox FEELS? Maybe foxy, if the fox is female. But what if it’s a male fox?

I saw a fox running across the parking lot of Brentwood United Methodist Church. I’m not sure how he or she felt about the current state of affairs or local politics. I didn’t get the chance to ask.

I know how I feel: tired. The kind of tired that makes me want to turn into a hibernating hermit. The kind where the social butterfly turns into the cranky caterpillar.

After tonight’s Kairos message, I know the question on the Final Exam, the one Jesus will ask me, won’t be how I felt about Him or how much information I amassed about the Bible. It will be about what kind of person I was.

It’s interesting that the people Jesus praises in Matthew 26 for serving Him by serving the least of these will be totally taken by surprise. They will have been so engrossed in following Jesus and taking on His character that the serving will be second nature, something they do without even thinking about it.

Too often, I am too focused on me. I’m reminded of the great definition of humility, which is not thinking less of yourself, but thinking of yourself less.

Some days, that comes easily. Some days, it’s all I can do to notice the people around me from being so wrapped up in my own pity party and overanalyzing every little thing.

I am learning to allow myself to be imperfect and to have bad days and to occasionally lose focus. It’s not okay to stay there and it’s not okay to take it out on others. What I do is give thanks for the good date and those around me who see me at my worst and love me and help to bring out my best.

Even foxes have days when they don’t feel so foxy.

A Face to Call Home: Still Another Letter to my Future Wife

I chose this picture because I want my wife to look this radiant. The actual girl pictured is probably-- no definitely-- too young for me.

I chose this picture because I want my wife to look this radiant. The actual girl pictured is probably– no definitely– too young for me.

Little by little, inch by inch
We built a yard with a garden in the middle of it
It ain’t much but it’s a start
You got me swaying right along to the song in your heart
And a face to call home
A face to call home
You got a face to call home . . . .

So good you didn’t see
The nervous wreck I used to be
You’d never know a man could feel so small
And you never look at me
Like I’m a liability
I bet you think I’ve never been at all

Little by little, inch by inch
We built a yard with a garden in the middle of it
And it ain’t much, but it’s a start
You got me swaying right along to the song in your heart

And a face to call home
A face to call home
You got a face to call home

A face to call home
A face to call home
You got a face to call home

Maybe I could stay a while,
Maybe I could stay a while,
Maybe I could stay a while,
I’m talkin’ like all of the time” (John Mayer).

Here I am again, writing you another letter instead of holding you in my arms. A verse in Proverbs says that a hope deferred makes a heart sick, but a hope deferred is still better than no hope at all. And my hopes are alive, even if the monitors would barely pick up a heartbeat. I still have hope.

I’m seeing more and more of what you’re like and I’m loving it. You have a beauty that’s all your own and you’re probably not even aware of it. It’ll be my job to show you and tell you every single day how beautiful you are and to bring that radiance out of you. You have a smile that makes me weak in the knees and a laugh that warms my heart. I don’t deserve that way you look at me and only me.

If I were to say that I’m up to the task of being a husband and a father, I’d be proving once and for all that I’m not ready. I can say for certain that I’m not up to it– not nearly– but I’ll be calling on all the power of Christ in me if I have any hopes of making us work.

So yet again. I’m praying that you hold on to hope. I’m praying you don’t listen to anyone who tells you how to become their idea of beautiful. Don’t let any man (even me. Especially me) treat you like anything less than a Princess, Child of the King, Beloved, the one Christ thought was to die for. Don’t settle. Don’t compromise. Don’t quit.

I love what I heard while you search for the perfect man, you could be missing the one who’s imperfect but would do anything to make you perfectly happy. I’m praying when the time comes that will be me.

Until then, I love you already and I can’t wait to meet you.

Your future husband (and still another Ragamuffin who’s living his miracle).

Greg