“What would you do if you wuz the devil?” Aunt Ruth asked.
“I’d retire and sue the movie industry for back pay,” I said.
Aunt Ruth was neither my aunt, nor was she named “Ruth.” Through a series of circumstances I don’t have space to tell, that’s what I wound up calling her. Crusty, funny, frank, and yes – godly – Aunt Ruth had eyes that danced long after her feet no longer could. Today her eyes were dancing.
“I’m serious,” she said. “What would you do?”
“Oh, the usual, I guess. Lust, greed, bitterness. Why are you asking?” (We’d been talking about how blessed we were as a church, and how excited I was about the future.)
“Come on, boy, he’s got more sense than that! Too bad you don’t.” [click to continue…]
It all started with that 55-mph speed limit. In the mid-1970s, Americans traded in their muscle cars for Toyotas and slowed down.
But a certain segment of the population balked. These people were paid to transport goods to their destinations in a timely manner, and felt that the new speed limits were doing considerable harm to their livelihood. So they started working together to cover each other’s back.
This created a fad that spawned a counterculture, complete with its own lingo, music, and personal identities. Everybody, it seemed, rushed out to get a CB radio.
Once the stuff of rescue workers, hobbyists, and the like, citizens-band radios became standard equipment in many vehicles. Gone were the official call-letters used by the “legal eagles” who actually paid for a license to use the things (KFN 0508, if you even remotely care what ours was). Everybody used a “handle.”
A handle was a nickname you gave yourself so that people could “grab hold” of you by saying something along the lines of, “Break, one-nine. How ‘bout that Blue Goose? You got your ears on”? And you, assuming that was your handle, would reply something like, “Ten-four, good buddy.”
No, children, I’m not making this up.
CBs, for the most part, have gone the way of the 55-mph speed limit, though our trucker friends still use them. But you still have a handle – a unique identity by which you can be “grabbed.” [click to continue…]
Tense Truth: For every big answered prayer you experience, you can find some trivial something God chose not to say “yes” to. For every simple request He responds to, you can find some issue of global significance or suffering that He appears oblivious to. Regardless, the Kingdom of God moves forward on that praying of its people, and when we don’t ask, we don’t receive.
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Did you ever dissect a rose or a tulip or something in biology class? You know – where you learned about those parts, like the pistil, the anvil, the stirrup, the air ducts, the seaman, and all that stuff? Did the thought ever occur to you that no matter how interesting the inner understanding may be, what makes the flower beautiful is the whole?
A lot of people approach prayer the same way. They feel compelled to slice it, dice it, dissect it, analyze it. They ask “Why?” and “How?” questions a lot. I’ll confess, those kinds of thoughts rattle around in my head. My wife, the faith warrior, will talk about some simple thing the Lord wonderfully gave her, like a parking place or a sale at Kirkland’s or a thought to call somebody. And I’ll be thinking, “Okay, but really…” Or I’ll go off on a riff like I did last week about praying for the economy or gas prices (are they really slipping?) or the environment, and the whole time I’m opining, I’m thinking, “People are going to think I’m nuts.”
[click to continue…]
“What would you do if you wuz the devil?” Aunt Ruth asked. 