Which Face will Finish the Race?

Through love and truth, restored to stand, renewed and clean within,

My past forgiven, my present new, my future freed from secret sin,

I am at peace with where I am; forgiveness lets me breath again,

The dark is gone, the ropes untied, the light of grace has entered in.

He set me free because He lives.

I am . . . I can . . . because . . . He is.

But where I am is not enough; to linger in this peaceful place

Of solitude and healing, of redemption, cleansed through grace.

He asks and prods that those who change quicken then the pace

Of moving forward, not alone, but with others in the race.

He set me free because He lives.

I am . . . I can . . . because . . . He is. 

                                           -- Thom Hunter

When I was a little boy in Texas, yearning for a summer snow cone . . . and broke, there was only one solution:  Coke bottles.  Well, not just Coke bottles, but Nehi grape bottles and 7-Up bottles and Big Red and Dr. Pepper.  I'd start under the kitchen sink first and claim any I could find there.  Then I would walk the neighborhood and the nearby park.  Each bottle could be redeemed for a few cents at the U-Totem convenience store.  Pick 'em up, haul 'em in, get your cash and spend it. A snow cone, some Sweet-Tarts, maybe even a Spiderman comic book on a good day.

Sometimes the discarded bottles would have spiders in them or be filled with dirt, or, even worse, might have been used by a tobacco-chewer for a spit receptacle.  I never gave a lot of thought to the fact that, post-redemption, those same bottles would be filled again and back on the grocery shelves.  Redeemed.  Clean and clear and filled with purpose.

Some of the bottles I found, of course, were too chipped or cracked to be redeemed.  They made good targets for a BB gun or, usually, just got tossed back down and left behind.  Unredeemed.  Beyond use now.

They were just bottles.

But what about people?  Are we sifting through the discarded, searching for "The Most Likely to Be Redeemed," like we did "Most Likely to Succeed" in high school?  Do we vote with our eyes and actions, tossing aside a few that are just a little too broken to be of further use?  Are we sealing someone's future because of the revealing of his past?

I have a past.  Cracks and chips and broken pieces.  Dirt.

When I am still and focused, I try to see that past as God sees it in his way of flowing time where past and present and future meld into just being.  Where was and is and still to be are . . . one.  And I see a little boy, a struggling teen, a stumbling man and . . . I know them.  Indeed, when I try really hard to see all three as God does . . . I even like them.  I see them in snapshots, first with an old black-and-white Polaroid, then a Kodachrome Kodak Instamatic, then in digital brilliance.  A little boy with a burr . . . a kid with a cowlick . . . a teen with shaggy hair on his shoulders . . . a man with graying thinness. Snap . . . snap . . . blink.

Still, as Clarence, the angel in "It's a Wonderful Life," said when focusing in on the face of good old George Bailey, said "I like that face."  Or, those faces, all mine.  I like them now.

Still, love them as I do, I find myself, when viewing through the continuum of time and memory, wanting to warn them . . . to say a lot of "don'ts."  To freeze the frame. To reach down and turn them like a plastic piece on a game board.  It hurts to see where they are heading, but I cannot intervene.  I think I understand a little bit how God must grieve.

Don't go there.

Don't do that.

Don't open that door.

Don't close that door.

Don't tell that lie.

Don't believe that lie.

Don't say hello.

Don't say goodbye.

Don't think that.

Don't want that.

Don't refuse that.

Don't hide.

Don't run away.

Don't cry.

And the flash goes off and another moment passes, perhaps another self-inflicted crack or a chip here and there, the dents of desperate and deliberate decisions.  Trending toward empty, bordering on discarded, left in hope of redemption.  Wondering at my worth.

You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. -- Romans 5:6-8

I am so valuable, not because of myself, but only because God considers me so.  I am so redeemed.

But what of this trail of sin, so easily traced?  Regardless of the reasons we sin, we sin.  Yes, I was abandoned by my father, sexually-abused as a boy, a wandering and needy easy target for fellow sexual sinners.  But, the scarlet sins that grew from this fertile soil were tended by my own hand.  The regret and the remorse are the fruits of my own weakness.

Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the body is weak." -- Mark 14:38.

Too little watching, too little praying, way too much falling.  I'm responsible.

But, regret and remorse morph into redeemed and restored in the hands of a God who does more than trace that trail.  He sweeps it clean.  He establishes a new one.  And He walks it with us.

No, He runs.  If we run.

Therefore, since we have so great a cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us also lay aside every encumbrance and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.  For consider Him who has endured such hostility by sinners against Himself, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart. --  Hebrews 12:1-3.

Believe me . . . witnesses surround me.  And there are encumbrances and sins.  And they have entangled.  But . . . God says to lay those things aside.  God says to run with endurance, which means it was never going to be easy.  God says to fix our eyes on Jesus, which means we can ignore the tempting scenery that flashes by as we head for the finish line.

I am sorry that Jesus endured my shame and I am in awe that He did so with joy, despite the fact He despised it.  He endured it . . . so I could also.  So that I would not grow weary.  So I would not lose heart.

So I can finish.

And He provides help, in the form of fellow runners who help set the pace and in the form of those who cheer the progress of those who run.

One of my favorite camera views of televised marathons are of the outstretched hands along the way that hold forth a paper cup of water.  The runner grabs it almost without pause, gulps it down, drops the cup on the road and keeps running.  Even saying thanks at that point consumes too much energy, so the appreciation is silence and a renewed stamina to finish the race.  And the person on the sidelines cheers and knows he helped  provide the endurance.

Sometimes we are the runner, wondering how much further we have to go before we can collapse on the ground and breath deeply of the clarity of completion.  Sometimes we are the one who stands and offers a taste of the living water that rushes through and replenishes the rebellious body.  Either way, we are in this together . . . and we can finish well.  If we don't lose heart.  If we do not grow weary.

Sadly, some people in your life will choose to be a stumbling-block rather than a water-bearer.  Fix your eyes on Jesus. They're hurdles and He will help you jump.  We will all come to the end of the race at some point.  Which face will you wear?  One of regret or one of restoration?

We are all so valuable.  We are so redeemed.

Don't stop.

Finish.

God Bless,

Thom

The Consequences of Careless Compassion

I asked you what was wrong with me
"Nothing," you said, that you could see.
"Just be what you were meant to be."
And that's supposed to set me free?

"But this feels wrong," I answered back.
"Somehow I just seem off track."
"You're fine," you said, with gentle tact
"Your feelings are just out of whack."

"Don't carry 'round your guilt that way.
"We're living in a brand new day.
"There's no more need to self betray,
"Don't give self-judgement so much sway.

But what of God?  He sees inside
Surely He won't just let me hide,
With self and pride so justified
And truth and grace so well denied?

You answered back with a practiced glow
"Just drop this sadness, discard that woe,
"Accept yourself, just bloom and grow.
"After all, God loves you too, you know."

And a bit of truth slipped from you to me,
"God's love is what will see me free!"
From what I was to what I'll be.
For God's compassion won't lie to me. -- Thom Hunter

Outside my window this morning, life is fluttering by.  Literally.  In the past few moments, a graceful, floating butterfly and a determined and focused red wasp have been gliding about just beyond the window screen.  Both of them on a mission.  Pollination, sweet nectar, a bitter sting.  A mix of beauty and a bit of bite.

Some mornings we want a butterfly to lull us into peaceful bliss.  Some days we deserve -- and need -- a sting to bring us directly into contact with the reality of pain.  Sometimes when we want to follow the lazy butterfly down the garden path, we should be dashing down a trail swatting away at a yellowjacket, confronting the reality that life bites more often than hope floats.

I have come to the conclusion that at this point in my life I have been favored by a rationing of compassion, resulting in a reasonable rationality of reality.  For the most part, my problems indeed turned out to be real problems for me and many others . . . which in the long run leads me to seek real solutions.  Of course, that "long run" has been much longer than I would have ever thought my mind and heart and soul could survive, and it surpassed the limits of others.  But guess what?  The perilous points of rest along the way were punctuated with real compassion . . . the love that God provides for the endurance of those who run the race instead of forsaking the pace.

Truly I have experienced the mean-ness of compassion. That borderline compassion that feels so hateful at the time, like the sting of a wayward wasp, who sits for a second on your bare arm, inflicts his pain and flits away leaving heat and swelling, redness and itching.  That's wrong . . . and it's why aerosol sprays were invented, so you can respond in justified wrath.  Sometimes, when  those who claim to represent God inflict "compassion" in ways of pain and flitting, they need to be shot down so they don't just fly around stinging others.

I have also experienced what seems to be the coldness of compassion.  Zapped by truth in its most freezing and paralyzing form, left to drift and die on an iceberg in view of those who sip their drinks on the balcony of passing ships and point at me as I become smaller and smaller as the distance between us grows.  They may be cruising on their own Titanic, but no one may know 'till the iceberg comes to view.

Lest this be seen as merely a meandering of woe is me, I have also experienced the compassion that is real and warm to the touch.  A compassion that does not depend on determined distance but on intended closeness.  Not on separation, but on walking with.  I am amazed at the beauty and grace that some exhibit, pouring out in an immeasurable and constant flow the compassion that comes from an unlimited source.  They heard and learned of God's truth and refuse to let the world's definition of it divide it into meaningless portions.

Maybe it takes a mix of compassion.  Even the bitterness of detachment can be motivating.  Perhaps the experiences we have of being cast aside and tossed away by those who discriminate not between sin and sinner, teaches us great things not only about consequence and condemnation, but also builds our own commitment to convey compassion that is not contorted.  I find myself feeling compassion for those who have abused it; those who banged people about the head with love in the name of holy correction.  I pity them because they share this world and when they fall, they will want to sample a compassion that rises far above what they themselves have shared.

But who do I really feel sorry for?  I feel sorry for those who have suffered and cried and were not told that Christ had suffered and died so they could be freed from that.  I feel sorry for those who have been drowned in the gushing carelessness of a compassion that tells them that they don't have to change, they don't have to address sin so they can swim in the cleansing lake of grace and emerge on the banks of freedom to walk free of the weight of who they were.

The harshness of "hate the sin, love the sinner," has, in the compassionate minds of the misguided, dissolved into a hollow "I love you just the way you are."  No . . . you don't.  If you really love them the way they are, you'll help them be what God intended them to be.  I am so saddened for the young men and women whose parents, in selfishness, embrace their giving in to temptation so they can still have Sunday lunch and smile and pass the peas.  Careless compassion causes us to place happiness above healing . . . and we have not because we ask not.  The carelessly compassionate Christian prays for a perverted peace and discovers turmoil; proclaims acceptance and smothers a deeper and honest desire for change in the ones we love. This is not happiness; this is not healing; this is not helping.

Does it sound like I am not compassionate?  Should we pick up a drunk on the sidewalk and help him back into the bar so he won't think we are judging him?  Should we pause to tell a prostitute she might look prettier in a brighter shade of pink?  Should we stock a few essentials in the cabinet for the visiting addict to cook his meth?  Should we give a list of topics for the local church gossip to make her job easier?  Look the other way when cheaters get a little careless so they won't get uncomfortable when revealed?  We may as well paint a bullseye on our shoulder to make it easier for the wasp to zero in.

Careless compassion can be as dangerous as not caring at all.  I never wanted anyone to tell me that my sexual brokenness was just a cause for celebration.  Unfaithfulness is unfaithfulness.  Sin is sin.  Lust is lust.  Betrayal is betrayal. Deception is lying.  Knowing God's Word and doing one's own will is willfully defying.

Wandering is wandering.  If we're lost in a desert and we have a choice between a determined guide who knows his way out or a jovial, smiling and funny "it'll be okay, we'll find our way" sympathetic soul to walk with us until we drop in thirst upon the barren sand . . . who should we choose?  I don't know about you, but I wanted out.

Some have not gone with me.  Some may never believe I found an oasis and drank.  Some are still back there at the edge of the desert telling the slowly-dehydrating that they'll be fine.  "Just keep putting one foot in front of the other."  Others are standing at the same edge and saying "you deserve it.  The buzzards will be here soon."

Jesus went through all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, preaching the good news of the kingdom and healing every disease and sickness. When He saw the crowds, He had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. -- Matthew 9:35-36

Don't mislead me; don't leave me.

Compassion is a gift from God that we can corrupt like everything else He gives us.  Oh . . . but when it is presented in its perfect form, what healing takes place, what joy abounds, what grace flows and what beauty springs forth from the dry desert, shocking those who view it, like a brilliant and seemingly fragile butterfly that pauses on a morning glory.  Imagine, that little fluttering thing that looks like tissue paper in flight can cross the continent and return again.  It looks weak, but it is strong because it has learned to manage the currents and soar.

This past week at the Southern Baptist Convention, I looked into the eyes of Christian parents seeking direction on how to love their children who are falling prey to the lies Satan is spinning at an ever-more-furious pace and which the world is reproducing and portraying in an ever-more-attractive display.  How do we love those who are drowning in proud deception?  How do we keep them close and yet speak a truth that often makes them want to expand the distance?

With compassion.

To love them less with this sin is a betrayal.  We all sin in one form or another from the day we enter this world.  Self-centeredness can take some nasty forms, but it is still that:  seeking the satisfaction of the self.  Our response is to be compassionate and giving of self.

In retrospect, reviewing the years of dog-paddling in my pool of sin, I realize I would only reach out to take the hand of ones who could see me as I am -- created like them in the image of God -- and accept me there with the compassion not of "love the sinner, hate the sin," but of "I love who you are as a child of God."  These are the ones who went beyond tossing a vinyl ring with verses printed on it so I could ponder as I tooled around in the pool.  They had no fear of the water. These are the ones who helped me out and showed me a stroke that does more than just keep your head above water, but actually moves you toward the side.  They put more value on me than they did my sin.  By showing me the value of me, they helped diminish the value of the sin onto which I held in my distress and it became less and less of a lifesaver as it became less and less of my life.

Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:  Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. -- Lamentations 3:21-22

True compassion is not compromised. Compassion, God's truth, love and hope are intertwined like a strong and trusty rope.  Remove one and we are in danger of descending back into the mire.  Of being re-consumed.

Practice "true" compassion.  It's a life-saving skill.

God Bless,

Thom

The Proper Care and Feeding of a Why?

It’s okay to question why.

It’s okay to even cry.

Don’t ever hesitate to try.

God will answer; He won’t lie.

There’s no answer He won’t know.

There’s no place He will not go.

There’s no path He will not show.

God will answer; He loves you so.

No question lies within your mind.

That God cannot in love unwind.

That’s how we’ve all been so designed.

To seek from Him what we can’t find.

In His answers lies our peace.

In His words, we find release.

Our search can end, our troubles cease.

It all begins with show me . . . please.

It’s okay to question why.

It’s okay to even cry.

Don’t ever hesitate to try,

God will answer every sigh. -- Thom Hunter

I remembered a "why" the other day that I wanted once to ask my Dad when I was just a little boy.  It had to do with frogs, and it remains unanswered.  Curious, like all children, I was filled with "why" questions.  In this particular instance, it had to do with frogs because we had been out gigging frogs on a Texas pond in the dark mosquito-clouded night.  The frogs were croaking like crazy and easy to trace down and stab to provide for tomorrow's fried frog leg breakfast.

I wanted to know why they were croaking so loud when they knew we were coming after them in the boat.  And I wanted to know why there was no-where for them to go but this pond . . . or the frying pan.  Why didn't they climb up the banks and go over the hill and hop along to a different pond, a safer place?

I think instead that I asked Daddy why there were more stars in the country sky than in the city . . . and I'm pretty sure he answered that one.  But the frogs remained a mystery, drifting into the memory of a million "why?s" I never got to ask.  I probably yawned and scratched a bite or two and we went to shore and left the why of the frog behind on a crowded lilly pad.

If I had a million for my dad . . . can you imagine the gazillions that drift heavenward?  How many times must God have heard "Why, God?"

Why me?
Why this?
Why not?
Why won't they?
Why confess?
Why change?
Why repent?
Why is it still here?
Why again?
Why haven't you?
Why haven't they?
Why haven't I?
Why try?
Why resist?
Why flee?
Why . . . why?
Why, God?

I had five children.  They wanted to know why.  Why can't we go there?  Why do we have to go here?  Why can't I have this?  Why do I have to have that?  Why doesn't it work?  Why can't we afford it?  Why do the leaves fall?

Why did you?  Fall.

Sometimes when they were little, after an exhausting round of explaining why this and why that, the eventual bottom-line would be reached:  "Because I said so."

God does the same thing sometimes.  He says "Be still . . . and know that I am God."  I think that's a lot like "Because I said so."

Sometimes we take really good care of our "why?s"  We build fences and haul in feed and water and brush the coats and protect them like our favorite pets.  "This one is not getting loose.  I kinda' like 'why me?'  My favorite."

And God says, "Be still."

But what about this why and that why?

"Be still."

Obviously God has always known of our propensity to find the nearest slippery slope and try it out like some new ride at Six Flags, ready to give it a rating at the end of the track.  Man . . . that was fast, that was bumpy, that was quite a ride . . . awesome experience . . . freaky . . . deadly.

"Be still."

But God . . . when I am still, my mind is filled to overflowing with "why?s."  I need to keep moving.  At least when I'm on the slope I don't have to figure out all those answers to all those "why?s."

"And know that I am God."

When my children would not give up on asking all their "whys" to wear me down, I usually responded with a distracting promise:  "Want a cookie?"  I think today's parents probably pop in a video.  Same thing. Distract. Deflect.  Divide and conquer.

God says, "Know that I am God."  He doesn't deflect or distract; He draws us right in to Him and reminds us He knows the answer to every why.  And every "why me?"  He knows me better than I know myself so when it comes to trusting and obeying, it really makes no sense to ask "why?"  But, I do.

There's really only one answer.  For God's glory.  Why me?  For God's glory.  Why now?  For God's glory.  Why not?  For God's glory.  Why confess?  For God's glory.  Why repent? For God's Glory. 

But there's a few nagging "why?s" that surely tempt God to want to just lean across the seat and say "Want a cookie?"

Not God.

What about the "why again?"  Answer:  because you haven't transformed your mind.

Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is -- His good, pleasing and perfect will. -- Romans 12:2

What about the "why won't they forgive?"  Answer:  "Forgive them.  And wait."

Then Peter came and said to Him, "Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me and I forgive him? Up to seven times?"  Jesus said to him, "I do not say to you, up to seven times, but up to seventy times seven.  -- Matthew 18:21-22

What about "why is 'it' still here?" or "why haven't You?"  Answer:  "My grace is sufficient."

Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But He said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. -- 2 Corinthians 12:8-9

I guess we could even ask "why so many why?s."   Why does God put up with all this?

I remember when I was in various art classes in my early years.  I tried leather and bought a wallet kit.  Every time I would strike the tool with the mallet that was supposed to impress a neat capital "T" and "H"  on my western wallet, the mallet would bounce and the lettering would look  like stuttering. Very unintentionally artistic.  I just wanted to toss the wallet in the scrap heap.  I tried to make a bowl once out of clay and I was inclined to curse all potters as instruments of the devil.  I saw two choices with my bowl:  toss it back into the mud while it was still wet or toss it onto the floor after it dried.  There's clearly a reason I was not called to be the creator of the universe.

And here we look at a world wrapped in ungrateful "why?s" with the scary knowledge that He created everything that is by just speaking it into existence.  "Be" and it was.  "Be not" and it could be like a mis-shaped brittle bowl tossed onto a concrete floor, pieces flying to the four walls.

Why not?

Because He loves me.  And He loves you.  And he would rather answer the "why?s" by slowly unwrapping the chains and setting us free a heartbeat at a time through His unending love and amazing grace until we see ourselves unencumbered and standing free . . . and asking "why?"

Because He loves.  In all the good things He gives me and for all the bad things through which He sees me, He loves me.  And as much as I sometimes hate this world that seems determined to hunt me down and pierce my soul with "why?s," I have to remember . . .

 "For God so loved the world that He gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life." -- John 3:16.

I ask why and instead of a cookie, He gives me His son.  Why would I ever think it was not enough?

Why?

God Bless,

Thom

Leaving the Land of Looking Back

Empty and Beautiful -- Matt Maher

He wants to get his life together; he knows there’s something more,

If he can leave the land of Looking Back and the tempting treasures stored.

But in every trip through Looking Back are the things he can't ignore,

And the dust and decay of yesterday are his lookin' back reward.

Take this key; give me yours; We’re going out that door.

Leave the halls and leave the falls; use this map to keep on track.

Take my hand, lean on me; give me yours, there is more

Than the dust and decay of the wandering way through the Land of Looking Back.

The man who travels through Looking Back seems determined to lose his way

With the key in his pocket and the map in his mind and the question in his soul.

Yet the guide who is able, the One who is worthy could end this constant stray,

The arm on his shoulder, the hand on his heart; He's already paid his toll.

The key the man carries just makes it so easy for Looking Back to look like home.

And the map in his mind makes the journey so easy there’s no reason not to go.

For the home is so cozy, the shadows so cool, it’s a comfortable route to roam,

But the arm on his shoulder and the hand on his heart is faithfully telling him no.

Take this key; give me yours; We’re going out that door.

Leave the halls and leave the falls; Here’s a map to keep on track.

Take my hand, lean on me; give me yours, there is more

Than the dust and decay of the wandering way through the Land of Looking Back.

The Looking Back man looks out and looks in; He’s not looking up and praying,

The windows are cracked and the door dark and black, beckoning as before.

With a trembling hand, he locks the drawer where the pain of his past is laying,

With a glance back behind and a turn to the front, he is looking for a different door.

In his hand is a key, not rusted or bent, to a door at the end of the hall.

It is new and unbroken, finished out with fresh paint, with a window that lets in the light.

With new key in hand, but the map in his mind still daring the walker to stall,

He takes the arm of the One who has promised forever to end his fight.

Take my will; give me yours; We’re going out that door.

Leave the halls and the falls; Here’s a map; there's the track.

Leave the dust and decay, let me clean and restore,

When we go through that door, there’s no going back to the land of Looking Back. 

-- Thom Hunter 

When I was in my final days of elementary school, I would travel each morning and afternoon through the neighborhoods of Houston on a crowded school bus, sitting silently by a window, surrounded by laughing and shouting classmates . . . and I would study the yards of the homes by which we passed.  Through familiarity, the neighborhoods would sort into the dids and didn'ts.  Those who mowed regularly and edged and trimmed and those who didn't.  Those who cleared the clutter and those who kept the clutter around them like comfort.  With only a passing glance, it would have been just a neighborhood, but viewing each side of the street once a day . . . it distinguished itself into a long row of families in various stages of discipline or disarray.

I became familiar, most of all, with the "yard art."  The cedar wheelbarrow planters . . . the bird baths . . . and the wishing wells.  Even these would demonstrate the conditions of their owners.  Some planters would be regularly re-finished and ablaze with colorful pansies and begonias; others were fading away and tilting forward under the weight of dying weeds and branches that had fallen from untrimmed trees.  Some bird baths were dusty and dry; others overflowed with cool clear water in which birds ducked and dived or sat on the side and shared their melodies.

The wishing wells?  They weren't "wells" at all of course, but just painted planks of boards and little shingled roofs assembled in garages by men with a little spare time to think while creating a gift for their wives from tools and saws collected over the years of Fathers Days.  They had followed the directions and finished the project.  Some of the wells -- those of the dids -- were painted and had little buckets on ropes that went no-where but seemed like they would.  The others -- those of the didn'ts -- faded and leaned and developed rotting spots and cracks and were surrounded by tall grass.

I don't think, in the 5th grade, that I considered whether the conditions of the ornaments in the yards reflected anything about the people behind the doors of the homes.  I lived in an apartment and our yard art was limited to a wind chime in the spring and summer and a Christmas wreath in winter, a golden thing made from old IBM punch cards, folded and spray-painted and decorated with plastic berries.  Neither the chime nor the wreath said much to anyone about what went on behind the door.

A few weeks ago, one of May's 60 Oklahoma tornadoes passed through a couple of miles away and took direct aim on a wishing well I have driven past a thousand times.  The owner of the home had, the morning after, run about his yard and picked up all the broken boards and scattered shingles, the frayed rope and the little bucket and piled it in his yard.  A shrine to all the wishes blown away by the wayward and uncaring wind?  A dead circle in the yard revealed the hard dirt and discolored Bermuda grass that had been the bottom of the "well," a places where wishes would have landed with a thud.

Whatever wishes had been cast into the well were about as effective as those we toss with our coins into fountains in the park, or sling into the night sky to welcome the first star we see, or silently offer before we blow out the candles on our cake.  If wishing could make it so, a lot less wind would blow.

So many of our wishes are backward-aimed.  I wish this had not happened.  I wish this had.  Our looking-back puts brakes on our moving forward.  Our defective past drowns our effective future.  Our didn'ts disable our dos.

Sometimes we think we want it like it was back then because it was easier.  Deception provides a cushion from the truth.  For the truth is that in almost all cases, the plans He has laid out for us are so much better than the ones we carved through the wilderness when we made our own way.  It just looks better when we look back because at least we recognize it.  Kind of like that comfortable recliner in a living room that we would recognize as a total mess in someone else's home.  It fits and we like it, but it probably needs to be tossed.

By the time Lot reached Zoar, the sun had risen over the land.  Then the LORD rained down burning sulfur on Sodom and Gomorrah—from the LORD out of the heavens. Thus he overthrew those cities and the entire plain, including all those living in the cities—and also the vegetation in the land. But Lot's wife looked back, and she became a pillar of salt. -- Genesis 19:23-26

Yikes.  Salt?  Longing for the Land of Looking Back, she paused and becomes a pillar and then, due to those wayward winds again, a spreading of particles on the plains.

I think it must really frustrate God when He gives us new plans and we keep looking back in yearning.  That is, if God becomes frustrated.  After all, He is in control.  But surely He shakes his head when we toss a penny whimsically in a wishing well instead of casting all our cares in prayer.

I met with someone I love the other day in pursuit of restoring a relationship destroyed by my deception.  We shared lunch and some silence punctuated by a pinch of promise and a small heaping of hope.  But . . . it was the looking back that hurt.

"I wish things weren't as they were."

That's what he said before parting.  I wish I did not wonder what he meant.  I wish he had not tangled all of life into this curious mixture of tenses, a mishmash of past and present.  What does it mean:  "I wish things weren't as they were?"  I'm caught up first in the impotency of wishes.  Strike that word altogether.  Then there is the "weren't."  That's the looking back.  Add the "were," but say it with the look of present tense in the eyes and the small heaping of hope is whisked off the table like a few scattered grains of spilled salt.

Looking back.  We look back and we say because it was, it is.  Why not say. . . "I pray that things aren't as they were."  Take away the wish . . . adjust the tense . . . and fate becomes faith.  Looking back becomes moving forward.  Old habits become foreign to new creatures.

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting men's sins against them. -- 2 Corinthians 5:17-19

Why is is that some of the most oft-quoted verses are given such short-shrift in belief?  That verse is not just a little heaping of hope.  It says "anyone."  It says "new"  It says it is "from God."  It says "reconciled."  It says "not counting men's sins against them."  And it says it is all about Christ.

You mean . . . it's not about me?  It's not about what I did?  Didn't?

No.  It is about Christ.

You mean it's not about going back and cleaning up all the messes?  Putting the wishing well back together?  Planting the wheelbarrow with pretty flowers?

No.  It's about Christ.

He who was seated on the throne said, "I am making everything new!" Then he said, "Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true."  He said to me: "It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. To him who is thirsty I will give to drink without cost from the spring of the water of life. He who overcomes will inherit all this, and I will be his God and he will be my son." -- Revelation 21:5-7

Everything?

Drink without cost?

Inherit through overcoming?

His son?

So . . . it's not all about me . . . but it is all about me.  At least all about His love for me and His desire for me to overcome and be His son.

I know we have to look back for the purpose of confessing what we've done and reconciling what was done to us, so we can repent of what we did and what we did in response.  But, if all we do is look back, we aren't confessing; we're not repenting and we're surely not overcoming.  And we find ourselves wishing "things weren't as they were," instead of rejoicing that things are as they are.

Learning from the past is good.  But just like I never again want to be a 5th grader cruising Houston neighborhoods on a crowded yellow bus . . . I don't want to cruise the Land of Looking Back.  It is a land filled with broken cedar wheelbarrows, decaying wishing wells and drought-stricken songless birdbaths.  The yard art in the Land of Looking Back succumbed long ago to the wicked weeds of remembered deeds.

One of the hardest things to resist is sticking a thumb out in the wind when those around us whizz by on their way to take another trip through our Looking Back.  We may not be able to convince them to put down the maps and cancel the tour, but we don't have to go along or volunteer to serve as the guide.  We can wish -- strike that -- pray that one of these days they will realize we've moved.

The old has gone.

God Bless,

Thom