Reflections

Categories Missions, Reflections

Time for an upgrade

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I sat down for a moment waiting for the shower to be free. Rebekah said “You should wear your hair down today. It’s so pretty when it’s down.” I dutifully put it into a bun so it wouldn’t get wet in the shower. If I washed it, it wouldn’t be dry in time for church–and the pretty waves from yesterday’s braid would be gone.

I walked back through the living room after my shower. “Is that the only skirt you have?” Rebekah asked. Apparently I wore the same one to church last week. “Do you ever wear long jean skirts?” she asked. I said that I have in the past, although I don’t own one right now. She has a jean skirt, she said, but it probably wouldn’t fit me. I took the hint and offered to try it on. It fit–so I’m now wearing a jean skirt and have my wavy hair hanging free.

“Don’t you have any dress shoes?” I do, just not here. I thought books were a higher priority than shoes on the trip down. Shoes take up so much room–so I have only tennis shoes, flip-flops, and a pair of lightweight old shoes to wear if we go to the river. Much to Rebekah’s disappointment, she could not fix my shoe situation. My feet are much to big for me to borrow any of her shoes. She conceded that the flip-flops are the best choice, for what I have available.

“Do you ever wear makeup?” Yes, I do. Pretty regularly when I’m at home, actually. But once again, I had to pay attention to my priorities in packing. I had a weight limit–40 lbs for the carry-on, 50 lbs for the checked baggage. I had size limits–my luggage had to fit within certain dimensions. And there’s the government’s rules about carry-on liquids, gels, and the like having to fit within a quart sized Ziploc bag. Oh, and there was that little thing about bringing books. Books got me awfully close to the weight limits on both pieces of luggage; hand sanitizer and medications got me close to the limit on the liquids. Makeup just didn’t fit into the equation.

“I have makeup. Maybe some eyeliner?” I hated to let her down, but with my allergies and the hypersensitivity of my eyes to developing infections, I just knew that wouldn’t be an option.

I showed her some pictures this morning on Facebook–wanted to introduce her to my family. She saw my “Posh Spice” pictures and said wistfully, “You wear such pretty dresses in the pictures.”

Rebekah loves beauty and places such great store in looking good. I almost feel bad that I didn’t bring along more “pretty” stuff. Maybe it is time for an upgrade. But then again, maybe not. I’m here to teach, not to be look good. Brains are more valuable than beauty in this instance. And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t harm Rebekah to see that the externals–makeup and clothing–aren’t what make a woman great, but that greatness is found in knowing God.

Categories Faith, Rants, Reflections

You are a conqueror!

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Girls have a great longing to be wanted, to be desired, to be seen as valuable. Guys have great longings too. They want to be conquerors, to be protectors, to be providers. Both sets of longings affect their owners’ relationships with the opposite sex. When women are single for a prolonged amount of time (even if that’s only six weeks since they first got interested in guys!), they start wondering if maybe they’re unwanted, undesirable, worthless. Guys, when they’re single, start thinking that maybe they’re weak, powerless, ineffective, impotent.

We recognize this in women–and we have a hundred books and a hundred speakers to tell the women that it isn’t so. “You are valuable.” we tell our single women. “You are desirable not because some boy somewhere decided that he could get something from you, but because the King of the Universe wanted you so badly He gave everything for you.” Walk into any Christian bookstore and you can find plenty of resources for single women dealing with this topic.

The other side of the equation is a bit murkier. We don’t really say much to the single men. “Don’t lust.” “Don’t sleep around.” “Be a man–do what’s best for her.” Instead of encouraging the men, often we end up discouraging them. Our unspoken words sound more like, “You’re right, you aren’t really a man. You haven’t even got your own impulses figured out–how can you even think about marrying? You’re not a man–you don’t want to protect her.”

Maybe I’ve even been guilty. My younger brothers tease Anna and I about getting them some brothers-in-law and I say “That’s not my job.” I don’t clarify that it’s not necessarily the guy’s job either. So maybe the impression I’m leaving is that it’s the guys’ job to find themselves wives. If they can’t find themselves a wife–I guess they just aren’t doing their job.

Weak. Powerless. Ineffective. Impotent. Bad Provider. Bad Protector. Conquered. How often do we tell them that’s what they are? We rag on them for their lust–while we openly discuss “hot guys” and the relative merits of Colin Firth vs. Hugh Grant (okay it’s official: I’m getting old!). We play our little games of “You’ve got to protect me”–from the other Christian boys. We tease them with their powerlessness against PC culture–“Hitting you isn’t abuse. You’re a white male!” “Get yourself a date” we tell them, as if that’s all there is to it.

Why don’t we tell them what they really need to hear? Why don’t we say something constructive? Why don’t we tell them what God thinks of them?

Why is it that we’ve been so sensitive to the women’s feelings of being unloved, unwanted, undesirable, worthless–and we’ve been so insensitive to the men’s inner longings? Instead of affirming them in their manhood–we continue to tear them down.

Well, I’ve got news. You, single man, are a conqueror. You are a champion for truth, for righteousness. You are not a captive to your lusts, a bondservant to your base desires. You are a beacon of integrity. You are strong. You are effective.

You’re not a bad provider because you’ve failed to “PWN” yourself a wife. Rather, you’re a good provider. I’ve seen how you paid for someone’s lunch when she didn’t have any cash handy. I’ve seen how you denied yourself to move someone on that hot afternoon after you’d been working all week. I’ve seen how you volunteered for the sound ministry, the children’s church ministry, Royal Rangers, and ushering. You’re a good provider.

You haven’t failed at protecting–I’ve seen you walk that girl to her car when the night was dark. I’ve been the girl you walked to the car. Thanks for not worrying about what people would think. Thanks for not trying to be PC. Thanks for standing firm and protecting–even when the world would leave us helpless. Thanks for being men and lifting the body up in prayer. You may not have a “family” you’re protecting–but you’ve protected us–and I thank you.

It’s not your job to find yourself a wife–that’s God’s job. I’m sorry I ever implied otherwise. I’m sorry I held on to my “feminist ideals” at the expense of your self-worth–thanks for serving me anyway. I’m sorry I tried to manipulate you into doing whatever I wanted, that I acted as if your heart wasn’t worthwhile. I’m sorry that I spoke lies to you about who you are. I’m sorry I stayed silent even when I knew the truth.

Please forgive me for staying silent. I can’t stay silent any longer. Because the truth is that you are a conqueror. You are powerful and effective. You are needed. You’re not less because you’re single. You haven’t failed because you’re single. You don’t need to hurry up and get a move on. You’re doing just fine. Actually, you’re doing more than fine. You’re doing a great job. We need you. Keep up the good work.

Categories Reflections

What is a picture worth to you?

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“They” say that a picture is worth a thousand words. I think that it all depends on who you ask. For my part, a picture is worth only as much as the words used to describe it.

Take movies. Probably one of the most “picture” driven media, right? I don’t get them. I don’t ever get them. That is, unless they’re subtitled. Unless I can read the words on the screen, I won’t be able to follow the visual action taking place on the screen. It will pass by me unnoticed. The words on the screen are the anchor that allows me to follow the action.

Picture books? I can do with them or without them. I enjoy having pictures–but they are definitely secondary to the words. I read Dr. Seuss and don’t even notice his drawings unless the text points out a specific detail for me to search for. Books that are entirely pictures, with no text at all, are torturous. Even in books for which the pictures are presumably the primary draw–like a book of home decorating ideas–I read the text first. I like the pictures, I study them carefully–but only after reading the text. Sometimes I agree and sometimes I disagree with the text, but I can’t not read it.

I force myself, when visiting museums, to look at exhibits first before reading the information–just as a mental exercise. It’s tough. Even if I’m looking at a painting or a quilt, my first instinct is to read the caption. Then I try to see the quilt or painting through the author’s eyes, or the artist’s eyes, or whatever. I love art. I love gazing at it. I can sit and stare at a piece of art for hours. I stand back for perspective, I get in close so that I can see individual brushstrokes or stitches. I look at it from this angle or that. But I must read the “comments”.

Once upon a time, I envisioned a blog that would include pictures on almost every post. Many others do it. It’s not that hard. It’s easy to take a picture, easy to download it online. But I’ve discovered that from my point of view, the picture is only an accessory to the story–not the story itself. The picture is only as important as how it contributes to the text. So, a lot of times, I discover that including a picture is pointless.

I love pictures. I love taking them. I love looking at them. I love cataloguing them (yes, even that!). But the stories, the text, that goes with them is my first love. My favorite artifact is a letter, a notebook, a scrawled poem, or passed note. The photo may be interesting, but it’s even more interesting to see what my great-grandma saw as important about the photo. The exact location where the photo was taken. That it was the last photo of Joshua with my grandpa before Grandpa died. Anna may have been cute in that photo playing with her new shoes–but the important thing is the story–how Grandma insisted that she go to the special shoe store and get specially fitted for her first shoes–heaven forbid Anna learn to walk in homemade booties!

A picture may be worth a thousand words to you; but for me, pictures are only an accessory to the truly valuable text.

Categories Everyday Life, Reflections

A Real-Time Parable

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I was working next to a special-needs coworker when he scraped his knuckle on a pan. He noticed that it was bleeding, and was very worried. I got him a band-aid, put it on his knuckle, and gave him a finger cot to cover the finger with so the band-aid wouldn’t get wet and fall off. He couldn’t figure out how to roll the finger cot over the Band-aid–so I helped him with that too. He was like a child, upset by the sight of his own blood, even from an insignificant scrape, and helpless to deal with it on his own.

Today, as I was rolling on my coworker’s finger cot, I was reminded of a statement Jesus made. He said, “Whatever you do to the very least of these My brothers, you have done it unto Me.” Today I got to experience the blessing of someone being Christ to me–so that I could wash His feet with my tears and dry them with my hair. You see, today, I bandaged Jesus’ wound. Today, I rolled a finger cot on Jesus’ finger.

Not only did I get to experience someone being Christ to me, but at the same time, I got to be Christ to him. The truth is, I am helpless to deal with my own shame, my own pain, my own sin. I am incapable of understanding God, of comprehending His purposes. The “independence” I have is insignificant compared to the degree to which I depend on God for my every thought, breath, word, action. Just like my coworker was dependent upon me to help him deal with his scrape, I am dependent on Christ to deal with my situation. The difference, of course, is that I too often think that I am autonomous and rebel against dependence. When I scrape myself, I try to deal with it on my own. Even when I can’t roll the finger cot on myself, I refuse the proffered help. I don’t accept my dependence. I rebel against it–against what is best for me–because I think I know better and can do it better myself. I could learn a lot from my coworkers. Jesus said that we must become as little children if we are to enter the kingdom of God. In that respect, my coworkers may be closer than I–I still have a lot to learn about being dependent.

Most of Jesus’ teaching took the form of parables–stories, metaphors, things to make us think. And today, I heard His word in story form–a living parable, to make me think. “Who is my neighbor?” the teacher asked to justify himself. Jesus answered that today. “What does it mean to become like a child?” Jesus answered that today. “How can I serve Christ?” Jesus answered that today. A story. A metaphor. I play Christ and bandage a wound–and realize how often I refuse His help. My coworker plays Christ as I serve him–and I discover the joy of worship. Everyday life becomes theology–understanding that almost skips the head on its way to the heart.

Categories Family & Friends, Rants, Reflections

Tradition and the Generation Gap

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Advice columns and other popular parenting resources may not agree about much, but on one point they are firm: Your parents are hopelessly outdated and you will disagree with them about how you should raise your child.

This idea is so firmly entrenched in the minds of popular culture, that it seems unimaginable that it was ever not this way. But, believe it or not, the “generation gap”–which is now so great and seems to be still widening at an incredible pace–once was almost imperceptible.

Once upon a time in a land not so far away, people had lots of kids. The older children observed how their parents parented–and had “hands on” training while taking care of their younger siblings. The older children married and had children of their own in their late teens or twenties. They parented their children as they had been trained–in a manner very similar to how their parents had parented.

The younger children in the big family didn’t have little siblings to practice on–but their older siblings lived nearby with their own children. So the younger children of the first generation grew up observing how their older brothers and sisters parented–and helping their older siblings with their young nieces and nephews. The younger children of the first generation learned the same parenting techniques their own parents had used for them, only this time at the hand of their older siblings. Thus parenting practices were transmitted from generation to generation.

Compare that to today, when most of the experience young adults have had with children is from doing a bit of babysitting while they were teens. When they start their own families, the only experience they have is from babysitting someone else’s children–which anyone could tell you is a far cry from parenting one’s own. With no other frame of reference, these young parents rely on the advice of their peers, or of the “experts” for developing their parenting techniques. Thus every generation reinvents the wheel–learning from scratch how to raise their children, making up the rules as they go along, certain of nothing except the “conventional wisdom” that their parents’ parenting was necessarily wrong.

Another area in which I have noted the generation gap is weddings. Have you ever noticed that every generation has its own “traditional wedding”? –And that somehow each generation’s “traditional wedding” looks completely different than that of the preceding generation?

Most people today only start attending wedding or being involved in weddings when their peers marry. Their peer’s weddings and those that they have seen in movies or in bridal magazines are what inform their knowledge of wedding “traditions.” As such, nothing remains “traditional” unless it is profitable to the wedding industry.

As the older child of one of the older children of a large family, I grew up going to weddings–the weddings of my aunts and uncles. I learned what a “traditional” wedding looks like for my family. And let me tell you one thing–it doesn’t look a thing like what passes as a “traditional” wedding today. Sure there’s a white dress and a church ceremony–but that’s where the commonality ends.

In my family, a traditional wedding means a church ceremony–generally using a liturgy. It means everyone in the family has a part to play–although “bridesmaid” and “groomsman” may not be the part. While the closest sibling or best friend may stand up for the bride or groom, the real “wedding party” consists of the cake cutters, the gift carriers, the flower pinner, the guest book attendant, the punch pourers, and on. Each member of the family has a corsage or boutonniere identifying them as part of the party. The whole family takes pictures together before the ceremony–even though that means the groom sees the bride before the ceremony.

A traditional wedding in my family means a reception directly following the ceremony, in the church fellowship hall. The meal is set up buffet-style and consists of trays of bread, deli meats and cheeses, and other fixings that people can make their own sandwiches from, salads made by the aunts, and cake and punch, homemade cream cheese mints and nuts.

A traditional wedding in my family means that the men (my uncles and any of the groomsmen) gather together the children to go out and decorate the car.

The generation gap has grown as people have fewer and fewer children and wait longer and longer before getting married. Without siblings with which to interact, they learn to rely on their age-segregated peer group. Then, when they start making these monumental life choices, they rely upon their peers and the “experts” to inform their decisions. It’s too late for the parents to transmit their wisdom. Since the children have never seen, learned, nor practiced this wisdom, it all seems hopelessly outdated. The new tradition has become no tradition–starting over with each new generation instead.

I, for one, intend to break with the new-fangled tradition: I’m going to do it like my parents did. ‘Cause I’ve seen how they did it–and it works pretty well!

Categories Reflections, Technology

Goal Crazy

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I’ve been working fervently behind the scenes to upgrade my website to version 6. My first order of business was redoing the About Me segment. Version 5 included selected items from my list of life goals–so I thought I’d expand that in version 6.

I’ve always known I had a lot of goals. I just didn’t quite get how many until I started recording them on a website–and discovered that I definitely couldn’t put them all on one page. Three pages still includes much too much scrolling. And those are only the easily categorized goals: Arts and Crafts, Educational, and Travel. That doesn’t include spiritual goals, health goals, homemaking goals–and the myriads of hard-to-classify goals.

I’ve removed the goals that I’ve categorized from my “master list” that I have been keeping for years on my computer. With those gone, my “master list” is ONLY 51 pages long. Amazing!

Are you a goal setter? Do we have any of the same goals? I’d love to work on them together! ;-)

Categories Reflections

Packing my bag

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I am a firm believer in having mottoes for life. One of mine is “Always have a bag packed.” The idea popped into my head one day as I was brainstorming story ideas–and I’ve worked towards it ever since.

I’m reminded of the Passover Seder, where participants are dressed in cloak and sandals–ready to depart as soon as God works their deliverance. I’ve always loved all the symbolism of the Passover–and this motto seemed to fit right in. I have my bag packed literally because I can never know when I might be offered the chance to travel on the fly. And I figuratively have my bag packed, ready to obey whenever God says “go”.

In the literal sense, I have a carry-on size suitcase that I carefully repack after each trip. It contains just what’s needed for a week-long excursion–or longer if you do laundry:

  • 1 pair slacks
  • 2 skirts
  • 1 pair capris
  • 1 versatile jumper
  • 6 short sleeve knit tops
  • 1 t-shirt
  • 1 blazer
  • 1 chiffon scarf
  • 1 bandana
  • 1 pair flip-flops
  • underwear for a week

In addition, the main compartment contains:

  • 2 Hankies
  • Toilet paper
  • Laundry bag
  • Extra bags
  • Feminine Products

The front pockets of the bag contain all the necessities of life:

  • Sewing kit
  • Mini first aid kit
  • Toiletries
  • Minimal makeup/hair stuff
  • Pens/Notebook/Glue Stick/Notecards
  • Plastic eating utensils
  • Solar calculator
  • Batteries
  • Flashlight

It’s all ready so that all I have to do is grab my Bible, my meds, and any seasonal supplies (swimsuit or coat or whatever) and go. In case I’m headed out of the country, my passport and appropriate information is hidden away elsewhere in the house inside a travel wallet.

The figurative sense, the deeper sense, of the motto is a bit harder to do. I find myself growing attached to the things of this earth, comfortable with my church, my job, my home. I slip into complacency and collect thing after thing. But in the back of my mind, my motto reminds me: “At any time, God could call you away from all this. Are you ready to go?”

I’ve heard back from a family friend in Mexico. She confirms that she is still looking for someone to come down and tutor her 14 year old daughter. Am I ready to go? I’ll have to finagle a few things, jimmy a few details. I’ll have to take some time off work, maybe raise a wee bit of money. I’ll have to figure out how to get down there. But otherwise, I’m ready to go. The only thing to deal with is details–not whether I’ll be able to go. I’ve been working towards a schedule, a life, that will give me this freedom–the freedom to drop it all and answer the call of God.

So today, my first day back from a week in Illinois, I did my laundry and repacked my bag. I popped a Spanish tape in my car cassette player. My bag’s packed, Lord. Send me wherever You will.

Categories Reflections

Road Trip

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Debbie and I have been discussing going on a road trip for years–probably 4 or more. But we’ve always discovered problems that have kept us from doing so–our crazy schedules, her unreliable car, Benny (my old car) going on the fritz, my dad and hers feeling uncomfortable with just the girls traveling alone. So we haven’t gone.

But tomorrow morning, that’s all going to change. My Cousin Matt is graduating from high school in Illinois this weekend, and I decided to go up for it since I have Memorial Day off and have a few vacation days at work. I invited Debbie to come with me–and it just so happens that she was able to arrange to make it too. So we’re finally going on a road trip.

We’ll be taking Jack (my car, short for Clive Staples) and caravanning with my cousin Joe (Matt’s brother), my brother Dan, and Joe’s girlfriend Dana in my Aunt Patty’s van. We’ll drop my sister Anna off in Omaha at the airport for her flight into San Antonio for the national conference of the American Academy of Physician Assistants (and to spend time with her college roommate Emily). Then we’ll be on the road. We should get up in time for Matt’s little brother Aaron’s 8th grade graduation Thursday evening.

Matt’s graduation is on Saturday, and we plan on spending Saturday and Sunday with the family. Joe, Dan, and Dana will return to Lincoln on Sunday–and Debbie and I will stick around until Tuesday. We’ll head into Chicago on Friday or Monday or both. It just so happened that Debbie’s work really needed her on Wednesday–and my work offered to pay for me to get some ServeSafe training on Wednesday–so it works well for both of us to return on Tuesday.

It’ll be fun–a memory making trip, a chance to catch up, a chance to make good on old dreams, and a chance to cross another item off my list of things to do before I die. I’ll return home and type “DA: May 27, 2008” behind “Take road trip” in my “Goals” file. Date Accomplished. One of my favorite things to type. The day when talk became reality and dreams came true. And that day–well, it all starts tomorrow.

Categories Faith, Family & Friends, Reflections

Love Languages

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Looking at “Love Languages” comes and goes in popularity at my church. We hear a bit about it and then hear nothing for a long while before we hear it again. Each of the times it rises again, I take the test again, hoping to ascertain my personal “love language”. Every time, I am disappointed–as with every attempt to categorize myself, I find that I am on the border–or maybe I just want to think I’m different so I intentionally sabotage the results.

Then there are those people you can immediately place into a category–not because they are stereotypical, but because they abound so very much in that certain area. My friend Michelle jumps to mind. I don’t know how anybody who thinks about it could not see that her love language is gifts.

I’ve been helping Michelle move this last week–and as we’ve been packing or unpacking, she’ll find something she no longer wants and offer it to me. Or she’ll think of someone else who could use it. “This will be perfect for…” “I bought this for… but I forgot about it…so now I’ll give it to…” “Do you think … would enjoy this?” She’s so generous with everything–abounding in giving.

She reminds me of the chapter in II Corinthians where Paul speaks of the generosity of the Macedonians “that in a great trial of affliction…their deep poverty abounded in the riches of their liberality. for I bear witness that according to their ability, yes, and beyond their ability, they were freely willing…” (II Corinthians 8:2-3) Michelle is far from rich–she lives on government assistance and disability. She has what she needs–just barely. But even as she experiences want, even as she struggles under huge physical and emotional burdens, she searches out ways to shower gifts on others. She’ll go without so that she can give. That’s just the kind of person she is.

That’s certainly not my love language. I like giving gifts, and I like receiving them. But they’re not a way of life with me. I’m not sure what my love language is. I used to think that it was physical touch. I was always a very physically affectionate child–wanting hugs and kisses and sharing nose juice with Daddy (Eskimo kisses). My brother John’s love language is definitely physical touch–and that hasn’t lessened as he’s grown older. I don’t think my language is acts of service–that’s my Mom’s and I’m nothing like her on that count. I like to do stuff for people–but I generally don’t like receiving acts of service much–or at least, it doesn’t communicate love to me like it does to her. Which leaves quality time and words of affirmation. And those two are hard to determine between. I love spending time with people–I love a good quality chat–a chat of hearts to hearts and minds to minds. I like to do things together–like quilting with Joanna, or scrapbooking with Debbie, or eating lunch with my Dad. But I also really value the words–when someone recognizes something I’ve done, when my Dad compares me to my favorite role models, when I’m told that I matter.

I guess it isn’t so important that I know my own as it is that I know others–after all, what good does it do to know my own love language? A Love Language is something that one speaks involuntarily. I don’t need to learn how to speak my own language. Instead, I must seek to learn others’ languages–so that I can translate the love that I might easily speak in my own language into a language they can understand.

So tell me, what’s your language?

Categories Following Christ, Reflections

Questions, Comments, Observations?

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In our 20s Sunday School, I’m fond of asking for “questions, comments, observations?” as we read each passage. But sometimes I forget to answer my own questions when I’m doing my personal reading. I read the word as I would a novel, taking it as it comes, doing it to pass time–or because “I’m reading every book in Eiseley Library.

I want to know God, to have an encounter with Him in the Word. I want to see God and to hear His voice through the Word. I want the Word to come alive. But it doesn’t seem that it is so–and even asking for it seems so often to be another dry religious ritual. Either I’m passionlessly asking for passion, or I’m conjuring emotion. It feels fake.

Sunday morning in Sunday school, I shared a bit of my struggles with the class–that just happened to be Debbie and two of my brothers. And I resolved yesterday that I was going to keep on seeking, keep on knocking. I resolved that even if I go through the flames, I will worship God and Him only.

Last night I read Matthew 4–and for the first time in a long time, I asked myself for questions, comments, and observations. And, to my surprise, I discovered a lot.

For instance, have you ever noticed that verse says that Jesus was “led by the Spirit into the wilderness”? The Spirit was leading; Jesus was following–and He ended up in the wilderness. So often when I end up in a wilderness, I get depressed because I figure that either the Spirit isn’t leading or I’m not following. I end up either mad at God or full of condemnation towards myself. But the Spirit led Jesus into the wilderness.

And then I noticed something new about the first temptation. Jesus had been fasting 40 days. He was hungry. The devil comes to Him and says “If you are the Son of Man, command these stones to become bread.” Now that’s a strange temptation. What’s sinful about making stones into bread? Jesus made water into wine–working that type of miracle apparently isn’t taboo. So why not just do it?

Jesus’ answer was deeper than the devil expected, I’m sure. “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.” The devil was urging Jesus to give into His body’s hunger. Satan would have loved for Christ to be ruled by the needs of His body, by the cares of His flesh. Satan would have loved it if Jesus had become concerned about what He was going to eat, where He was going to sleep, what He would wear. From the devil’s perspective–it would have been great if Jesus had lived for food and by His body’s hunger.

But the devil’s wish was denied. “Man doesn’t live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.” I can see a bit of a double meaning in Jesus’ answer. Man can’t live on physical food–He must also be fed by the Word–that’s our traditional interpretation (and it’s correct too). But isn’t it also true–and do not Jesus’ actions illustrate that man cannot be led by his hunger for physical food–but He must “live by” and be led by the Word of God.

It was and continues to be a moment of slow epiphany for me. I “knew” the first meaning–and that’s why I kept plugging on with reading the Word–but the second meaning was lost in the shuffle. I was being led by my body–by going to work to pay the bills and coming home and keeping the house clean and eating meals and fulfilling all those things my body (and flesh) demands. I was simply seeking Maslow’s hierarchy of “needs”. But I was not living by the Word of God–I was not being led by the Word–such that at God’s word I travel or stand still.

Help me Lord, to live beyond bread–beyond the worries of this world. Help me to live by your word–hearing Your voice and obeying, following Your leading–whether to the garden or to the wilderness.