There’ll come a day when life tests you, even “tumbles in” on you, as described by the writer of Proverbs 29:1 (The Message). I don’t like things tumbling in on me. I don’t like being tested. And I especially don’t like to fail. But it’s usually neither tumbling nor failure that cripples me, but the fear of failing.
It’s the fear that drives me to push away what matters most when life feels out of control. I’m afraid of being considered a fraud, a boy who has been pretending to be a man. A father who wants to be the world’s best Dad, but feels like the worst. A professional, one mistake away from a major business screw-up. A husband of sixteen years, who still rushes out last-minute for a Valentine’s Day gift and the one remaining bouquet of wilted roses—nobody will know, right? So I cling to that which anesthetizes my fears. My hands reach for any illusion that makes me believe I’m still in control, that I’m somehow immune to a personal meltdown of disappointment.
…to read the rest of this post, please click here for Day 29 of Proverbs at Goforth’s Journal. (post is listed below a read-through of Proverbs Chapter 29)
Thanks to writer and friend from the Pacific Northwest Chris Goforth for posting today’s story! If you want to take a trip through the real, check out Goforth’s Journal and follow Chris @pacnwdadof6 on Twitter.
I’m no stranger to tools. My father is a retired electrician, and so was my grandfather. Somewhere there’s a photo of a five-year-old boy, standing in a living room on brown shag carpet, with his daddy’s toolbelt hanging lopsided around his bony waist. The photo is likely stashed at the bottom of a box in an attic, but the image is fresh in my mind.
I’m a fixer. That doesn’t mean I know how to fix everything, but it does mean I’ll try.
I leaned over my hiking poles, gasping for oxygen like a fish out of water. Snow and ice hung like weights on the lodgepole pine, a constant reminder of the heaviness over my soul. And with every crunching step of my snowshoes, my leg muscles responded with the rhythmic burn of my private anger.
Not two years prior had I climbed one of Colorado’s 14,000-foot mountains with relative ease, but on this day I struggled to reach a Rocky Mountain foothill that stands 3,000 feet lower. I grumbled at myself for slacking my regular exercise program over the past year. I complained to God that this refreshing outing is yet another example that sustaining joy in life is too much work…
To continue reading “Jesus Wears Snowshoes,” please click here for the full story at CBN.com.
Thanks to Beth Patch and the CBN.com editorial team for publishing this article!
of tiny farms,
a patchwork quilt.
Ten thousand feet.
over the hills,
Twenty thousand feet.
A thin band
of yellow and red,
blue above, gray below.
Thirty thousand feet.
now covers all,
an untaut blanket
rippled with waves
frozen in time.
Forty thousand feet.
The white carpet
in my window.
The sandy hills roll like waves in the moonlight. Four sets of footprints follow the silhouettes of six along a ridge. Two of the travelers ride on tapestry-covered platforms atop shaggy humps, and the third walks, rope in hand, with his lanky animal.
The desert is quite cool tonight, and calm. Except for the faint grumbles of the camels. I think they’re aware of my presence, but their masters pay no heed. The heavily-robed strangers appear focused, intent.
Every few minutes it seems, the short one riding center points just above the horizon. His camel jerks its head and stops. A heel kick in the side and a “hut-hut!”, and the beast is moving again.
The short one speaks a language I don’t understand–it’s too fast. He points again.
I see now what he’s aiming at. It was staring at me this entire time. No, it was shining. Leading. And the interesting grown-ups with long beards and funny hats are definitely following it.