The 2,000 Year-Old Jar

    It was in the midst of a fascinating presentation on Rome that the catastrophe occurred.  The speaker picked up a very small glass perfume jar. 

    "This," Mr. Chapman explained, "is about two thousand years old, and you're going to get a chance to do something that very few people get to do. I'm going to pass this jar around and let you hold it. You'd never get to do that in a museum!"  

    My heart leaped into my throat as he handed it to one of my first and second grade students in the first row. Didn't he know that children drop things? Wasn't it common knowledge that children can break things just by holding them? My anxiety rose as the student turned the tiny object over, viewing it from all sides. 

    Then he turned to hand it to the child next to him. The delicate jar dangled over the hard linoleum. I waited, expecting the rare antiquity to crash to the floor at any moment. In my mind's eye, I imagined it dramatically shattering into a thousand splinters of cliché.

    It was all I could do to keep from jumping up and holding the jar for my class and just letting them look at it. Maybe then it would be safe for them to reach out a finger and touch it. Letting them hold it was really too much for me to handle! I hovered over them, mentally hyperventilating all the while.

    At last the jar was passed back to the next class and I felt myself relax. Now at least if something happened it wasn't my responsibility. 

    Every day we are given precious things to hold: the hand of a child, the beauty of nature, a new friendship. I marvel that God hands them to us, trusting us with the best of His creation. He doesn't hover anxiously. He doesn't reach out to take them back when He sees us making mistakes. He just watches us, waiting in case we call out for help.

    We cannot clutch these fragile gifts too tightly, for they may crumble to dust in our fingers. Neither can we handle them carelessly for they may crash to the floor. Instead, we must take the precious things we have been given and hold them gently, cherishing the fact that God Himself has entrusted us to hold His creation in our hands and in our hearts.

     

    

Small Things

    "Can you help me figure out where periods and commas and stuff go?" asked James, presenting me with the paper he had been working on. 

    "You aren't sure you have them at the right place?" I asked, smiling.

    "No, I didn't put any in," he corrected, handing me the paper. "I always get confused so I just didn't use any."

    I looked at the paper and saw with dismay that he was completely sincere. Not a period or comma was to be seen. 

    Have you ever tried reading a paper with no punctuation? It's amazing how helpful those little marks can be. I find it impressive how important little things really are, not only in written work, but in our lives.

    Five loaves and two small fishes. A little cruse of oil to be used for one last loaf of bread. Five smooth stones to slay a giant. One young servant girl who gave her master direction to find a cure for his debilitating disease. One small stable in a tiny town where a baby King was born. How often do we underestimate the value of small things?

    It is a small thing to have devotions every day, but it can lead to great victory. A misplaced eye-roll or frustrated sigh are also small, but they can lead to big fractures in a relationship.The Bible warns us of the small tongue and the great fire it can kindle.

    Most things are not as small as they appear. Our lives are only a tiny speck of space and time when held next to the grand scheme of the Universe. What difference can one small life make? What about one day in that life, one minute? Do you sometimes feel that your life is so small it hardly matters at all?

    Don't let yourself think for a minute that it doesn't matter what you do with your life. I've discovered that if I am willing to give of myself, God can multiply what little I have to offer to fulfill His purpose.

    Just like five loaves fed thousands, a cruse of oil kept three people alive for days, a little stone freed a nation from tyranny, a word spoken led to healing, and a baby grew to be the Savior of the World, likewise God can take our daily doings, our little deeds, and magnify them into something useful to His service.

    Is your life small? Do your choices seem insignificant? Don't be fooled. Even the smallest things can become great when God is in them.

Box of Crayons

  Some of you may recognize the following writing. It was originally read at a supper for members of the community in 2008, I believe. I ran across it again this summer and remembered how much I liked the thought. It's been hidden away for many years now, so I thought I would post it here.

    I'll try not to bore you with pontificating and let the words speak for themselves. 

                     Box of Crayons

I saw two lads.

Each had a box of crayons,

Crayons that had seen better days

And now lay in battered boxes.

Most were dull,

Some were broken.

Before each lay a paper:

Clean, white, new.

I saw their fathers approach them.

What are you going to draw?" asked one.

His son glanced up at him.

"Look, Dad! These colors are old and broken.

They can't be used to make a picture!

See the broad, ugly lines they make?"

And he grasped a color and scribbled across his paper.

"Come now," said the father.

"If you will let me help you, it will turn out much better."

"No!" said the child, rudely. 

"I want to do it this way. Let me be!"

And he scribbled with a second color.

No particular pattern, just scribbling because he could.

The second boy paused before taking up his crayons.

For just a moment he stared into space

And you could see in his eyes that visions of great things were forming.

"What are you going to draw?" Questioned his father.

"It's a surprise!" said the lad with a smile.

"Oh?" said the father.

"Yes!" said his son.

"Only, I wish these colors were not so dull!"

"Let me help," said his father.

And he took the crayon and whittled at it with his pocketknife

Until the end was sharp and made a fine line.

"Thank-you!" cried the lad, delighted.

Carefully he held the sharpened crayon.

Painstakingly he made a mark on his paper.

Slowly, slowly, every stroke studied,

A picture began to emerge.

Finally his masterpiece was finished.

Eagerly he ran to his father.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"Yes, I do!"

And the little boy nearly burst with happiness.

"Good! I hoped you would,

'Cause I was making it pretty for you!"

And so I wonder;

We are all given life:

Clean, white, new.

And we have a box of crayons.

Perhaps some are new, 

But there will be some dull.

Some, broken.

Many people just laugh, grasp the colors,

Take up life and splash it with many different shades.

"You can't do anything else with a bunch of dull crayons!" they say.

When God offers to help, they shove Him away.

"Ha! What could You do to help? Let me do it by myself!"

And soon their page is full of color.

None of great beauty, just lots of it.

Then there are the others.

People look at them and scoff:

"You can't do anything very wonderful with those crayons!

They're dull and broken, don't you see?"

But still they pause before taking up life.

They dream big dreams, make big plans.

When God offers His help,

They say, "Yes!"

He takes their crayons and sharpens them,

Whittling away until they are nearly as good as new.

Then, carefully, the crayon is taken.

One small mark is made, 

Then another 

And another.

Slowly, slowly, through careful patience

A picture emerges.

And the whole world seems to shout,

"It's beautiful!"

But these people only smile humbly and turn to God.

"Do you like it?" they ask Him.

"Yes!" comes the answer.

"Good! I hoped You would! 

I was making it pretty

For You!"

Jonah

    What happened to Jonah? His story stops so abruptly. Jonah is left, presumably sitting in a dry, desert-like place with only a dead plant to keep him company. 

    In my heart of hearts, I am sure he didn't stay there long. I believe that Jonah contemplated for a few minutes, or hours, or maybe even days, and then picked himself up and struck off for home where he could see his family again. Perhaps he headed back into Nineveh to offer advice and teaching. Maybe he started a food bank or an orphanage. I have no idea what Jonah did. The important thing is that he got up and moved on.

    We are faced with all sorts of situations that seem beyond us. We feel like we've been left sitting in a dry place, sometimes without even the company of a dead plant. At that point, our human nature wants to give up. What's the point of trying?

    That is the moment when it is vitally important to grasp hope. We can't allow ourselves to stay sulking in the desert. We owe it to the God who created us to get up and move on.

    Our pride doesn't want us to go. Our humanness rebels at accepting the things we face, but we are beckoned forward by humility. In accepting the gentle reproofs of the Spirit, there will be grace to get up and get going. 

    With God you can take the next step. You can mend relationships, you can head to the mission, you can find a deeper commitment. Leave your pride in the desert with the decaying remnants of your failures and rise to the challenge of tomorrow. There is a future of hope waiting for you if you will lift your head, raise your heart, and strike out with purpose for tomorrow.

Puffy Cheetos

    We got along quite well, we three in the teacherage. We sang together, laughed together, and sometimes cried together. There was one small point of contention though.

    Cara and Lorelle both liked Cheetos. Apparently the puffy kind were considered superior. There was often a partially eaten bag adorning our living room. Lorelle should have known that Cara was too mischievous to let a good opportunity pass by. One day after eating the last chip in the bag, Cara blew air into the bag to make it look half full and replaced the clothespin that held it shut. Imagine, if you will, the indignant sounds we heard as Lorelle groped vainly for a nonexistent Cheeto while she sat engrossed in her book. Cara's evil cackles drifted through the house. 

    And the best part for Cara was that her trick worked again and again. Lorelle would confidently reach for the bag, trusting it to yield her the chips she craved. Sometimes it did, but often Cara had gotten to them first. Finally it got to the point that every time a Cheeto bag was left in the living room it was regarded with suspicion.

    Many times we look around at the things the world offers us: more expensive vehicles, newer technology, fashionable patterns, carnal relationships, over-developed self-esteem. The packaging looks lovely. The bag of Cheetos looks full. Delightedly, we reach for the promised pleasures.  

    Then we open the bag and find it empty. The things we thought were sure to be ours turn out not to be as wonderful as we thought. We are left grasping at emptiness. 

    Christian life is never an empty bag. We will face disappointments and sadness, but we will always find the hand of God waiting for us.There are sacrifices to be made, yes, but let us ever remember that the fullness of joy our service to the King brings will always be worth it all. 

.22

    The boys were discussing guns. Again. Who had a BB gun? Whose brother had a .22?

    Gina was not about to be left out. "I like to shoot my gun, too!" she said.

    The boys scoffed at her. "You couldn't hit the side of a barn!" one of them told her. 

    "Oh yes I could too!" Gina shot back, "If I was inside it I could!"

    The boys didn't have anything to say to that, so they changed the subject.

    "What kind of gun do you have?" asked Bryan.

    "A .22," Gina responded promptly.

    This inspired another round of skepticism. "No, you do not!" said Bryan. "I don't even have a .22. Even Adam doesn't have a .22!"

    Evan chimed in. "I don't believe it," he said shaking his head. "I don't believe you have a .22."

    "I do!" Gina retorted. "I have a .22 and a .23 and a .24, too!"

    This statement was understandably met with guffaws from the boys, and I hurried to intervene.

    But how often are you and I not just like Gina? We push things farther than we ought. Maybe we try to convince others our point of view is right. Perhaps our dreams and plans are blocked by a closed door, so we pull out our crowbar and get to work, prepared to do whatever we need to to reach the other side.

    Suddenly we realize, as our big ideas come crashing down around us, that we've gone too far. The problem is that once the words come out of our mouths, once we've brandished the crowbar or pulled out the .23 and .24, there's no going back. Our headstrong or impatient nature lies exposed. The illusions we've tried to build are no longer strong enough to support us.

    Barging ahead doesn't get us anywhere. We must be able to reach a place of understanding that waiting on God is the only route that really works. Trust in Him. Although it sometimes seems His pace is too slow, rest assured that it will always be the perfect pace for you.

He Makes My Dreams Come True

    It was August of 2006. I was sixteen years old, and longed to be involved with school. Ever since I could remember, I wanted to be a teacher. But I didn't share my dream with anyone. Instead I held it close to my heart and hoped.

    And then I heard the news. Another girl had been asked to aide at school. It seemed so cruel. I was sure she couldn't want the job as much as I did. But I did my best to be happy for her and accept that someday, somehow, a door would open for me to work at school, too, even if I had to wait until I was eighteen and could go teach.

    A few weeks later, on September 13, 2006, the phone rang. 

    "Would you be interested in aiding at school?" the voice asked. It seemed that because of circumstances the first aide would not be able to work every day. Did I want to share the responsibility?

    Did I ever! I couldn't believe it. I got off the phone feeling like I had won a million bucks. That evening I wrote the following poem:

He Makes My Dreams Come True

 I marvel at God's wisdom

And the way He works things out.

I want to praise His mighty power,

I want to sing and shout.

For somehow He takes my dreams,

Each wish and each desire,

And holding them in tongs of love,

He purifies with fire.

Then grasping tight, He forms my life

And makes my dreams come true.

The longings that are hidden

And the ones I know of, too.

No matter what surroundings,

He somehow makes a way

To give my soul's desires

Every passing day!

    It may not be the best poem written by a sixteen year old that you'll ever read, but I still like it because I know the story behind its creation. I know the searing disappointment when it felt that my little dreams had been crushed and bruised beyond recovery. I know the great light that filled my soul when I realized that God had not forgotten me after all.

    This experience has helped me so much in my life. There have been many, many times since then that I've had plans and dreams that haven't turned out exactly as I thought they ought. To my amazement, I find that every time I am able to submit to God's plan, He brings me something marvelous at the moment that I feel all hope is gone.

    If you feel you are being asked to give up something that you hold dear, don't ever doubt God's love for you. He hasn't forgotten you. He is just waiting for the perfect moment to present the amazing gift He's been personalizing just for you. 

     

               

Armadillos

    Some teachers make a big deal over each child on his or her birthday with balloons tied to the desk seat and streamers hanging from the ceiling. I never have. Not because I have something against these celebratory measures, but more likely because of procrastination. There is, however, one child's special day that remains forever in my mind.

    Adam's mother had brought treats for the class to celebrate his birthday. While we waited for her to finish preparing them, the students and I wandered out to the playground. Someone suggested we play games. Soon the game ideas were exhausted. The children wanted to play something new and different. 

    "I know!"Adam exclaimed, his freckled face lighting up. "Let's play acting out!" The others agreed, and Adam volunteered to go first. 

    We watched as he sprang up on the picnic table, then leaped off, arms and legs thrashing. We looked on in awe as he began rolling violently around on the ground. I began to question my wisdom in supporting this game. At last he stopped.

    "OK, what was I?" he asked, a little breathlessly. 

    The rest of his classmates and I looked at each other blankly. We had absolutely no clue what Adam had been portraying. 

    After a few feeble guesses, Adam looked at us in exasperation. "No! I was an armadillo rolling down steps!" he declared, amazed that we hadn't caught the obvious resemblance. 

    How were we supposed to know that? We couldn't read Adam's mind!

    So many times our relationships with other people turn out the same way. We have no clue what is going on in another person's mind. 

    When someone is rude to us, we immediately take it personally. Instead of seeing the annoying comments as a cry for friendship, we tend to write the person off. We aren't cognizant of the fact that the condescending remark may be a cover-up for insecurity and inferiority. Maybe the other person is doing all they can to just hold things together and not melt into a puddle of tears. 

    People try to hide so many things. We may never know the reason for how someone acted. There's a good possibility they will never stand up, brush the dirt from their knees, and tell us they were being an armadillo. 

    A revelation would be nice, but we won't always get one. Those are the times we must choose to do our best to show the love of God working in us, and accept the armadillos just as they are.

Royalty

    Back in the 80's and early 90's, Princess Diana was one of the most famous women in the world. When she visited several leprosy hospitals and colonies, reporters and photographers surrounded her. 

    At each institution, they watched as she treated the patients with respect. She talked with them and laughed with them, learned their stories and their names, and most noticeably, she touched them. 

    She did not touch them with disdain, nor did she limit her contact to a blouse-covered shoulder. No, she ran her hands over the very limbs that were affected by the disease that had left so many people mutilated.

    When images of the Princess cradling a leper's hand in her own hit the media, the result was amazing. For the first time, people saw that the stigma attached to leprosy was perhaps not so great as they imagined. They realized that if the Princess was not afraid of contracting the disease, they ought not be frightened either.

    It's not so much the people afflicted with white spots on their skin that I have been thinking of. Instead, my thoughts have wondered to those with black spots on their hearts. 

    Do you and I take the time to show them we care? Do we listen to their stories of disappointments and mistakes and take the time to empathize? Is it below us to lay a hand on their shoulder, or do we flinch away from too much contact? Do I gossip about the things they have done and point from afar at the abnormalities they seem to have?

    You and I are not heirs to the British throne, but we are royalty. Our Father is the King. Do I have the courage to step up and set an example of real love and caring to those around me, or will I turn my nose up at those who need a Father the most?

    It takes courage to step up and show you care. May you and I be very careful that our light does not go dim!

Code Breakers

    During World War II, thousands of messages from the Axis powers found their way into American hands. There was one problem, however. These messages were heavily encoded and enciphered. Hundreds of code breakers worked day and night to unlock the important secrets these messages held.

    The task was not easy. Some messages that were captured by Allied operators were disguised in the American's own code before being radioed to the code breakers. Upon arrival, the American code had to be deciphered before anyone could even begin to break the enemy code.

    Most codes followed mathematical patterns. Some used a system called false math. For example, the numbers 098 may be the code for some important word or phrase. Because radio service was sometimes sketchy, the radiomen would put a "check" number at the end of the code using false math. False math meant the numbers were added, but no carrying was used. Thus the check number for 098 would be 7. (0+9+8=7) Often a second random number would be added to the original code, just to deepen the disguise.

    So it was that 0987 may become 4531. The code breakers had to figure out the random added number, take away the false math, and then try to figure out what the original number really stood for. After that, someone needed to translate the message into English. 

    Hundreds of minor codes were broken during the war. Sometimes several easy ones were broken in a single day. The major codes could be more difficult. One major code took three years to break.

    I am so grateful that our Bible is not written in code, aren't you? It's so plain and easy to understand we can read it ourselves. We don't have to wait until Sunday when the the minister expounds on the scripture.

    There are times I feel overwhelmed by what I read. I'll admit I am occasionally reluctant to read in Revelations where I feel that I am in over my head. But it's incredible to me how, on those days that I can't understand, there is often a quiet moment sometime during the day when the Spirit speaks to me and breaks the code.

    The gift of the Bible is something I tend to take for granted. Here it is, given to me in a way that I can understand, often personalized to be exactly what I need for the day, and I don't fully appreciate it! There is no code, no cipher, no top-secret messages. Everything is open and honest.

    Today when you pick up your Bible, take just a moment to appreciate this gift you've been given, these words that are of God.

    The information I cited here about code breaking comes from the book Code Girls by Liza Mundy. If you enjoy nonfiction history, you might find it interesting as well.

Silence

    Have you ever been in charge of a group of children? If so, you probably will agree with me if I say that one of the most challenging yet most important things to teach them is silence. It's just not something that seems to come easily, yet it is a skill that is vital for them to be able to succeed. 

    I remember one time when my students and I were forced into silence. It happened in Zimbabwe during a rousing recess of Auntie, Auntie Over. While we were yelling and running, the neighbor boy across the fence came outside. Hanging from the eve of his house was a gigantic nest of bees. For some reason that remains unknown, he decided to torment them by poking their hive with a long pole.

    The bees did not appreciate this invasion into their privacy. In seconds, they swarmed angrily out to see what was the matter. Apparently bees have great peripheral vision. They saw us across the fence and decided that we must be the ones to blame for their discomfort. So, organizing their troops, they hurried to the defense. 

    Suddenly we found ourselves racing to get away. The bees followed us across the yard, through the garage, and all the way to the back door of the house. Two casualties ensued: The yardman, who was caught in the line of fire, and the dog, Rhino, who had capered along with us as we ran. 

    We waited, hoping the bees would return to their side of the fence, but it seemed to be in vain. What were we to do? There was still work to finish in our little thatched school. Finally we decided to brave the bees and return to work.

    Our mud-brick school was not bee-proof. We hunkered at our desks, trying to move quietly and slowly, speaking in low tones and whispers. The bees buzzed threateningly around, looking for the smallest indication of violence from us. 

    In an incredibly short time, the children finished their work and tiptoed out the door toward the house. I don't know when I have ever seen students so focused and quiet on a normal school day, but how they could work when they were forced to be silent!

    Most of us find that we are afraid of the quiet times when we are free of distractions and our deep inner thoughts are finally able to make themselves heard. We do anything we can to avoid silence! We suffocate it with laughter, stifle it with a cell phone, or yell at it to "Shut up!" before turning to our favorite light novel. 

    But we know it's useless. Silence can't shut up. It already has. It's really our inner selves that we are yelling at. Honestly, most of us don't want to hear what our inner man is saying. We squirm in discomfort, because as long it's noisy, we can convince ourselves that we're doing fairly well. But when it becomes quiet? Oh, that is when the going gets tough.

    All those old memories and mistakes come out of nowhere and beg to be taken care of. They want apologies, forgiveness, love, and all sorts of things that look too hard to give. So we try to drown out their cries with any type of noise we can: fast cars, loud music, funny stories, anything. 

    But I challenge you. Try silence. Find a spot in the woods. Turn off your phone. Give silence a chance. 

    If you are strong enough and brave enough, silence will do it's quiet work and you will become a better person for it.

                                                                    Silence

I never thought I’d be afraid of silence;

Of listening to the whisper of my thoughts.

But the truth is, sometimes I welcome a storm—

There’s no way I can hear anything

Over the drumming rain and roaring wind.

 

I know my mom used to say

That she never worried about us until it got quiet,

And now I know what she means—

When it’s so quiet, I’d welcome a little noise,

Just so I don’t have to worry about

The mischievous children in my mind.

There are days when the wind doesn’t blow,

When there is no hail, no rain,

And it’s just me and cold bleak stillness,

And I’m so afraid of the silence that I must run,

Must find some sound somewhere

Behind which to hide.

 

And that is when I reach out my hand

Like all those whom I used to scorn

And pick up a device (or is it vice?

It’s hard, some days, to tell the difference—

In fact, sometimes I’m not really sure there is one.)

 

It’s been so long I’ve almost forgotten

The sweet and sour taste of silence;

The way it rolls across my tongue

And reminds me that tasting silence

Is not an act of boredom,

But of courage.

 

    The subject of silence is among those explored in one of my favorite allegories, The Knight in the Rusty Armor by Robert Fisher. It's not a very large book; mine is thin and paperback. But every time I read it, I'm impressed all over again with how many truths are hidden inside. It's a quick, easy read that captures my imagination every time I open it.

    In case you are afraid of dry books, this one is not! There are sneaky pieces of humor that have been hidden all over inside. If you read it with an open mind, you may find yourself taking a journey you didn't know you needed to make.

Mice

    Mice terrify me. I could regale you with several paragraphs worth of stories about my encounters with mice in domestic places, but I will spare you the gory details and focus instead on just one plague in particular. 

    I'm not sure when it started, the inkling that perhaps there were unwanted rodents roaming through the school, but I do know the terrified feeling that possessed me one day when someone noticed a mouse darting behind a bench in the back of the room. 

    Evan pulled the bench away from the wall. "Hey! There's a whole bunch of babies back here!" he said excitedly. 

    The classroom immediately became mayhem. The students flocked to the back to see the tiny terrors. I stayed bravely at my desk, a pillar of calm. At least, I hoped that's what my students would think. Meanwhile, my fearless charges captured the unsuspecting mice.

    "Now what are you going to do with them?" I asked, hoping the anxiety didn't bleed into my voice.

    "Can we just take them outside and get rid of them?" Evan asked eagerly. 

    "Sure," I said, relieved that they seemed to have a plan and thankful that this class of first and second graders were capable of protecting their teacher from these frightening beasts. 

    Several days later we had a school board meeting. As we sat stiffly around the table discussing serious matters, we were suddenly disrupted by the arrival of a furry gray creature scuttling around a corner and along the side of the room. Just as my students had a few days ago, the school board men leaped to their feet and dashed after the intruder. Within moments the chase was over, and we returned to the discussion at the table, relaxed and laughing, joking that we should always hire mice to take away the formality of meeting.

    I am amazed how much pandemonium can ensue from the appearance of a mammal that weighs less than an ounce. 

    Turns out the Devil works the same way, at least for me. I can be living in a place of peace and suddenly a little thing will come up and completely wreck the calm. Maybe it's a comment someone makes that I take the wrong way. Maybe it's a rumor I hear about someone else. Maybe it's a snarl of angry threads that I can't seem to untangle. Whatever it is, my peace and calm suddenly evaporates, leaving behind frustration and disappointment.

    Instead of turning to God and trusting Him to deal with the upheavel, I think it's up to me to chase the mouse. I find myself running around trying to deal with it on my own. Rather than successfully dealing with the issue, I exhaust myself working things over and over in my mind. Suddenly I discover the little mouse has grown into a monster.

    When I was able to sit back and trust my school board to take care of the mouse, it didn't grow at all. It was exciting, yes, but I knew the men in the room were bigger than the mouse. 

    I want to learn to depend on God to deal with the little things I face. I want to let go of my mice instead of letting them turn into monsters. Above all, I want to remember that my God will always be bigger than whatever mice the Devil sends out for me to face.

    

Little Gifts

    Melanie brought me flowers. Yellow, bruised, and droopy atop their flimsy stems, they were of the variety that have a shorter life-span than the average housefly. They came with no vase, no water, and no card.

    She had no way of knowing that I was having a bad day, but Melanie's wilted little dandelions made an impression on me. I still cherish the fact that I was the recipient. 

    Then the epiphany struck. We of the human race give and receive tiny gifts every day: a hand on the shoulder, a quick smile, a well-cooked meal. Our hearts are warmed with genuine appreciation at each small act of kindness. But then we receive our daily gifts from God, and something seems to change.

    Suddenly the little touches don't seem as meaningful. A song on my mind? I have songs go through my head all the time. The light of dawn catching the tiny droplets of dew on the grass? Not impressive. That happens every day. A wilted flower? Seems like He could have sent me a freshly opened bloom. 

    I find myself brushing off the little gifts: a breathtaking sunset (I'd say sunrise, but let's be real here), a bobbin that didn't run out before I finished the seam, keys in the first place I looked when I was in a hurry.

    Once I start recognizing the little things as gifts from God, the list seems to be never-ending. The other day it was two more quarters that I needed to finish rinsing a soap-smothered car at the car wash when I thought I'd taken all the change out of the console. 

    I want to live my life giving freely of the things I have to offer. But even more important, I want to live aware of the many "little" gifts that have been given me, because I believe recognizing the gifts God gives me will bring me closer to understanding His love for me.

    What gifts have you been given today?