And Tell Me HOW This Makes Me Look Good?

In the middle of the night; another feeding. Tears from a dramatic toddler. Peanut butter in curly hair. Spit-up down another shirt. Reflux screams. Selfish whimpers. Repeated instructions. Constant discipline. The kitchen is a mess. Again.

I live with a whirling tornado and a screaming banshee.

I love them. They're adorable. This job of mommyhood is amazing.

And sometimes completely disgusting, exhausting, and wearing.

There needs to be a word for "something I would never trade, that I prize greatly, and that exhausts me mentally, physically, spiritually, and emotionally."

Oh, wait... that word is "mommyhood."

As I waded into this adjustment period, I knew that fatigue, the possibility of physical illness, and spiritual dryness would attack me at every corner. I filled up my nights with prayer, my note cards with verses, and my Spotify with encouragement. And I got ready for the onslaught.

But a verse that I never planned on is the verse that God brought to mind...

It attacked me. It lodged itself in the crevices of my thinking and it wouldn't go away. We call that the "Holy Spirit."

This verse has become a mainstay. "What benefit" could easily be paraphrased, "So, explain to me how you look good if...?" On a daily basis, I'll ask myself:

"What benefit is it to me, if I'm patient when my child has done nothing wrong?"

"Explain to me how I look good, if I'm joyful after a full night's sleep?"

"What benefit is it to me, if I keep my temper when everything is going my way?"

What benefit is that to you?

The answer? None.

There is no glory gleaned for the Father. No self-discipline gained. No dying to selfishness accomplished.

You are not modeling Christ's love and God's mercy.

You're just acting like a reasonable human being. Congratulations, you're not a sociopath. Yippee.

So, when that peanut butter gets everywhere (seriously, how on earth does it get everywhere?), and the toddler disobeys again, and dinner isn't yummy, and the most you accomplished all day was folding one load of laundry (which said toddler enjoyed flinging around the room after it was folded)... do you smile when your hubby walks through the door? Do you cuddle the toddler and teach him "no" in a loving way? Is your voice sweet and your words sweeter?

Because that's when you make Him look good.

And that's when you're being true mercy in a world that desperately needs His love.

Quietly Racing, Fiercely Resting

I fell into the classic "woman trap."

Last night, actually.

It was ten o'clock, the lights were out, and the monsoon-like rainstorm had stilled to a dull roar. I had just had a wonderful text-versation with my brother in NYC, I had eaten a bowl of ice cream for dinner (perks of the honey being gone), and my house was spotless (thanks to a recent showing).

All was right in my world.

And I couldn't sleep.

I lay there, eyes peeled open, staring at the ceiling. Would our house sell? Does this guy want to buy? How soon would he want to move in? We could borrow my dad's trailer... we'd need  a storage unit... what clothes did I want to pack, which do I need... packing the kitchen would be a bear... baby isn't going to like this...

Courtney. For crying out loud, go to sleep.

I flipped to the side, cuddled down in my pillow, and... what if Scott doesn't get a job? What if I'm the reason that he doesn't get a job? Name one other profession where they care what your wife is like... I've never been good at pastor-wifey stuff... I don't like mauve and ladies' teas... what if they want me to do the flower arrangements for the women's bathroom? Is that something that pastor's wives do? I guess I could learn to like mauve...

Courtney. Stop it.

I rolled over. Face down. Would I need to find a new job? I will miss my current patients and coworkers so much... but could we afford to buy a house on Scott's salary? Where would we buy it? Where will we be? We want 7 to 9 children... how many houses can accommodate that kind of lunacy?

I turned over the Scott, "I can't sleep."

"Me either. Stop worrying."

"I'm not worrying. I'm just thinking about lots of different things."

"Honey... that is the very definition of worry."

He was right. The word "worry" in the Greek actually means (roughly) "to divide."

In reality, there was nothing that I needed to do right now. There was nothing that I needed to plan in order to be a good steward of tomorrow. Instead, I was splitting my mind up into a million tiny pieces. I put a little bit of my mind on selling the house, a little on where we will move, a little in Scott's job... and why stop there? Why don't I start thinking about my baby's development, my job, how much laundry there is, whether or not I paid the credit card bill... And my mind gets divided again, and again, and again...

Yes. I was worrying. Don't pretend you haven't.

My perfect worry time is after everything is done for the day, the lights click off, I climb under my fluffy comforter, cuddle down for sleep, and then... BAM. Suddenly, my life is devolving into total disarray and it all requires that I immediately have plans for every possible scenario.

The problem with worry is two-fold. The first is that it is literally like slapping God in the face. You would never dream of saying, "God, I'm sorry, I'm just better at this than you, so I'm going to take over the details and organization of my life. 'Kay, thanks, bye." But when you worry, that is what you're saying.

The second problem with worry is our finite humanness... Unlike the God of the universe (who, incidentally, you just assumed was incompetent by deciding to worry), you do not have limitless brain power and resources to throw at a million different problems. Your energy and emotional capacity are limited. When you burn up all your reserves worrying about things that may never happen, and/or, things that you cannot control, you are robbing yourself of one of your most precious resources.

You have a finite time on this earth. You only have a short number of days in which to live. And when you spend those days, wrapping your mind into knots, and dividing it into a myriad of small, unimportant boxes, you are distracting yourself from what you need to be doing.

Paul writes: Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable. So I do not run aimlessly; I do not box as one beating the air. But I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified.

Worrying is beating the air. Your mind is out of control when you worry. And you only have a little time to run this race...

In Psalm 37 it says, 

Do not fret—it leads only to evil.
For those who are evil will be destroyed,

    but those who hope in the Lord will inherit the land.

I will not worry... not only is my God in perfect, sovereign control... but I only have a short time here. And if I worry, I lose my effectiveness in many, much more important matters.

Who cares if we don't have a house, or can't sell our current house? What does it matter in eternity if we have no jobs, or are unable to have a future plan? Worse things have happened to Christians, and if that happens when I am seeking to please the Lord, then I can only assume it is for my good and His glory.

But I do care, regardless if I'm homeless, jobless, and plan-less, about sharing the hope that I have in Christ... Because apart from his gracious goodness, my life would be nothing but beating the air.

Once Upon an Allegory: Mrs. Grundy and Nice Nelly

Once upon a time, on the very edge of an important town, there was a long row of houses. Vine Street was known as the "fashionable street" of the town, but the further Vine Street got from the town, the less fashionable it became. The houses at the beginning of the street were sparkling white, with very prim primroses in their window boxes, and a handyman who attended to the needs of the weeds and plumbing. He was a very remarkable handyman--all the residents agreed. His aptitude for re-shingling roofs was extraordinary, according to Mrs. Potts (head of the neighborhood association), but then again, nearly everything (from discounted eggs to a triple rainbow) was "extraordinary" to the enthusiastic Mrs. Potts. Regardless, the houses were well maintained, and everyone coveted a house at the "good" end of the street.

At the very end (the "bad" end) of this pretentious street, there were two houses. These houses had apparently given up all hope of ever becoming pretentious. They were trying, with all of their beings, just to remain upright. And they were doing a rather shoddy job of that.

"For Sale" signs stood hopefully in their front yards, and for months on end, Vine St. 211 and Vine St. 213 looked for new owners.

On the same day, the same hour, nay, the same minute, the houses were purchased by two, very different, owners. Such coincidences don't just happen in stories. They are just as likely to happen in your life. The problem with coincidences is that we label them as such. In this instance, we should side with the wonderful Mrs. Potts and label such instances "extraordinary." For all great coincidences are wonderfully extraordinary.

A lovely, vivacious lady (barely more than a girl, really) purchased house 211. She bounced her curly locks joyfully, and grinned in eager anticipation of becoming a home owner. (And on Vine Street, nonetheless!) Elenora VanderWitzerburg was the quintessential optimist. Her sunny disposition was legendary. So legendary, in fact, was her bubbly, I-could-care-less personality, that no one called her by the imposing handle of "Ms. VanderWitzerburg." She was known as "Nice Nelly" and her personality supported such a nickname. Nelly was staunchly determined to see the best in herself and in others, most especially in herself. When others would call her clothes "mismatched," Nelly labeled herself "artsy." When reprimanded by her mother for ignoring her grandmother's birthday, Nelly would cheerfully toss her curls, and remind her mother of all the times she had remembered Grandma's birthday. Caught in a lie, Nelly would be the first person to point out that she really rarely told a lie, and (after all), this lie was very creative and very small, and really, actually more clever than the truth. Yes, Nelly was a very happy individual. Very contented. And very sure of everyone's love... And she had reason to be. Nice Nelly, despite all her faults, was easy to love.

Mrs. Grundy, on the other hand, was not easy to love. I don't think that Mrs. Grundy's own mother even really loved Mrs. Grundy. Mrs. Grundy was the type of person who one "loved" out of a sense of duty. No one loved Mrs. Grundy on impulse. Routine was Mrs. Grundy's hobby. She was rigid about completing each task with painful punctuality. 7:13 a.m. every morning, Mrs. Grundy fed her cats. She patted each cat 3 times, and then sat down to read her paper. She always snapped the paper open briskly 3 times, and she never read the comics first. That would have been shear frivolity. Mrs. Grundy believed that in order to be a contributing citizen, one must stay up on one's current events. Mrs. Grundy never told a lie. Mrs. Grundy never mismatched her clothes. Mrs. Grundy kept a birthday calendar so that she never forgot anyone's birthday. To forget someone's birthday was a horrible offense. Every day, at the exact same time, Mrs. Grundy did the exact same thing. If, for any reason, Mrs. Grundy didn't follow her schedule perfectly, she inevitably took to bed for a week out of shock and depression. Her cats still remember the "2 snap" paper incident of 1997. When Mrs. Grundy forgot to snap the paper 3 times, she was bedridden for 13 and 1/2 days.

So these are the new owners of 211 and 213 Vine Street. And never have there been more terrible houses.

Nice Nelly's house had a horrible toilet that spit sewer gas at you, and a garbage disposal that wailed every time you turned it on. Her carpet was peeling up in great chunks, and the mold underneath was almost as fuzzy as the carpet had been. Her front yard was a jungle that most Amazonians would have coveted, and she was too scared to look in the attic. After what she found in the basement (drowned rats, my friends), she had no interest in exploring the attic.


Instead, forever cheerful, she hammered a window box on the front of her house and planted bright red flowers. Nelly's furnace growled each time she  turned it on, but she claimed that it just made her feel like she had a pet wolf, and she had always wanted a pet wolf. The pipes in the ceiling screamed every time she took a bath, so Nice Nelly declared that she liked showers instead. Mrs. Pott's came over and gave Nelly the number for the "Extraordinary Handyman," but Nelly laughed, tossed his number in the garbage and said, "Look at my lovely red flowers! If I could do that by myself, I doubt I need any handyman."

Mrs. Grundy's house was probably even worse. At least, that's the way that Mrs. Grundy saw it.

The linoleum in Mrs. Grundy's laundry room was a sickly shade of green from the constant over-flowing of the washing machine. Her house leaked so much in a rainstorm, that she stayed dryer on the back porch with an umbrella than she did in her bed. She tried to keep petting her cats 3 times a day, but the poor, terrified animals were so scared of the massive snake population that they rarely came out from under the couch.

 She looked at Nice Nelly's house, and sighed, "I'll never manage to clean up my house the way that she cleaned up her house!" But, knowing that she must try, Mrs. Grundy pulled out her hammer. With 3 sharp raps of the hammer, she fashioned a window box and planted some red flowers. Just as she was dropping the last flower into the box, Mrs. Potts came bustling by.

"My dear Mrs. Grundy! I have for you, the most delightful gift. Here's the number of our street's Extraordinary Handyman. He's simply amazing. A dream. A real catch."

Mrs. Grundy didn't even reach out for the card Mrs. Potts was offering. She buried her head in her hands and started sobbing, "Look at my window box! Look at it! It's horrible! It's nowhere near as good as Nelly's, and my house is a hole! No handyman would even want to set foot inside my house. I can't do this, I can't do this!"

And Mrs. Grundy took to her bed.

We must hope that it didn't rain while she was in there, or else the poor woman may have drowned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And now, for the moral of the story. No, don't run away. I know morals are a wee bit like vitamins, but with a story, hopefully I've made this a chewable vitamin with a yummy strawberry.

Are you a Nice Nelly or a Mrs. Grundy?

Both ladies moved onto Vine Street, into the family of God, they are living with Christ now, our "true vine." And this wonderful street is equipped with a Handyman who is really, truly extraordinary  and willing to help them with every improvement. For apart from our Handyman, "[we] can do nothing."

These women moved into equally terrifying houses, their response was quite different, although equally poor. Nice Nelly is what is known as a "happy moralist." Resting in her own abilities to aid in her "renovation" (i.e. Christian growth), she was very confident in the amazingness of her own abilities. After all, her window box was amazing, and who cares if there are bloated rats in the basement that she can't take care of? She refused the help of the "Extraordinary Handyman" because  she can do it on her own. She's pretty good.

Mrs. Grundy, on the other hand, knows that her house should be condemned, but rather than seeking help, she tries to tack on a window box, and then breaks down in tears because she knows that it's not helping her problems. She looks at her neighbor and assumes that she is far, far worse than Nice Nelly. She is known as a "sad moralist." She is also depending on her own strength for growth and change, but she knows that her efforts are failures. Rather than turning to the Handyman, she caves in and wallows in the nasty misery of her horrible house until she has enough energy to try to do it on her own again.

So, if you're a resident on Vine Street, which character would you  play? I'm afraid I'm a wee bit like Mrs. Grundy...

(John 15: 1-8)

I'm learning the power of prayer... not in changing my circumstances, but rather, in changing my attitude in the midst of these same circumstances.

We're in a holding pattern with our adoption, with our plans for next year, with work, and I had begun to feel like my very growth and development was in the same, ever-circling, never progressing pattern.

Waiting will give you that sensation.

But then God reminded me of prayer... An avenue to my great God. A place where I can bare my soul, cry for help, rejoice with laughter, and sit quietly with no words.

So.

I began to pray. For real. In earnest. Every day. Hour after hour. Consistently.

I hope I never stop.

Nothing on the outside has changed, but God has given amazing growth. God has shown His character in astonishing ways.

God has become my friend.

"The friendship of the Lord is for those who fear him." (Ps. 25)

Of Political Rants and the Heavenly Kingdom

I am disgusted.

Totally and completely disgusted.

My generation of young evangelicals sometimes make me want to bash their heads together and stamp my foot in childlike anger.

A complete lack of involvement in, or attention to politics is a mindset embraced by many young evangelicals. Instead of rolling up their sleeves, registering to vote, and holding a sign at a rally, they shrug their holy shoulders and sigh...

"You know, this world is not our home. God will advance His Kingdom. I'm choosing to focus on more eternal things at this time..."

That. Is. Complete. CRAP.

(No, really, Courtney, tell us how you really feel.)

I understand the gospel is of paramount importance. I understand His will "will be done on earth as it is in heaven." I don't think I would argue with anyone who, at the end of the day, says, "God is sovereign. Won't heaven be nice?"

But that's not the point. The point is that we have been given the gift of marvelous freedom. Freedom in which we can share that gospel, preach that gospel, live that gospel. When that freedom is gone, what will you do? Of course, you can argue that you'll still share, still preach, and still live, but let me ask you: will the same number of people still be able to hear it?

Freedom is a conduit to the gospel. It is not the gospel, but it enables the free spreading of this gospel.

Attacks on freedom begin to attack the laws and commands of God: abortion, homosexuality, evangelizing, child-rearing.

When my country begins to make my obedience to God difficult, then I have lost a precious gift.

So, no, I don't sit around watching the news every day. I don't bemoan eco-friendly bills or liberal pundits getting into office. What I do  decry is a lack of willingness to address our culture, to be engaged, to protect liberty--not for liberty's sake, not as something that I'm owed--but rather because protecting this liberty will enable the free spread of the gospel for both me and my children.

So stop sounding so holy.

Call your senator.

Stay informed.

Please.


**phew!** 
 

*****************************

Some things you might want to know:

President Obama issued yet another executive order. Titled “Assignment of National Security and Emergency Preparedness Communications Functions,” it would appear that the implementation of emergency communications by Obama, using all forms of wired and wireless communication systems, is redirected through the executive branch and could expand such takeover abilities beyond the limits of an actual act of war. 

"The Rights of the Child" is currently trying to take decisions for special needs children out of the hands of their parents and making it a government responsibility. More info: http://www.unicef.org/crc/

My Tame Sin

I am a boring person. Completely unoriginal. And tame. Excessively tame. I live comfortably within my own four walls, and have little to no concern about the world surrounding me. Every now and then I peep out my little window, but I quickly draw back with a shudder. Everyone outside my little walls seems a little... dirty. I pride myself, with a little ruffle of my perfectly coiffed hair, that I'm not nearly as dirty and sinful as those I've gotten a glimpse of. I'm appropriately moved to sorrow at their condition, and then I go right back into my own comfy cave of darkness.

I'm not starting bonfires of sin, I'm cuddling right up next to it with a dreamy sigh.

You see, while others may go out and light a giant bonfire in commemoration of their sin-- lighting up the sky with fireworks of "Look! I'm sinning!", I don't. My idol doesn't parade around in the traditional sense of the word. Instead, it creeps up beside me... in the form of comfort.

You see, more than rebellion and flagrant thumbing of my nose at rules and regulations, my sin takes a more tame, insidious bent.

I love comfort. Love it. I like pants with elastic waistbands, naps, and microwaveable foods. I like days when I can sleep in, and piles of books to bury myself in. I like a complete lack of to-do lists and a complete disregard of goals or ambition. I would like to have life handed to me on a silver platter, thank you very much. I don't want to strive, sweat, or groan... those sound too painful and miserable. I just want to curl up in my sweatpants and wait peacefully until I'm ushered into a blissful and (need I say it?) restful eternity.

Comfort masquerades as a right, as a friend, as something which should be allowed (at least one weekends, right?). But the truth is, if I'm living my life as I should, comfort should not be an option.

"But understand this, that in the last days there will come times of difficulty... You will be betrayed even by parents, brothers and sisters, relatives and friends, and they will put some of you to death. Everyone will hate you because of me... For it has been granted to you on behalf of Christ not only to believe in him, but also to suffer for him... In all this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials."

In truth, my desire to curl up in my comfort is a disgusting commentary on my eagerness to roll around in the filth of my sin. Harmless items, such as sweatpants and lazy Saturdays, become harmful, poisonous substances when I worship them above the plans of my Savior. 

I am not designed to seek comfort. I'm designed to proclaim the glory of God. I should be living my life in reckless abandon for His fame. I should be pushing aside even the fluffy, quiet sin, in horror of its creeping comfort in the same way as I am of the firework sins. I'm not brave or creative in my sin. But I'm shockingly unashamed and consistently tolerant of my own condition.

Why am I not pushing it away? Why am I not fighting? Why am I not running from this?

Perhaps it's the tame sins which are the most deadly.

Psalm 16:11

"You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore."

 This week, I'm starting a new series on the blog. Born of countless hours battling for joy, studying God's word, and organizing information, I developed a very short summation of joy.

Joy is listed as a fruit of the Spirit, meaning it ranks with self-control and kindness in terms of developed, faithfully practiced actions. Joy is a discipline born of conscious work and effort. However, we frequently view joy as something which ebbs and flows. Something incontrolable that we just hope to fall into. Those are our "good days"-- when we're joyful. And I would argue that it's possible to have "good days" every day.

Welcome to the "Discipline of Joy"!

Tinsel and the Glory of God

I have been busy.

So insanely, crazily busy that I have neglected one of my most favorite past times. I have forgotten to write. This can mean only one thing... that the busyness must be extremely happy busyness. Kind of like too much tinsel on a Christmas tree.

 Fun.

And completely crazy.

Allow me to recap... I met and married my wonderful husband in under 6 months. During these six months I met Scott's family, had Christmas/Thanksgiving/New Years, led accountability groups at 6 a.m. two days a week, I was hospitalized for ulcerative colitis, and I planned a wedding.

Following this whirlwind, my husband dove back into summer seminary classes, I work 50 hours a week, and I had absolutely no clue how to manage a household with two people.

I learned two things about men this summer. They make lots of laundry.

And they like to eat.

They do both of these in prolific abundance... But I also married one who is exceptionally good at problem solving, who shows me affection through flowers and date nights, who allows me to break down into tears, yet who still teaches me truth.

Yes, I am a blessed woman.

That being said, the name of this blog still holds. Despite whatever may come in my life, I want to continue to write. I want to be "still writing" when I'm called into eternity.

My reasoning is simple. Every person has been blessed with character qualities, attributes, and gifts which are unique to them as individuals. The purpose of these gifts is not to bring praise and glory to themselves, but rather to proclaim the greatness of God to the world.

So. I must be Courtney, still writing, until I'm called to give an account.

Lattes, the Hallelujah Chorus, and Heaven...

My eyes are tired, but open. Propped, glazed, fixed by the caffeine I so foolishly imbibed this evening. 


My old age is peeking out. I used to be able to drink coffee at 10 p.m. and be sound asleep by 10:17. Now, after a 4 p.m. latte, I stare at my ceiling, willing myself to fall asleep.


Tonight, in my sleeplessness, I propped my chin in my hands, snuggled under my down blanket, and traced the moonlight on the tree outside my window. My eyes wouldn't close. Foot tapping, and tired eyes staring, I began to think of today.


Today was a day of exceptional blessings--worship with the family of God, coffee talks (hence the sleeplessness) with delightful sisters in Christ, singing at the top of my lungs with a mass of other believers.


Yet in all this blessing, I was rather wistful. Longing. We talked about it briefly over lattes. Despite a life full of happiness and Starbucks, I still yearn for something yet to come. As I become older, and as I see more of who I am and how truly broken and fallen the world is, I become increasingly anxious for Christ to come back. 


I want to see Him. I want to worship Him, uninterrupted, forever, free from the sin which wraps itself into the very acts which should be most honoring to Him: my prayers, my praise, my meditation. I go from praising God with every fiber of my being, to blatant pride in a split second. I'm so tired of my sin. It is forever sprouting heads like the mythological Greek Hydra... I slice off one head, only to have two more grow.


Imagine the pure, unadulterated joy of praising God. Forever. Have you ever heard a really good performance of Handel's Messiah? When the "Hallelujah Chorus" bursts onto the scene, goosebumps run up and down my arms. 


Imagine that. Only better. Fuller. With every voice of everyone who has ever proclaimed Christ as Lord joining with you. Perfectly. The thunder of the praise, bounding into the stars, spreading infinitely throughout the galaxy, proclaiming what creation has sung for years: "The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge."


And as I lay there, tracing moonlit branches, again and again, I wondered, "What am I doing? What am I doing right now to "redeem this time"?"


I know that these "days are evil," but that my purpose in proclaiming the glory of God does not start when I join the multitude in heaven. No, I am told that I am to "shine among [the world] like stars in the sky." I am already designed to portray the glory of God. Here. Now. Flawed. Sinful. Weary. God could have chosen to make me perfect at the moment of salvation, but we all know that didn't happen.


Why?


Because something that I don't understand, something in this battle, which "is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms," something about my struggle to conform to Christ, brings God more glory than immediate perfection.


So, while I wait to join in heaven's immortal "Hallelujah Chorus," am I waiting passively? Or am I actively redeeming each moment. Each second. Each action. Taking "captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ." 


Because, before I sing with that multitude, even more than worshipping with the amazing servants who have gone before, I want to hear my Savior say, "'You remain true to my name. You did not renounce your faith in me.' 'Well done...'"


How good it will be to go home...






************
Scripture used:
Revelations 2:13
II Corinthians 10:5
Ephesians 6:12
Philippians 2:15
Ephesians 5:16
Psalm 19:1-2
Luke 19:17

How much would my life change if I thought of each person I came in contact with as Christ?

Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’

They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’

He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.

Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.”

May my daily interactions, conversations, and service be colored by the realization that Christ is my motivation and my passion. May the knowledge of who my Savior is eclipse all deterrents to serving Him through those I meet.

May my "attitude be the same as that of Christ Jesus."