Time Out! Devotions

2 Corinthians 1:3-4 (NIV)

³Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, ⁴who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.

God’s care for us extends to the details of our lives. He knows when His children hurt and longs to offer comfort (Isaiah 49:13).

The Lord’s compassion is personal, continuous, and always available. We receive His comfort through the Holy Spirit, who lives within us. There is no situation or time when He is inaccessible to the believer—we can be consoled and reassured at any time, day or night.

Consider how the compassion of God was demonstrated through Jesus’ life. He interacted even with the “untouchables”—people whose bodies were infected with a contagious disease (Luke 17:11-14). And no sickness of ours will prevent Him from caring for us.

Jesus had compassion on people with medical conditions (Matthew 14:14). He not only healed them physically but also gave an even greater comfort—new life through the forgiveness of sins. And while our infirmities may remain, the Lord lovingly strengthens us to persevere (2 Corinthians 12:7-9).

And what about the messes we get into? Peter’s betrayal of Christ was met with forgiveness (John 21:15-17). Thomas’ doubts were answered by Jesus Himself (John 20:27). Our mistakes won’t stop Him from loving us. Even to His enemies, Jesus left the way open for repentance.

God’s comfort and care are adequate for anything we face, whether it’s declining health, insufficient finances, or family trouble. Then, once we’ve experienced His consolation, we are to become bearers of comfort to others (2 Corinthians 1:4). People everywhere are in great need of His compassion.

(devotional by Dr. Charles Stanley from the May 2010 issue of

In Touch magazine)

Psalm 25:15-21 (NIV)

¹⁵ My eyes are ever on the LORD, for only he will release my feet from the snare.¹⁶ Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted.¹⁷ The troubles of my heart have multiplied; free me from my anguish.¹⁸ Look upon my affliction and my distress and take away all my sins.¹⁹ See how my enemies have increased and how fiercely they hate me!²⁰ Guard my life and rescue me; let me not be put to shame, for I take refuge in you.²¹ May integrity and uprightness protect me, because my hope is in you.

I know the pain of loneliness. I was the only child of a single mother who had to work long hours to support us. My adult life has been marked by periods of emotional isolation as well. However, God has never abandoned me to these feelings.

The Lord desires that all people feel connected to Him and to each other. And in fact, we can be quickly comforted when we respond wisely to loneliness.

The first step is to enter into a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. Believing He exists is not enough. The Lord created mankind for fellowship, which is why a relationship with Him gives people a sense of oneness. The love of Christ squeezes loneliness out of the lives of God’s children.

Second, we must admit that we’re lonely. Some Christians incorrectly think they shouldn’t be susceptible to normal human feelings. But nothing in the Bible says we won’t endure emotional isolation. Not only men like David and Paul, but even the Lord Himself knew the ache of feeling deserted (Psalm 25:16, 2 Timothy 4:16; Matthew 26:40; 27:46).

Finally, we ought to develop godly friends. These are the Christian brothers and sisters who will laugh, cry, and empathize with us. Above all, believers need friends who will continually point them to God and pray over them.

We can’t deny feelings of loneliness, nor can we run from them. A person who seeks ways to escape those feelings only broadens the gap between the Lord and himself. There is just one way to close the chasm and conquer loneliness—by drawing near to the Lord.

(devotional by Dr. Charles Stanley from the May 2010 issue of In Touch magazine)

Dear Friend,

I’m writing to say thanks. I wish I could thank you personally, but I don’t know where you are. I wish I could call you, but I don’t know your name. If I knew your appearance, I’d look for you, but your face is fuzzy in my memory. But I’ll never forget what you did.

There you were, leaning against your pickup in the West Texas oil field. An engineer of some sort. A supervisor on the job. Your khakis and clean shirt set you apart from us roustabouts. In the oil field pecking order, we were at the bottom. You were the boss. We were the workers. You read the blueprints. We dug the ditches. You inspected the pipe. We laid it. You ate with the bosses in the shed. We ate with each other in the shade.

Except that day.

I remember wondering why you did it.

We weren’t much to look at. What wasn’t sweaty was oily. Faces burnt from the sun; skin black from the grease. Didn’t bother me, though. I was there only for the summer. A high-school boy earning good money laying pipe.

We weren’t much to listen to, either. Our language was sandpaper coarse. After lunch, we’d light the cigarettes and begin the jokes. Someone always had a deck of cards with lacy-clad girls on the back. For thirty minutes in the heat of the day, the oil patch became Las Vegas—replete with foul language, dirty stories, blackjack, and barstools that doubled as lunch pails.

In the middle of such a game, you approached us. I thought you had a job for us that couldn’t wait another few minutes. Like the others, I groaned when I saw you coming.

You were nervous. You shifted your weight from one leg to the other as you began to speak.

“Uh, fellows,” you started.

We turned and looked up at you.

“I, uh, I just wanted, uh, to invite … ”

You were way out of your comfort zone. I had no idea what you might be about to say, but I knew that it had nothing to do with work.

“I just wanted to tell you that, uh, our church is having a service tonight and, uh … ”

“What?” I couldn’t believe it. “He’s talking church? Out here? With us?”

“I wanted to invite any of you to come along.”

Silence. Screaming silence.

Several guys stared at the dirt. A few shot glances at the others. Snickers rose just inches from the surface.

“Well, that’s it. Uh, if any of you want to go … uh, let me know.”

After you turned and left, we turned and laughed. We called you “reverend,” “preacher,” and “the pope.” We poked fun at each other, daring one another to go. You became the butt of the day’s jokes.

I’m sure you knew that. I’m sure you went back to your truck knowing the only good you’d done was to make a good fool out of yourself. If that’s what you thought, then you were wrong.

That’s the reason for this letter.

Some five years later, a college sophomore was struggling with a decision. He had drifted from the faith given to him by his parents. He wanted to come back. He wanted to come home. But the price was high. His friends might laugh. His habits would have to change. His reputation would have to be overcome.

Could he do it? Did he have the courage?

That’s when I thought of you. As I sat in my dorm room late one night, looking for the guts to do what I knew was right, I thought of you.

I thought of how your love for God had been greater than your love for your reputation.

I thought of how your obedience had been greater than your common sense.

I remembered how you had cared more about making disciples than about making a good first impression. And when I thought of you, your memory became my motivation.

So I came home.

I’ve told your story dozens of times to thousands of people. Each time the reaction is the same: The audience becomes a sea of smiles, and heads bob in understanding. Some smile because they think of the “clean-shirted engineers” in their lives. They remember the neighbor who brought the cake, the aunt who wrote the letter, the teacher who listened …

Others smile because they have done what you did. And they, too, wonder if their “lunchtime loyalty” was worth the effort.

You wondered that. What you did that day wasn’t much. And I’m sure you walked away that day thinking that your efforts had been wasted.

They weren’t.

So I’m writing to say thanks. Thanks for the example. Thanks for the courage. Thanks for giving your lunch to God. He did something with it; it became the Bread of Life for me.

Gratefully,

Max

P.S. If by some remarkable coincidence you read this and remember that day, please give me a call. I owe you lunch.

From In the Eye of the Storm
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 1997) Max Lucado

No matter how hard I tried,

I struggled to feel God’s presence in my life…

By Suzanne S. Pluhar, Frankfort, Indiana

My practical nature served me well in running my own business, but when it came to my faith it was an impediment. I went to church every week. I read the Bible. I believed in God. Yet somehow I just didn’t feel him in my life. Certainly not the way my husband, Ed, and others I knew did. They didn’t need any tangible proof to trust God was always with them.

For a long time I struggled to find that same assurance. But it never seemed to come, no matter how I worked at it. Maybe I’m not meant to believe the way God wants us to, I thought dispiritedly. I used to enjoy the quiet Sunday-morning fellowship at church. Now going to services began to make me uncomfortable. Worshiping among people of “true” faith, I felt a little like I didn’t belong.

I confided my doubts to my husband. Even his encouragement didn’t soothe me. Lord, I know you’re there, I kept praying, but I just don’t feel your presence like I should.

At church one Sunday the pastor spoke about Thomas, the doubting apostle. I paid particular attention because I could identify with Thomas. He too needed tangible proof of Christ’s presence. What would it take for me?

Halfway through the sermon I felt a firm, comforting hand on my shoulder. I looked at my husband, grateful for his understanding. Then I saw his hands folded in his lap. I turned to the man on my right. He was holding a hymnal.

Puzzled, I glanced at the people in the pew behind me. They were all sitting back; not one of them was touching me. But the gentle pressure remained on my shoulder. Warmth enveloped my entire body and I felt strangely reassured.

Then I heard the pastor reciting words from the Book of John: “Do not doubt but believe.” Suddenly I knew whose hand was on my shoulder.

(from Mysterious Ways on Guideposts.com)