Time Out! Devotions

(By Dollie Meredith Eckols, Mexia, Texas from Guideposts.com)

Scooping up one-year-old Jason, I grabbed my keys from the counter and called to five-year-old Robert: “Time to go!” We were running late for a doctor’s appointment.

The Texas summer heat beat down on us when we stepped outside. Robert kicked off his shoes and made footprints in the sandy driveway all the way to the car.

“Mommy will crank up the A.C., guys,” I promised, buckling Jason into his car seat. I locked and slammed his door and reached for the handle on the passenger side so Robert could hop in. Now where did I put those keys? My eyes darted back to Jason, who was waving my keys in his hand.

In a panic, I tried all the doors. The car was locked tight. Little Jason wouldn’t last more than a few minutes in that heat. I had to get him out! I grabbed a hoe from the garage. “Move back, Robert!” I shouted. I swung at the rear window, but the hoe glanced off the shatterproof glass. Jason started to cry, his face red. “Oh, God, please help us!” I called.

“Mom, look,” Robert said. A young man in blue jeans stood behind me in the driveway. He took the hoe, broke a side window with a single blow, reached in and unlocked Jason’s door. I gathered him in my arms and pulled Robert close. “It’s okay, boys. We’re all okay.”

“Where did that man go?” Robert wanted to know. I looked around. The street was empty, and our sandy driveway showed only two sets of footprints—mine and Robert’s.

When I was about six years old I was outside playing on a beautiful sunny day. An older neighbor decided to trick me into entering an old wooden storage shed at the far end of our yard. I went in according to his plan, then he shut the door, padlocked it securely, and went home laughing.

The darkness that enveloped me was immediate, as was my fear and helplessness at being trapped inside. Obviously, I pounded on the door repeatedly as hard as I could and yelled loudly to anyone who might hear. But after many minutes of silence went by I realized I had to calm down and wait until I was rescued.

It is unsettling how quickly and unexpectedly shadows of darkness can invade our lives. They can be black clouds of temptation that roll in just when we are determined not to react out of our weakness in that time. It may be the cold, penetrating blackness of discouragement that is so hard to ignore.  It may be a dark specter of doubt and uncertainty as we are bombarded by threatening or unyielding circumstances. Recently, for me, it was the onslaught of chronic health problems rendering me inactive and seemingly useless for ministry. But for others it may be something far worse and foreboding during which God seems to be, not only silent, but disinterested.

Now back to the boy in the shed. My fear and preoccupation with the darkness and the unknowns in that shed continued to dominate my thoughts until I noticed a small beam of light coming in through the wood slats of the door. There in the distinct ray of light I saw thousands of tiny dust particles drifting, circulating – yes, almost dancing within the light! For what seemed like a long time I sat observing their joyous display as if the dust was oblivious to the darkness.

There is a wonderful application of truth here. The Bible says that the Lord God formed man of dust from the ground. (What a good thought to meditate on when we are tempted to applaud our own significance outside of Christ!) So whether God shines His light rays in a darkened shed, across a hospital bed, or in a lonely, forsaken room – or even down the halls of the church itself, we can be like the dust and dance in the light.

Regardless of the dark circumstances or testing we face, no matter how dark the night or grim the news, we can reflect God’s light in that particular situation. We can express praise and joy, and dance as we are carried in the warm current of His love and truth! We can be assured that regardless of the trial or how bleak the future seems, He is always present, always involved, and fully committed to completing His marvelous work in us!

Oh, yes, about the boy in the shed. My grandparents came home, heard my cries, and found one tremendously relieved boy as they unlocked the door and let me out. Okay, so I cried again, but that was a long time ago and I am just a dusty old grandpa myself now. Yet, I am still determined to find God’s purpose and grace in all things – regardless how dense the darkness! I want to focus on His illuminating presence and always be in the light. Oh, that I would continue to follow the Great Shepherd of my soul and fulfill His plan by bringing honor and glorify to Him in all things!

Romans 8:31-33 (NIV)

³¹What, then, shall we say in response to this? If God is for us, who can be against us? ³²He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things? ³³Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen? It is God who justifies.

Joshua 1:9 (NIV)

⁹ Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.”

Proverbs 3:5-6 (NIV)

⁵ Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; ⁶ in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.

Psalm 9:1-2 (NIV)

¹ I will praise you, O LORD, with all my heart; I will tell of all your wonders. ² I will be glad and rejoice in you; I will sing praise to your name, O Most High.

(devotional by Scott Walker from Guideposts and OurPrayer.org)

“The wind blows where it wishes and you hear the sound of it, but do not know where it comes from and where it is going. . . .”

John 3:8 (NAS)

My children have always kidded me about how quickly I can fall asleep. When I sit down in my easy chair to watch a football game, my sons take bets as to how soon I’ll be snoozing.But occasionally I’ll have a night when sleep will not come. Last night I turned out my desk lamp at midnight, let the dogs back into the house and was asleep before my head hit the pillow—for fifteen minutes. Then I was jolted awake, a thousand thoughts pouring through my mind: My quarterly tax payment will soon be due; I’m nudging up on a deadline; I’ve got a doctor’s appointment next week. . . . I got up, put on my robe and wandered out into the front yard. It was a beautiful night, mild and pleasant, balanced between spring and summer. Standing beneath a canopy of water oaks, I gazed at the stars as a breeze rippled off the western prairie. Going back inside, I climbed to the second floor, opened the windows in the guest room and lay down on the bed. In the darkness, I listened to the gentle wind whisper under the eaves and watched the curtains billow in. Snuggling under covers, I felt the breeze ruffle my hair. There was a smell of sweet hay in the soft Texas night. Then sleep embraced me. When sleep and rest will not come, I need to open the windows of my soul and let God’s Spirit blow in. Father, I cannot command the wind to blow, but I can trust that in Your good time, Your presence will be felt in my life, bringing peace and rest. Amen.

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