Well, here we are . . . back on Mose’s front porch.
Pundits of the social-media world clamor for me to tell you about me. I cannot. Would Mose trick you into coming here so he could give you a sales pitch? Not hardly.
The peace that passes all understanding does not come as a byproduct of sitting on this porch, but the words spoken here may help point the way to where that peace resides. Sit back, listen to the birdsongs, use your rocking chair for its designed purpose, let the lake work its magic . . . in so doing, you just might hear a still, small voice saying, “Come closer.”
A chief pilot and an airline captain stood in the crew lounge of a major airline while a hundred of their kind engaged in the various last minute things pilots do before going out to their airplanes. The atmosphere was all white shirts and black slacks. Two dozen pilots sat at tables, updating their various manuals; others worked on flight plans or checked on the weather; still others killed time by chatting on phones, watching TV, or visiting with acquaintances.
The captain turned and studied the scar on his boss’s bald head before saying, “Well, tell me what the doctors are telling you.”
“The tumor is growing again.” The chief pilot spoke without changing expression. “They’re going to have to go back in.”
The captain watched his friend for a moment, then said, “For a man who’s going back in for his second brain surgery, you seem mighty calm.”
Chief pilots know things line pilots don’t know, and this one gave the captain a peek into the private lives of the pilots around them by waving a negligent hand at the room and saying, “It’s not the best news, but I can point at five healthy guys in here I wouldn’t change places with.”
That captain was standing where you and I stand . . . in the midst of people who are going about their day-to-day chores, people whose needs are glossed over by a sense of order—the “let’s-pretend” appearance they present to the world.
There are people among us who are gifted at seeing the needs of the lost men and women around us; others, because they measure by an errant standard, assume that the world around us is as it should be. Which am I? You?
My personal strength—and my insight—may be limited, but my resources are not. The power of The Resurrection resides within my heart, waiting for me to unleash it on behalf of those who stand in a place of waste and desolation, knowing not they need to be rescued. Would that God would sharpen my senses . . . make me more effective.
How about you? Where do you stand? What is the origin and measure of the power that possesses you? And . . .
If you think an insightful man would choose having a brain tumor over changing places with you, you’re invited to write me.