Life's priorities

My husband and I were listening to the radio while driving home from Northampton on Saturday evening, and we heard this story. Now we've heard this story many times over the years, but not quite like this version.

When things in your lives seem almost too much to handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar and the two cups of coffee.

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began , he wordlessly picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sandfilled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with an unanimous 'yes.'

The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.

'Now,' said the professor as the laughter subsided, 'I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things--God, your family, your children, your health, your friends and your favorite passions--and if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full.

'The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house and your car.

The sand is everything else--the small stuff. If you put the sand into the jar first,' he continued, 'there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff you will never have room for the things that are important to you.

'Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your spouse out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal. Take care of the golf balls first--the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.'

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented. The professor smiled. 'I'm glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend.'

Finding Orion

We were recently in South Africa, and while there I had an obsession with finding the Southern Cross. I'm no astronomer, but I do know some of my constellations, and I couldn't pass up the opportunity. For the first couple of weeks I only managed to spot the pointers, which was really frustrating, as I didn't know where the Cross was.

Well, on the second week, I had a shock. We were staying on a bush campsite next to a river at the bottom of a rather deep (and steep) valley with my family, far away from any city lights. It was cloudy and wet at the start of the week, but it eventually dried up and cleared up. I think that it was the Wednesday or Thursday night when I needed to head to the ablutions block in the middle of the night. For some reason I looked up at the sky as I left the block to head back to our room.

The sight that met my eyes was one that I've most assuredly seen before, but nevertheless it took my breath away. I immediately spotted Orion - yet I was having trouble. It is a constellation that I know very well, and yet I couldn't make out all the stars. I had no problems finding the belt and the sword but, surrounding the four corner stars were SO MANY stars that I couldn't figure out which ones were the corners of the constellation!

How incredible is our universe? Even when we think that we know something, there's always more!

Wind-scweepers

On a dark and rainy night, we leave the house and climb into the car.

Me: Brrrr, it's wet.

Hubby: It isn't wet at all?

Me (observing the windscreen-wipers going): So what's with the wind-scweepers?

Hubby: They're clearing bug juice.

Me: Hey, did you notice? I just invented a new word!

And so a new word is born ..... out of laziness (or would that be baby-mush?)!

What a wonderful world ....

I captured this image two days ago - the tail-end of a rose-tinted, multicoloured sunset over Witney, where I live.

For some reason, I've been very conscious of the sunrises and sunsets this week. We've had three fabulous sunsets (perhaps it's all the clouds hanging about?), and this morning there was a beige sunrise that drew my attention. So I just thought I'd share one with you.

"Excuse me, I'm going now ..."

I had a good giggle at work the other day. For those who don't know, I work on a farm. But not your ordinary farm. This farm is attached to a college, and we teach courses like horticulture and animal care on the campus.

So if I start talking about snakes, don't fall off your chairs - please! See, I'm a scaredy-cat when it comes to snakes. I respect them, but please let me know where they are in the cage before you thrust me in front of the cage. So it's been quite interesting having two carpet pythons (called Thelma and Louise, I kid you not) staring at me whenever I walk into work over the last month or so. They were put into an enclosure in our entrance lobby, you see.

But that's the background. Here's the giggle. See, the one day, these two pythons were huddled together on a branch in their cage. It was rather difficult to determine which was which, and which part belonged to which. And then the thought ran through my mind: what would happen if one of them decided to de-huddle itself? If it moved off, would the other one collapse, dangling over the branches like a flung rope thinking "What the flip?"?

Or, as someone suggested to me, would it say "Excuse me, I'm going now ..."

"We still pick the turn-offs"

The Christian life is often described as a road, a path through life. Similarly, one hears of "the road to hell". A story frequently used to describe redemption is that a person is on the road to hell, and at any stage along that road, they can do a U-turn, choose God, and they will directly be on the road to heaven, to life.

Several years ago now, a friend of mine said that "we still pick the turn-offs". Apparently I had been having a discussion with a different friend about this scenario at the time, so noted this statement down. I just came across it this morning, and it still offers pause for thought.

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The four-lane highway stretches off into the distance. Few people are on this side of the highway; in fact, there isn't another car in sight, either before or behind. The opposite direction, in contrast, is queued up beyond the horizon, with angry people gesticulating, honking horns and generally shouting abuse at one another.

If only there was a rest-stop soon, somewhere to get away of the stifling heat and glare of the road. Unsurprisingly, no sooner the thought, than there is a sign indicating a rest stop, two miles down the road. The relief in the cabin is immediate. A break is in sight.

We get to the exit, and the turn-off is taken. Anticipation climbs ever higher as desire is followed. But no. Signs to the rest-stop are absent; instead, a maze of roads, leading who knows where, becomes the order of the day. Spirits sink as we realise there never was a rest-stop.

When Death Becomes Birth

by Max Lucado
You, as all God’s children, live one final breath from your own funeral. Which, from God’s perspective, is nothing to grieve. He responds to these grave facts with this great news: “The day you die is better than the day you are born” (Eccles. 7:1). Now there is a twist. Heaven enjoys a maternity-ward reaction to funerals. Angels watch body burials the same way grandparents monitor delivery-room doors. “He’ll be coming through any minute!” They can’t wait to see the new arrival. While we’re driving hearses and wearing black, they’re hanging pink and blue streamers and passing out cigars. We don’t grieve when babies enter the world. The hosts of heaven don’t weep when we leave it.
Oh, but many of us weep at the thought of death. Do you? Do you dread your death?
Is your fear of dying robbing your joy of living? Jesus came to “deliver those who have lived all their lives as slaves to the fear of dying” (Heb. 2:15).
If Scripture boasted a list of the famous dead, Lazarus would be near the top. He lived in Bethany, a sleepy hamlet that sat a short walk from Jerusalem. Jesus spent a lot of time there. Maybe he liked the kitchen of Martha or the devotion of Mary. One thing is for sure: he considered Lazarus a friend. News of Lazarus’s death prompts Jesus to say, “Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but now I will go and wake him up” (John 11:11).
And now, four days after the funeral, Jesus has come calling. Literally calling, “Lazarus, come out!” Can we try to picture Lazarus as he hears those words? Heaven-sent Lazarus. Heaven-happy Lazarus. Four days into his measureless days. By now he’s forming fast friendships with other saints. King David shows him the harps. Moses invites him over for tea and manna. Elijah and Elisha take him for a spin in the fiery chariot. Daniel has promised him a lion of a Bible story. He’s on his way to hear it when a voice booms through the celestial city.
“Lazarus, come out!”
Everybody knows that voice. No one wonders, Who was that? Angels stop. Hosts of holy-city dwellers turn toward the boy from Bethany, and someone says, “Looks like you’re going back for another tour of duty.”
Lazarus doesn’t question the call. Perfect understanding comes with a heavenly passport. He doesn’t object. But had he done so, who could have faulted him? His heavenly body knows no fever. His future no fear. He indwells a city that is void of padlocks, prisons, and Prozac. With sin and death nonexistent, preachers, doctors, and lawyers are free to worship. Would anyone blame Lazarus for saying, “Do I have to go back?”
But he doesn’t second-guess the command. Nor does anyone else. Return trips have been frequent of late. The daughter of the synagogue ruler. The boy from Nain. Now Lazarus from Bethany. Lazarus turns toward the rarely used exit door. The very one, I suppose, Jesus used some thirty earth years earlier. With a wave and within a wink, he’s reunited with his body and waking up on a cold slab in a wall-hewn grave. The rock to the entrance has been moved, and Lazarus attempts to do the same. Mummy-wrapped, he stiffly sits up and walks out of the tomb with the grace of Frankenstein’s monster.
People stare and wonder.
We read and may ask, “Why did Jesus let him die only to call him back?”
To show who runs the show. To trump the cemetery card. To display the unsquashable strength of the One who danced the Watusi on the neck of the devil, who stood face to clammy face with death and declared, “You call that a dead end? I call it an escalator.”
“Lazarus, come out!”
Those words, incidentally, were only a warmup for the big day. He’s preparing a worldwide grave evacuation. “Joe, come out!” “Maria, come out!” “Giuseppe, come out!” “Jacob, come out!” Grave after grave will empty. What happened to Lazarus will happen to us. Only our spirit-body reunion will occur in heaven, not Bethany Memorial Cemetery.
When this happens—when our perishable earthly bodies have been transformed into heavenly bodies that will never die—then at last the Scriptures will come true:
“Death is swallowed up in victory.
O death, where is your victory?
O death, where is your sting?”
(1 Cor. 15:54–55)
With Christ as your friend and heaven as your home, the day of death becomes sweeter than the day of birth.
From
Come Thirsty
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 2004) Max Lucado

Slow Down

by Max Lucado

“Man . . . heaps up wealth, not knowing who will get it.”  Psalm 39:6, NIV

We need one day in which work comes to a screeching halt. We need one twenty-four hour period in which the wheels stop grinding and the motor stops turning. We need to stop . . .

Slow down. If God commanded it, you need it. If Jesus modeled it, you need it . . . Take a day to say no to work and yes to worship.

The Woodcutter's Wisdom

by Max Lucado
Once there was an old man who lived in a tiny village. Although poor, he was envied by all, for he owned a beautiful white horse. Even the king coveted his treasure. A horse like this had never been seen before—such was its splendor, its majesty, its strength.
People offered fabulous prices for the steed, but the old man always refused. “This horse is not a horse to me,” he would tell them. “It is a person. How could you sell a person? He is a friend, not a possession. How could you sell a friend?” The man was poor and the temptation was great. But he never sold the horse.
One morning he found that the horse was not in the stable. All the village came to see him. “You old fool,” they scoffed, “we told you that someone would steal your horse. We warned you that you would be robbed. You are so poor. How could you ever hope to protect such a valuable animal? It would have been better to have sold him. You could have gotten whatever price you wanted. No amount would have been too high. Now the horse is gone, and you’ve been cursed with misfortune.”
The old man responded, “Don’t speak too quickly. Say only that the horse is not in the stable. That is all we know; the rest is judgment. If I’ve been cursed or not, how can you know? How can you judge?”
The people contested, “Don’t make us out to be fools! We may not be philosophers, but great philosophy is not needed. The simple fact that your horse is gone is a curse.”
The old man spoke again. “All I know is that the stable is empty, and the horse is gone. The rest I don’t know. Whether it be a curse or a blessing, I can’t say. All we can see is a fragment. Who can say what will come next?”
The people of the village laughed. They thought that the man was crazy. They had always thought he was a fool; if he wasn’t, he would have sold the horse and lived off the money. But instead, he was a poor woodcutter, an old man still cutting firewood and dragging it out of the forest and selling it. He lived hand to mouth in the misery of poverty. Now he had proven that he was, indeed, a fool.
After fifteen days, the horse returned. He hadn’t been stolen; he had run away into the forest. Not only had he returned, he had brought a dozen wild horses with him. Once again the village people gathered around the woodcutter and spoke. “Old man, you were right and we were wrong. What we thought was a curse was a blessing. Please forgive us.”
The man responded, “Once again, you go too far. Say only that the horse is back. State only that a dozen horses returned with him, but don’t judge. How do you know if this is a blessing or not? You see only a fragment. Unless you know the whole story, how can you judge? You read only one page of a book. Can you judge the whole book? You read only one word of a phrase. Can you understand the entire phrase?
“Life is so vast, yet you judge all of life with one page or one word. All you have is a fragment! Don’t say that this is a blessing. No one knows. I am content with what I know. I am not perturbed by what I don’t.”
“Maybe the old man is right,” they said to one another. So they said little. But down deep, they knew he was wrong. They knew it was a blessing. Twelve wild horses had returned with one horse. With a little bit of work, the animals could be broken and trained and sold for much money.
The old man had a son, an only son. The young man began to break the wild horses. After a few days, he fell from one of the horses and broke both legs. Once again the villagers gathered around the old man and cast their judgments.
“You were right,” they said. “You proved you were right. The dozen horses were not a blessing. They were a curse. Your only son has broken his legs, and now in your old age you have no one to help you. Now you are poorer than ever.”
The old man spoke again. “You people are obsessed with judging. Don’t go so far. Say only that my son broke his legs. Who knows if it is a blessing or a curse? No one knows. We only have a fragment. Life comes in fragments.”
It so happened that a few weeks later the country engaged in war against a neighboring country. All the young men of the village were required to join the army. Only the son of the old man was excluded, because he was injured. Once again the people gathered around the old man, crying and screaming because their sons had been taken. There was little chance that they would return. The enemy was strong, and the war would be a losing struggle. They would never see their sons again.
“You were right, old man,” they wept. “God knows you were right. This proves it. Your son’s accident was a blessing. His legs may be broken, but at least he is with you. Our sons are gone forever.”
The old man spoke again. “It is impossible to talk with you. You always draw conclusions. No one knows. Say only this: Your sons had to go to war, and mine did not. No one knows if it is a blessing or a curse. No one is wise enough to know. Only God knows.”
The old man was right. We only have a fragment. Life’s mishaps and horrors are only a page out of a grand book. We must be slow about drawing conclusions. We must reserve judgment on life’s storms until we know the whole story.
I don’t know where the woodcutter learned his patience. Perhaps from another woodcutter in Galilee. For it was the Carpenter who said it best:
“Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.” (Matthew 6:34)
He should know. He is the Author of our story. And he has already written the final chapter.

From
Come Thirsty
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 2004) Max Lucado

Immovable Object - or not?

Last week Friday this bird intrigued me so much that I had to photograph it. Now you're wondering 'Why? ... It's a common Wood Pigeon!'

You see, for about an hour and a half, this bird just sat there. It didn't budge. I had to actually watch it for about five minutes to check that it was actually alive! And that was only because it occassionally made very small movements of the head.

Thankfully it eventually did leave, long after I had started to get worried about it. I suspect it was a juvenile, and didn't know where to go next. Who knows.

How often do we just stagnate? Do the people around us have to check up on us to see that we're alive? Perhaps sometimes it's a good thing if they do ....