“Why Me, O Lord! Why did this happen to me?
I could ask myself these questions every day. But if I’m really thinking about it, I wouldn’t actually be asking about the bad things that happen to me and those I love.
I would be asking why the Lord brought me through safely to morning; why I escaped the dangers of the night that befell so many others.
I could also ask why He blessed me so – but most often I don’t.
I don’t always even think about it. I blithely accept the gift of life from God’s hand with barely a hint of thanks. A rainbow may make me appreciate His creation for a moment; the scent of a rose may remind me of His blessings.
But most of the time “Why me?” means, “Why did this terrible thing happen to me?”
If I compared what I do and what I am with the perfect goodness of God, I would not be surprised at the tragedies and troubles that come my way. If strict justice were meted out by God, I’d be in a heap of trouble all the time!
And I’m trying to be good. I’m trying to be a witness to the action of the Spirit of the Lord in my life. I’m trying to love the Lord with all my heart and all my strength and all my mind. And I’m trying to love my neighbor as myself.
But I’m doing a rotten job of it.
I don’t steal or kill or commit adultery. But while the law bans murder, Jesus commands us to love one another – as He loved us. And this love is an action verb.
It isn’t trying. It’s doing.
It isn’t emotions. It’s actions.
I don’t know anyone who does this all the time.
Fortunately, we are not judged strictly by either the Law of Jesus’ commands. He provided for that by His death and resurrection. And we don’t have to do it by ourselves. He also provided us with a Comforter to strengthen us and guide us.
So I try to do His commands not for fear of the just retribution for my law-breaking, but because I bloom in the wellspring of His love and I desire to please Him.
Why me, Lord? Why do You love me so?
I can’t imagine. But I thank You that You do.
And when those tragedies and troubles come?
Then the question becomes, “What do You want me to do now, Lord? Will You help me use it for Your glory?”
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
A Morning Song
There is a song called, “Morning Has Broken,” that was taken from a poem in the book Children’s Bells, published by Oxford University Press. It is a favorite song of mine.
It starts, “Morning has broken, like the first morning. Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.”
All this week a very noisy bird that appears to live in a nearby tree has been “speaking” – and waking me up – at the first faint promise of dawn.
His song is sometimes sweet and sometimes raucous. It is his strident notes that penetrate my sleep.
One morning, early, I wondered briefly why I was awake – then I identified the extravagant frills and swirls of the nearby song.
I stretched lazily and turned over on my other side – with my back to the window.
And I thought about how this particular bird reminds me of the newly converted.
People who are newly born-again or Spirit-filled tend to be so thrilled with the least little touch of light in their lives that they make a nuisance of themselves. In fact, sometimes, like my bird, they make so much noise that they disturb the rest of those of us who don’t want to get up for anything less than the blaze of midday.
That thought shook the rest of sleep from my mind.
I wondered, Am I so accustomed to the day that, without the persistent, even pesky chattering and twittering of my morning singer, I would sleep through the fresh newness of the day my Lord has given me?
The newly converted have lived so long with drab darkness that they carry on extravagantly over every little tine of color they can see. Have I lost that sense of awe at the glory to come? Am I so jaded that I no longer see any need to rejoice daily at the announcement of its imminent arrival?
My bird has been charged by God with the daily task of celebrating His creation.
Unlike the bird, I may forget to praise at all.
Tomorrow – if I am awake to see it – the first blush of color in the sky, the fruit of the coming dawn, will remind me of the unforgettable.
Lord, don’t let me forget, not THAT morning.
The Light that came into the world through the Incarnation has risen from the darkness of death.
My eyes have sometimes seen its appearing. My heart has been pierced by its brightness. Even the faint brightness of dawn can pierce a heart.
Tomorrow the dawn – whether I see the sun rise or not – will reveal again the day of Resurrection.
My noisy bird has reminded me that every morning echoes this truth as night fades before the coming light.
The first verse of that song I mentioned ends, “Praise for the morning. Praise for the singing. Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.”
The last verse says, “Mine is the sunlight. Mine is the morning. Born of the one light Eden saw play. Praise with elation. Praise every morning. God’s re-creation of the new day.”
It starts, “Morning has broken, like the first morning. Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.”
All this week a very noisy bird that appears to live in a nearby tree has been “speaking” – and waking me up – at the first faint promise of dawn.
His song is sometimes sweet and sometimes raucous. It is his strident notes that penetrate my sleep.
One morning, early, I wondered briefly why I was awake – then I identified the extravagant frills and swirls of the nearby song.
I stretched lazily and turned over on my other side – with my back to the window.
And I thought about how this particular bird reminds me of the newly converted.
People who are newly born-again or Spirit-filled tend to be so thrilled with the least little touch of light in their lives that they make a nuisance of themselves. In fact, sometimes, like my bird, they make so much noise that they disturb the rest of those of us who don’t want to get up for anything less than the blaze of midday.
That thought shook the rest of sleep from my mind.
I wondered, Am I so accustomed to the day that, without the persistent, even pesky chattering and twittering of my morning singer, I would sleep through the fresh newness of the day my Lord has given me?
The newly converted have lived so long with drab darkness that they carry on extravagantly over every little tine of color they can see. Have I lost that sense of awe at the glory to come? Am I so jaded that I no longer see any need to rejoice daily at the announcement of its imminent arrival?
My bird has been charged by God with the daily task of celebrating His creation.
Unlike the bird, I may forget to praise at all.
Tomorrow – if I am awake to see it – the first blush of color in the sky, the fruit of the coming dawn, will remind me of the unforgettable.
Lord, don’t let me forget, not THAT morning.
The Light that came into the world through the Incarnation has risen from the darkness of death.
My eyes have sometimes seen its appearing. My heart has been pierced by its brightness. Even the faint brightness of dawn can pierce a heart.
Tomorrow the dawn – whether I see the sun rise or not – will reveal again the day of Resurrection.
My noisy bird has reminded me that every morning echoes this truth as night fades before the coming light.
The first verse of that song I mentioned ends, “Praise for the morning. Praise for the singing. Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.”
The last verse says, “Mine is the sunlight. Mine is the morning. Born of the one light Eden saw play. Praise with elation. Praise every morning. God’s re-creation of the new day.”
Saturday, March 10, 2007
I Miss My Mind
Yesterday’s column is representative of the way my mind is working – or not.
I don’t know where the word “stumped” for “stubbed” came from. Some forgotten pocket in the little gray cells, I suppose. The same place “spelt” for “slept” came from in an earlier entry.
I did read over the earlier entry. My mind just supplied the correct word in the sentence needing slept and I never saw the typo. I mean, it had all the right letters, just not in the right order.
I did not read over the one yesterday. I could barely stand to write it, much less read it again. I wrote because my heart was so full I had to let something out.
Maybe I will try writing one day and waiting for the next day to read it again before posting.
And maybe not.
I don’t know where the word “stumped” for “stubbed” came from. Some forgotten pocket in the little gray cells, I suppose. The same place “spelt” for “slept” came from in an earlier entry.
I did read over the earlier entry. My mind just supplied the correct word in the sentence needing slept and I never saw the typo. I mean, it had all the right letters, just not in the right order.
I did not read over the one yesterday. I could barely stand to write it, much less read it again. I wrote because my heart was so full I had to let something out.
Maybe I will try writing one day and waiting for the next day to read it again before posting.
And maybe not.
Friday, March 9, 2007
Brain cancer tops a stubbed toe
I was visiting my daughter and son-in-law recently. He mentioned he had taken the dog – a boxer named Hootch – to the dog park that morning, which explained why Hootch was sleeping instead of bumping me around.
I stumped my toe on a root at the dog park, Dan said.
I had brain surgery, Mary responded.
I’m never going to be able to top that, am I, he asked.
No, she said.
And they laughed.
I don’t even know the words to tell you how I felt. I guess “joy” is the closest I can come.
Mary was diagnosed with small cell lung in October 2005. She had chemo and radiation together.
Her hair fell out. When it began coming out in hand-fulls, she had me cut it short, so it did not look so bad on the shower floor.
She bought a wig in expectation of going bald, but never wore it. Wisps remained around her face and I guess as along as she could see some hair, she didn;t much care what everybody else saw.
Anyway, scans showed the lung cancer was gone, kaput, not there any more.
But another scan six months later found it outside thr lung, in a lymph node by her collarbone. More radiation and more chemo.
And plans for a different chemo to try to “get it” everywhere, to start in three weeks.
Only she had a headache before then. And a slowness to respond. And another spot in her brain.
Thus the brain surgery, which she went through with flying colors – and no apparent loss of anything.
But all her doctors said she needed to radiate her brain. So that’s what’s going on now. The third time for chemo must wait til this is over – the body can take only so much poison at one time.
In the meantime, they laugh with each other. A lot. I think Dan works at finding things to laugh about, including stubbed toes.
I don’t mean they never worry, or cry. I suspect they do. They are real people after all.
But they do laugh and they do it a lot. And they take each day as I comes. And I feel joy when I am with them.
I was visiting my daughter and son-in-law recently. He mentioned he had taken the dog – a boxer named Hootch – to the dog park that morning, which explained why Hootch was sleeping instead of bumping me around.
I stumped my toe on a root at the dog park, Dan said.
I had brain surgery, Mary responded.
I’m never going to be able to top that, am I, he asked.
No, she said.
And they laughed.
I don’t even know the words to tell you how I felt. I guess “joy” is the closest I can come.
Mary was diagnosed with small cell lung in October 2005. She had chemo and radiation together.
Her hair fell out. When it began coming out in hand-fulls, she had me cut it short, so it did not look so bad on the shower floor.
She bought a wig in expectation of going bald, but never wore it. Wisps remained around her face and I guess as along as she could see some hair, she didn;t much care what everybody else saw.
Anyway, scans showed the lung cancer was gone, kaput, not there any more.
But another scan six months later found it outside thr lung, in a lymph node by her collarbone. More radiation and more chemo.
And plans for a different chemo to try to “get it” everywhere, to start in three weeks.
Only she had a headache before then. And a slowness to respond. And another spot in her brain.
Thus the brain surgery, which she went through with flying colors – and no apparent loss of anything.
But all her doctors said she needed to radiate her brain. So that’s what’s going on now. The third time for chemo must wait til this is over – the body can take only so much poison at one time.
In the meantime, they laugh with each other. A lot. I think Dan works at finding things to laugh about, including stubbed toes.
I don’t mean they never worry, or cry. I suspect they do. They are real people after all.
But they do laugh and they do it a lot. And they take each day as I comes. And I feel joy when I am with them.
I stumped my toe on a root at the dog park, Dan said.
I had brain surgery, Mary responded.
I’m never going to be able to top that, am I, he asked.
No, she said.
And they laughed.
I don’t even know the words to tell you how I felt. I guess “joy” is the closest I can come.
Mary was diagnosed with small cell lung in October 2005. She had chemo and radiation together.
Her hair fell out. When it began coming out in hand-fulls, she had me cut it short, so it did not look so bad on the shower floor.
She bought a wig in expectation of going bald, but never wore it. Wisps remained around her face and I guess as along as she could see some hair, she didn;t much care what everybody else saw.
Anyway, scans showed the lung cancer was gone, kaput, not there any more.
But another scan six months later found it outside thr lung, in a lymph node by her collarbone. More radiation and more chemo.
And plans for a different chemo to try to “get it” everywhere, to start in three weeks.
Only she had a headache before then. And a slowness to respond. And another spot in her brain.
Thus the brain surgery, which she went through with flying colors – and no apparent loss of anything.
But all her doctors said she needed to radiate her brain. So that’s what’s going on now. The third time for chemo must wait til this is over – the body can take only so much poison at one time.
In the meantime, they laugh with each other. A lot. I think Dan works at finding things to laugh about, including stubbed toes.
I don’t mean they never worry, or cry. I suspect they do. They are real people after all.
But they do laugh and they do it a lot. And they take each day as I comes. And I feel joy when I am with them.
I was visiting my daughter and son-in-law recently. He mentioned he had taken the dog – a boxer named Hootch – to the dog park that morning, which explained why Hootch was sleeping instead of bumping me around.
I stumped my toe on a root at the dog park, Dan said.
I had brain surgery, Mary responded.
I’m never going to be able to top that, am I, he asked.
No, she said.
And they laughed.
I don’t even know the words to tell you how I felt. I guess “joy” is the closest I can come.
Mary was diagnosed with small cell lung in October 2005. She had chemo and radiation together.
Her hair fell out. When it began coming out in hand-fulls, she had me cut it short, so it did not look so bad on the shower floor.
She bought a wig in expectation of going bald, but never wore it. Wisps remained around her face and I guess as along as she could see some hair, she didn;t much care what everybody else saw.
Anyway, scans showed the lung cancer was gone, kaput, not there any more.
But another scan six months later found it outside thr lung, in a lymph node by her collarbone. More radiation and more chemo.
And plans for a different chemo to try to “get it” everywhere, to start in three weeks.
Only she had a headache before then. And a slowness to respond. And another spot in her brain.
Thus the brain surgery, which she went through with flying colors – and no apparent loss of anything.
But all her doctors said she needed to radiate her brain. So that’s what’s going on now. The third time for chemo must wait til this is over – the body can take only so much poison at one time.
In the meantime, they laugh with each other. A lot. I think Dan works at finding things to laugh about, including stubbed toes.
I don’t mean they never worry, or cry. I suspect they do. They are real people after all.
But they do laugh and they do it a lot. And they take each day as I comes. And I feel joy when I am with them.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Hello, Cute Kitty
There was a half-grown kitten in the middle of a pot of impatiens outside my sliding glass windows the other morning.
I didn’t notice him right away. The large black cat pacing majestically by the window caught my attention first. This full grown male was surveying the territory as the lord of the manor might. He stopped and looked over his shoulder briefly and then strode on, out of my sight.
And at that moment I saw the kitten, sitting tall and compact, like an Egyptian god, looking down from his meager height and thinking “I’m invisible.”
The retirement community where I live has a lot of feral cats making their homes here. They like it here because they are well fed and mostly left alone. Some residents complain about them, especially those who accuse them of cutting down on the bird population.
But there are a lot more old women – and maybe an old man or two – who feed them and give them pet names.
But mostly they don’t ever get to pet them, to scratch behind their ears or under their chins, or hold them their furry little bodies on their laps and listen to them purr.
I don’t feed this really cute little kitten. My next door neighbor does. She has since the momma cat appeared at her window with two quite small balls of yellow/orange fur. These two are on their own now. But they know where food is to be found.
The darker one likes my potted plants. I’ve seen him often in another pot that has taller plants in it – I forget the name, dusty miller, I think. Anyway, he sits looking out through the stems.
The impatiens, however, are in a pot on top of another, large Chinese pot turned upside down. It is a more exposed, but higher perch.
I don’t even know if he is a him, but I think he is. His sibling, I think, is a girl. She’s more dainty, less adventuresome. But just as pretty.
I miss my Murphy. She moved in here with me four and a half years ago. We were both old and not too spry. But she must have been older in cat years because she dies almost two years ago
She was a rescue cat and I never knew how old she was. It didn’t matter. She didn’t know how old I was, either.
We just found each other.
I wooed her with food and quiet conversation from a distance. She had not grown up feral and eventually she approached me. I remember the day she let me touch her, the day she decided to jump into my lap, the night it was going to freeze and I asked her if she wanted to come in and she did.
She slept on top of me after that – until I got too hot and made her get off. Then she spelt next to me.
But I had two rooms then and my bathroom was large enough for a litter box. I have one room now and a smaller bathroom. And I can’t bend down to clean a litter box if I had room for one.
So I admire and enjoy watching our untouchable felines. Occasionally I sigh.
I didn’t notice him right away. The large black cat pacing majestically by the window caught my attention first. This full grown male was surveying the territory as the lord of the manor might. He stopped and looked over his shoulder briefly and then strode on, out of my sight.
And at that moment I saw the kitten, sitting tall and compact, like an Egyptian god, looking down from his meager height and thinking “I’m invisible.”
The retirement community where I live has a lot of feral cats making their homes here. They like it here because they are well fed and mostly left alone. Some residents complain about them, especially those who accuse them of cutting down on the bird population.
But there are a lot more old women – and maybe an old man or two – who feed them and give them pet names.
But mostly they don’t ever get to pet them, to scratch behind their ears or under their chins, or hold them their furry little bodies on their laps and listen to them purr.
I don’t feed this really cute little kitten. My next door neighbor does. She has since the momma cat appeared at her window with two quite small balls of yellow/orange fur. These two are on their own now. But they know where food is to be found.
The darker one likes my potted plants. I’ve seen him often in another pot that has taller plants in it – I forget the name, dusty miller, I think. Anyway, he sits looking out through the stems.
The impatiens, however, are in a pot on top of another, large Chinese pot turned upside down. It is a more exposed, but higher perch.
I don’t even know if he is a him, but I think he is. His sibling, I think, is a girl. She’s more dainty, less adventuresome. But just as pretty.
I miss my Murphy. She moved in here with me four and a half years ago. We were both old and not too spry. But she must have been older in cat years because she dies almost two years ago
She was a rescue cat and I never knew how old she was. It didn’t matter. She didn’t know how old I was, either.
We just found each other.
I wooed her with food and quiet conversation from a distance. She had not grown up feral and eventually she approached me. I remember the day she let me touch her, the day she decided to jump into my lap, the night it was going to freeze and I asked her if she wanted to come in and she did.
She slept on top of me after that – until I got too hot and made her get off. Then she spelt next to me.
But I had two rooms then and my bathroom was large enough for a litter box. I have one room now and a smaller bathroom. And I can’t bend down to clean a litter box if I had room for one.
So I admire and enjoy watching our untouchable felines. Occasionally I sigh.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
Second Thoughts
For a couple of decades I was accustomed to publishing on a weekly basis. Either that set a pattern or I just don’t think as fast as I used to.
In either case, I realized this morning that I assumed readers would see a connection I did not spell out in my response to the fallen minister. (see Who Gets the Glory)
I started off with a malfunction of my coffee pot and toaster and went right into the account of the minister who was fired and whose license was taken away.
The connecting link that I saw was that things malfunction, either because we use them incorrectly or they break, and we see if we can jerry-rig them (it usually costs too much to have them repaired) or we throw them away and get new ones.
Is the same thing true when people malfunction or break? If WE can’t fix them do we throw them away? Should we? Is there any alternative?
That’s what I meant to say. I believe there is an alternative. It costs more than having a repair man do the job, but the price has been paid by Someone else.
And He can fix not only the one man, He can fix the woman and the wife and the leaders and the congregation. It’s what He does. If we let Him.
Joseph was so full of himself that his brothers sold him into slavery in Egypt to get him out of their hair. His Egyptian master’s wife got him thrown into prison. But God saw to it that he was changed in slavery and prison and He saw to it that he was raised to a high place, a place of power and authority. And from that place, he was able to save his people.
Joseph told his brothers that what Satan had meant for evil, God had meant for good.
This was true then. It is true now.
We can see what Satan has accomplished in our time. I do not yet know what the good that God intends to come from that particular fallen situation will look like.
I have not been sold into slavery or in prison. I have not been caught in wrong-doing and publicly accused. But I malfunction, too. And God lets me see it.
I believe God exposes my malfunctions to me so I can choose. I can stay where I am and rot – corruption grows – or I can see the rescue and restoration that He offers and I can grasp it or receive it or whatever the right words are. Maybe surrender to it.
And if I am made even a little bit new, (although that’s like being a little bit pregnant) then the glory belongs to God.
In either case, I realized this morning that I assumed readers would see a connection I did not spell out in my response to the fallen minister. (see Who Gets the Glory)
I started off with a malfunction of my coffee pot and toaster and went right into the account of the minister who was fired and whose license was taken away.
The connecting link that I saw was that things malfunction, either because we use them incorrectly or they break, and we see if we can jerry-rig them (it usually costs too much to have them repaired) or we throw them away and get new ones.
Is the same thing true when people malfunction or break? If WE can’t fix them do we throw them away? Should we? Is there any alternative?
That’s what I meant to say. I believe there is an alternative. It costs more than having a repair man do the job, but the price has been paid by Someone else.
And He can fix not only the one man, He can fix the woman and the wife and the leaders and the congregation. It’s what He does. If we let Him.
Joseph was so full of himself that his brothers sold him into slavery in Egypt to get him out of their hair. His Egyptian master’s wife got him thrown into prison. But God saw to it that he was changed in slavery and prison and He saw to it that he was raised to a high place, a place of power and authority. And from that place, he was able to save his people.
Joseph told his brothers that what Satan had meant for evil, God had meant for good.
This was true then. It is true now.
We can see what Satan has accomplished in our time. I do not yet know what the good that God intends to come from that particular fallen situation will look like.
I have not been sold into slavery or in prison. I have not been caught in wrong-doing and publicly accused. But I malfunction, too. And God lets me see it.
I believe God exposes my malfunctions to me so I can choose. I can stay where I am and rot – corruption grows – or I can see the rescue and restoration that He offers and I can grasp it or receive it or whatever the right words are. Maybe surrender to it.
And if I am made even a little bit new, (although that’s like being a little bit pregnant) then the glory belongs to God.
Friday, March 2, 2007
Arguing with God
Genesis Chapter 18 reports a strange conversation between God and Abraham about the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. It appears that God is bent on destroying these two cities and Abraham is trying to talk Him out of it.
Abraham is more loving than God?
That question struck me while reading Genesis recently. I paused to think and learned something wonderful about God and the way He talks to people – to important people Like Abraham and to me, too.
I feel silly telling you about it – everybody else may have grasped this idea years ago – but I’m so grateful the Spirit finally has been able to teach it to me.
The Lord starts by telling Abraham that He is going to check out Sodom and Gomorrah to see if they are as bad as the outcry that has reached Him.
Then Abraham asks the Lord is He would consider not destroying the cities if He could find 50 righteous men there. When God consents to spare the cities if 50 righteous men can be found, Abraham lowers the number to 40, then 30, 20 and 10.
Did Abraham change God’s mind?
That’s what appears on the surface, but what I really think happened is that God changed Abraham’s understanding of His nature, of His justice and of His love.
Abraham had no trouble believing that God’s just nature could not abide the rampant sin in Sodom and Gomorrah, that His justice demanded punishment. But Abraham was not sure of the dimensions of God’s love. He did not know the greatness of that love or how far God would go to save man.
At the end of their meeting, God is the same as He was at the beginning. His justice still cannot stand sin. His love still desires to save.
Abraham has come to know God better. He knows that God would cover sin with righteousness if He could find any at all.
Sodom and Gomorrah perished.
But according to the Gospel of John, hundreds of years later Jesus told an audience of Jews that Abraham rejoiced at the thought of seeing His day.
I wonder if this was when Abraham first glimpsed it.
Was this when he began to understand the grand plan of salvation that God had devised, that one day the death of the only righteous man would atone for the sins of the world?
Was it here that he began to understand the scope of God’s love? As he probed to discover the strength of God’s desire to save, did Abraham begin to understand that God Himself would be that innocent sacrifice?
It’s more than possible. I believe that is exactly the sort of thing God intends to happen when someone talks to Him long enough.
He wants me to take my notions to Him in prayer. I can even imagine arguing with Him about them.
However dumb, however far from the Truth my ideas may be at the beginning, if I spend enough time trying to explain then to the Lord – and listening to His responses – He will eventually explain them to me and bring me around to His way of understanding.
Abraham is more loving than God?
That question struck me while reading Genesis recently. I paused to think and learned something wonderful about God and the way He talks to people – to important people Like Abraham and to me, too.
I feel silly telling you about it – everybody else may have grasped this idea years ago – but I’m so grateful the Spirit finally has been able to teach it to me.
The Lord starts by telling Abraham that He is going to check out Sodom and Gomorrah to see if they are as bad as the outcry that has reached Him.
Then Abraham asks the Lord is He would consider not destroying the cities if He could find 50 righteous men there. When God consents to spare the cities if 50 righteous men can be found, Abraham lowers the number to 40, then 30, 20 and 10.
Did Abraham change God’s mind?
That’s what appears on the surface, but what I really think happened is that God changed Abraham’s understanding of His nature, of His justice and of His love.
Abraham had no trouble believing that God’s just nature could not abide the rampant sin in Sodom and Gomorrah, that His justice demanded punishment. But Abraham was not sure of the dimensions of God’s love. He did not know the greatness of that love or how far God would go to save man.
At the end of their meeting, God is the same as He was at the beginning. His justice still cannot stand sin. His love still desires to save.
Abraham has come to know God better. He knows that God would cover sin with righteousness if He could find any at all.
Sodom and Gomorrah perished.
But according to the Gospel of John, hundreds of years later Jesus told an audience of Jews that Abraham rejoiced at the thought of seeing His day.
I wonder if this was when Abraham first glimpsed it.
Was this when he began to understand the grand plan of salvation that God had devised, that one day the death of the only righteous man would atone for the sins of the world?
Was it here that he began to understand the scope of God’s love? As he probed to discover the strength of God’s desire to save, did Abraham begin to understand that God Himself would be that innocent sacrifice?
It’s more than possible. I believe that is exactly the sort of thing God intends to happen when someone talks to Him long enough.
He wants me to take my notions to Him in prayer. I can even imagine arguing with Him about them.
However dumb, however far from the Truth my ideas may be at the beginning, if I spend enough time trying to explain then to the Lord – and listening to His responses – He will eventually explain them to me and bring me around to His way of understanding.
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