When you are in Boulder, Montana, it's impossible not to turn your eyes to the mountains. They are everywhere. Some look more like rocky hills with tall pines and lots of grass. Others are definitely more mountainous, with large rock outcroppings. Some lift above the tree line, baring granite faces. Others rise so high they are still covered with snow, even in mid-July.
The Psalmist writes about the mountains. I lift up my eyes to the mountains, he says, and I know that feeling. Every time I step out the hotel room or the mine office I look up. I wonder if people who live here all the time experience the same feeling, the same desire to look to the hills.
I don't know why I do it; do I expect to see something I've never seen? Do I expect something to come rolling down the mountain? Do I expect a dramatic change in scenery, a sudden snow squall or intense lightning storm? No, I think I look up because of an inbred desire to do so. We look up. We turn our eyes to heaven. We lift up our eyes to the mountains. When the world drags us down and we hang our head in sorrow and shame there's a force in us that causes us to look up.
There is a certain peace and serenity in these mountains, in all mountains, that just isn't found elsewhere. I've stood in the warm waves of the Atlantic and the gold-tipped waves of the Pacific, and not felt that peace. I've stood in the cold waters of the Mediterranean Sea, the sea Paul sailed on and was shipwrecked in, and still haven't felt that peace. I've wandered through forests and prairies and meandered my way through big cities, to no avail. Peace, peace, they cry, but there is no peace.
I look to the hills, the Psalmist says, and where does my help come from, where does my peace come from? My help comes from the One who made these mountains, who spoke them into being, who separated them from the waters and shoved them up into the sky.
My help doesn't come from the mountains, from gods of the hills or some mysterious force mountains seem to possess. No, my help and peace comes from the Maker of Mountains, from the Head of the Hills, from the Ruler of the Rocks.
He will watch over me day and night, protecting and providing. He never sleeps; He never slumbers. He will watch over me always, today and tomorrow and forever. As long as these mountains stand and these rocks hold fast, and even when they crumble to the dust from which they came, He will watch over me.
Maybe the pull to look up is more than the desire to enjoy the beauty of the mountains. Maybe the pull to look up comes from God. Lift up your heads, don't walk looking despondently down, the King of Glory has come in, in flesh and blood and bone.
Our help is in His name.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
In the Mines in Montana
I'm blogging from the small town of Boulder, Montana. This is my third or fourth year here, but my wife's family has been coming here every year for a lot longer. Our purpose for our visit is pretty clear; to get better, to get healing from some of the ailments we suffer. Some of us struggle with arthritis, some with fibromyalgia. I have a long-standing battle with psorisasis.
The cure is pretty simple; we spend several hours a day in the shaft of a healing mine, breathing in radon that is produced by the breakdown of uranium. The mine is named the Free Enterprise Health Mine and it has been open for a long time.
I know, you're freaking about the radon, but don't. There is tons of sustantive evidence that the radon gas scare is just that, a scare. The amounts of radon we would need to inhale to actually harm us is immense; we would have to live in a mine for several decades.
The owner of the mine is Pat Lewis; her father was the original owner. The history of healing that goes on here is amazing, cataloged in large books in the Mine office. Even more amazing is the story those who are here have to tell, people who have seen the healing take place, people who also come back year after year.
We've got about 14 hours of treatment in and the psoriasis on my knees is gone. My ears have healed and the scales have flaked off my elbows. I can see that all of us are moving better, sleeping better, getting better.
It just reminds me of the amazing healing properties God has built into our bodies, and how we often forget about them, getting lost in our world of pills and drugs.
The cure is pretty simple; we spend several hours a day in the shaft of a healing mine, breathing in radon that is produced by the breakdown of uranium. The mine is named the Free Enterprise Health Mine and it has been open for a long time.
I know, you're freaking about the radon, but don't. There is tons of sustantive evidence that the radon gas scare is just that, a scare. The amounts of radon we would need to inhale to actually harm us is immense; we would have to live in a mine for several decades.
The owner of the mine is Pat Lewis; her father was the original owner. The history of healing that goes on here is amazing, cataloged in large books in the Mine office. Even more amazing is the story those who are here have to tell, people who have seen the healing take place, people who also come back year after year.
We've got about 14 hours of treatment in and the psoriasis on my knees is gone. My ears have healed and the scales have flaked off my elbows. I can see that all of us are moving better, sleeping better, getting better.
It just reminds me of the amazing healing properties God has built into our bodies, and how we often forget about them, getting lost in our world of pills and drugs.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Most Embarrassing Moment
Someone once asked what the most embarrassing moment of my life was, and I must confess, I had so many to choose from I couldn’t pin one down at the time. Truth be told, I do a lot of stupid things, so many that they sometimes they don’t even embarrass me any more. I just go right along as if they had never happened and let people stand there slack-jawed and amazed at my stupidity.
Yet given time to dwell on things there is one moment that stands out above the others. I was a freshman at Trinity Christian College and was singing in the Chorale. We had a new director that year, Dr. Jerry Hoekstra, a guy who grew up in my neighborhood. He was a big fan of Early American music so our first concert was music from the 1600’s and Colonial period of history.
One piece in particular captured the spirit of that time, a piece entitled The Funeral Dirge of George Washington, the dirge played at his funeral. The chorus was actually familiar to me; dum dum de-dum, dum de-dum de-dum de-dum (I think we plugged in words “pray for the dead and the dead will pray for you”).
One day in practice we concocted a practical joke to play on the new choir director. Since the song was a funeral dirge we thought it would be funny to have two of us fall over as if we were dead on the last note of the song. They chose me and Hendrick Bruinsma, another freshman, to be the victims because we stood at the ends of the back row and it would make it more dramatic.
The day of the concert arrived and the plan was still in place. We sang in the school cafeteria, and it was a really good concert. This was my first concert at the college level, singing more complex music, and I really enjoyed the challenge. But I have to admit, while some of the pieces were beautiful I didn’t share the same passion for music from this period as Dr. Hoekstra did. Finally we arrived at the Dirge, the final song of the concert, and I was ready to go. The song had several verses, all ending in that familiar chorus. I sang with all my heart and the on the last note of the song I grabbed my chest, let out a loud groan, and tumbled off the risers to the floor.
As I lay on the ground with my eyes shut I was extremely conscious of the silence in the room. Suddenly I heard someone talking to me, telling me to relax, things would be OK. I opened my eyes to find a doctor that went to our church kneeling over me. He had unbuttoned my shirt and was checking for a heartbeat along my neck.
I had two choices here; jump up and say “hah, hah, it’s just a joke” or lay still as if I had really passed out. I used wisdom and took the second choice. They brought me a glass of water and after a few minutes I sat up, then stood and exited the room, I think to applause (but that might be an imaginary embellishment.).
It never occurred to me that I had been set up. I was sure we were playing a joke on the director. I asked Hendrick why he didn’t fall over and he gave me some song and dance that I was so realistic that he was stunned into silence; that he thought I had really passed out. I asked him if he didn’t find it a little coincidental that I would pass out at that precise moment; he did find that a little odd. I learned after the concert that when I went down my Mom was sure that I had died.
In retrospect, it was a pretty stupid prank, whether it was directed at Dr. Hoekstra, me, or both of us. And it probably the most embarrassing moment of my life.
Yet given time to dwell on things there is one moment that stands out above the others. I was a freshman at Trinity Christian College and was singing in the Chorale. We had a new director that year, Dr. Jerry Hoekstra, a guy who grew up in my neighborhood. He was a big fan of Early American music so our first concert was music from the 1600’s and Colonial period of history.
One piece in particular captured the spirit of that time, a piece entitled The Funeral Dirge of George Washington, the dirge played at his funeral. The chorus was actually familiar to me; dum dum de-dum, dum de-dum de-dum de-dum (I think we plugged in words “pray for the dead and the dead will pray for you”).
One day in practice we concocted a practical joke to play on the new choir director. Since the song was a funeral dirge we thought it would be funny to have two of us fall over as if we were dead on the last note of the song. They chose me and Hendrick Bruinsma, another freshman, to be the victims because we stood at the ends of the back row and it would make it more dramatic.
The day of the concert arrived and the plan was still in place. We sang in the school cafeteria, and it was a really good concert. This was my first concert at the college level, singing more complex music, and I really enjoyed the challenge. But I have to admit, while some of the pieces were beautiful I didn’t share the same passion for music from this period as Dr. Hoekstra did. Finally we arrived at the Dirge, the final song of the concert, and I was ready to go. The song had several verses, all ending in that familiar chorus. I sang with all my heart and the on the last note of the song I grabbed my chest, let out a loud groan, and tumbled off the risers to the floor.
As I lay on the ground with my eyes shut I was extremely conscious of the silence in the room. Suddenly I heard someone talking to me, telling me to relax, things would be OK. I opened my eyes to find a doctor that went to our church kneeling over me. He had unbuttoned my shirt and was checking for a heartbeat along my neck.
I had two choices here; jump up and say “hah, hah, it’s just a joke” or lay still as if I had really passed out. I used wisdom and took the second choice. They brought me a glass of water and after a few minutes I sat up, then stood and exited the room, I think to applause (but that might be an imaginary embellishment.).
It never occurred to me that I had been set up. I was sure we were playing a joke on the director. I asked Hendrick why he didn’t fall over and he gave me some song and dance that I was so realistic that he was stunned into silence; that he thought I had really passed out. I asked him if he didn’t find it a little coincidental that I would pass out at that precise moment; he did find that a little odd. I learned after the concert that when I went down my Mom was sure that I had died.
In retrospect, it was a pretty stupid prank, whether it was directed at Dr. Hoekstra, me, or both of us. And it probably the most embarrassing moment of my life.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Graceful Eyes
Something amazing has happened to us. We have been looking for a new house for a long time, almost a year. Every Sunday afternoon, rain or snow or sleet or hail, we grab a paper and begin checking out Open Houses. But we want more than a house. We want a house that we can afford and that would allow us to keep our old house and rent it out to someone, someone who needs the same kind of break we got to get their first house.
We set our criteria; master suite so we don’t have to walk downstairs to use the bathroom in the middle of the night; main floor laundry; a minimum of three bedrooms and two bathrooms; a basement; a room big enough to hold our small group if everyone comes. Pretty tough criteria, and the only houses we have found that met those criteria are only in our range if we sell the old house.
And then we got real lucky….
We had driven past a house near the library many times but finally arranged with our agent to do a walk-through. The house was priced well below its assessed value and was empty. I was thinking we would have to compromise with a smaller house. Yet when we walked inside we were shocked; it was big and it was beautiful and in wonderful shape and we couldn’t believe our eyes. It met all of our criteria. And we could afford to buy it and still hold on to our old house. How lucky can you be?
Or God is awesome…
Turns out the house has been up for almost 9 months and has sold twice, but both times the financing fell through. We’ve driven by many times but the house originally would have been near the top of our price range. It not only meets our criteria, it has so much more. The house has character; it has the feel of a country farm house. There’s a kitchenette in the basement. We get two refrigerators, two stoves. The basement room will fit us all; so will the living room upstairs. The driveway is a circle driveway so everyone from group can park their cars in the driveway instead of on the street. The family that’s going to rent our house was blessed with a big paycheck and opportunities for overtime that will make it possible for them to move into the home. We put an offer in on a Tuesday night and it was signed with no changes as of Wednesday morning.
It comes down to perspective. We choose to look through the glasses of grace. Without the perspective of grace we are just really, really lucky people. With the perspective of grace we are really, really blessed people. And to quote my favorite poet Robert Frost “and that has made all the difference.”
We set our criteria; master suite so we don’t have to walk downstairs to use the bathroom in the middle of the night; main floor laundry; a minimum of three bedrooms and two bathrooms; a basement; a room big enough to hold our small group if everyone comes. Pretty tough criteria, and the only houses we have found that met those criteria are only in our range if we sell the old house.
And then we got real lucky….
We had driven past a house near the library many times but finally arranged with our agent to do a walk-through. The house was priced well below its assessed value and was empty. I was thinking we would have to compromise with a smaller house. Yet when we walked inside we were shocked; it was big and it was beautiful and in wonderful shape and we couldn’t believe our eyes. It met all of our criteria. And we could afford to buy it and still hold on to our old house. How lucky can you be?
Or God is awesome…
Turns out the house has been up for almost 9 months and has sold twice, but both times the financing fell through. We’ve driven by many times but the house originally would have been near the top of our price range. It not only meets our criteria, it has so much more. The house has character; it has the feel of a country farm house. There’s a kitchenette in the basement. We get two refrigerators, two stoves. The basement room will fit us all; so will the living room upstairs. The driveway is a circle driveway so everyone from group can park their cars in the driveway instead of on the street. The family that’s going to rent our house was blessed with a big paycheck and opportunities for overtime that will make it possible for them to move into the home. We put an offer in on a Tuesday night and it was signed with no changes as of Wednesday morning.
It comes down to perspective. We choose to look through the glasses of grace. Without the perspective of grace we are just really, really lucky people. With the perspective of grace we are really, really blessed people. And to quote my favorite poet Robert Frost “and that has made all the difference.”
Saturday, May 31, 2008
The Great Weaver
On a recent vacation to Texas I witnessed another one of those times when God weaves things together. On Sunday morning we traveled to the Crestwood Baptist Church in Beaumont, Texas. We had stayed at this church the last two years when we had come down for mission trips and my friend's cousin is married to the Pastor so we have some connections. It was wonderful to walk into a church you hadn't been to in a year and feel the welcome of people you knew or recognized.
We had gotten there early so we walked the grounds. Last year the new sanctuary hadn't been completed but now it was so we took a look inside. Actually it's not the sanctuary; that's a later part of the building plan. It was called the worship center. Just before we entered I noticed a newly-planted tree and a memorial that read "In Memory of Caroline". It seemed out of place; the church did not maintain a graveyard and I had never noticed anything like this in our previous visits.
That morning a middle-aged guy got up during worship to speak. He began to tell the story of his daughter, who had died of cancer exactly one year earlier. I recognized him because he had given us directions into Houston the year before to visit with our niece who was at M.D Anderson fighting leukemia. Our niece had passed away in the fall. His daughter had passed away shortly after we had gone back home the previous year. His daughters name was Caroline.
I'm not too quick on the uptake sometimes but I put two and two together. I listened, bawling, as he expressed the pain of losing her yet the joy of knowing she was in heaven, healed. I didn't realize it at the time but we were sitting in the row ahead of his family and his remaining three kids struggled hard as their dad spoke. He wasn't an eloquent speaker; his speech was down-to-earth but powerful. His theology may not have been exact but his ability to show hope in the midst of tragedy spoke volumes.
I felt something break loose and begin to heal in me that morning, a pain that had been there since Jessica had passed away. He spoke the very questions we had asked; why, God? Why didn't you heal her? Why did she have to suffer? Why her of all people? What did she do, what did we do, to deserve this? As he spoke he put the words in my heart and mind.
There was not a dry eye in the house when he finished. Rather than following him up with a sermon Brother Larry simply offered an altar call, then played the piano as he led us in singing "God Will Make a Way" and "This is the Air I Breathe".
As we left the service I realized how the Great Weaver had been at work that morning. Through that simple connection of getting directions the year before I was able to open my heart and mind to the beginning of emotional healing in Christ. Through a Pastor who barely knows who I am, who sees me most likely as my friends friend and would be hard-pressed to remember my name, the Holy Spirit began the work of understanding hope.
Thank you God, for the threads you weave in each of our lives.
We had gotten there early so we walked the grounds. Last year the new sanctuary hadn't been completed but now it was so we took a look inside. Actually it's not the sanctuary; that's a later part of the building plan. It was called the worship center. Just before we entered I noticed a newly-planted tree and a memorial that read "In Memory of Caroline". It seemed out of place; the church did not maintain a graveyard and I had never noticed anything like this in our previous visits.
That morning a middle-aged guy got up during worship to speak. He began to tell the story of his daughter, who had died of cancer exactly one year earlier. I recognized him because he had given us directions into Houston the year before to visit with our niece who was at M.D Anderson fighting leukemia. Our niece had passed away in the fall. His daughter had passed away shortly after we had gone back home the previous year. His daughters name was Caroline.
I'm not too quick on the uptake sometimes but I put two and two together. I listened, bawling, as he expressed the pain of losing her yet the joy of knowing she was in heaven, healed. I didn't realize it at the time but we were sitting in the row ahead of his family and his remaining three kids struggled hard as their dad spoke. He wasn't an eloquent speaker; his speech was down-to-earth but powerful. His theology may not have been exact but his ability to show hope in the midst of tragedy spoke volumes.
I felt something break loose and begin to heal in me that morning, a pain that had been there since Jessica had passed away. He spoke the very questions we had asked; why, God? Why didn't you heal her? Why did she have to suffer? Why her of all people? What did she do, what did we do, to deserve this? As he spoke he put the words in my heart and mind.
There was not a dry eye in the house when he finished. Rather than following him up with a sermon Brother Larry simply offered an altar call, then played the piano as he led us in singing "God Will Make a Way" and "This is the Air I Breathe".
As we left the service I realized how the Great Weaver had been at work that morning. Through that simple connection of getting directions the year before I was able to open my heart and mind to the beginning of emotional healing in Christ. Through a Pastor who barely knows who I am, who sees me most likely as my friends friend and would be hard-pressed to remember my name, the Holy Spirit began the work of understanding hope.
Thank you God, for the threads you weave in each of our lives.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Tale of Two Worships
This past Sunday I had the interesting experience of attending two different worship services in the morning. One of them was in the church we had attended for over 20 years but no longer attend, and the other was in the church we have been attending since.
It was a dramatic shift in church for us, moving from a small church struggling with growth barriers to a large church struggling with space issues. We went from a church where 150 would be a full house to a church where 1,500 is the average attendance at a service. We moved from a church with limited leadership resources to one with an over-abundance of gifted people. We left a church where “involved” was our middle name to a church where we don’t need to be involved at all if we chose.
I attended the old church to support my daughter and our friend. They were still involved in the girl’s ministry there and their girls group, GEMS, was participating in the service. I had not been back since we left at the end of the year except to attend a mid-week funeral. I did not feel out of place; this is, after all, still my church. Many people came up and welcomed me, let me know they missed me, asked when we were coming back. There were lots of hugs and lots of handshakes. I felt that warm sense of family that we initially felt when we began to attend this church.
I sat with one of my friends during the service. It was a typical worship service, following the order of worship carefully. The Pastor gave a good sermon, not very emotional, but carefully following the text. The girls sang well but definitely were reflecting the quiet mood of the crowd. Afterwards I hugged my daughter and her friend, chatted with another old buddy then drove home to pick up my wife and son and head to the other church.
We got to the other church early enough to find seats on the main floor. No one hugged me, only the usher shook my hand. People were friendly but not beyond your normal friendliness. Then the worship began and led us in powerful ways into the presence of God. The music was solid and contemporary and meaningful, led by gifted musicians giving their best to God. The worship leader could feel the flow and let the music and spiritual mood continue a little longer. Prayer time there was emotional and moving. By the time we got to the message we felt like the doors of our hearts had heard Christ knocking and had been opened to him. We left the church with almost no one speaking to us personally.
I reflect on those two services and I ask myself; which was more meaningful worship? Both are valid forms and styles of worship, both have the potential to be meaningful, but which was more meaningful to me? That led me to another question; what am I truly looking for when I go to church? I loved being hugged and welcomed but the worship left me flat and uninspired. I loved being lifted up in powerful spiritual emotions but it would be nice for someone to recognize us; we have been going here consistently for 4 months.
Which brings me to this understanding; Rick Warren was right, it’s not about me. It’s about God. God was glorified that morning in the small, family church that morning. And God was glorified in the large church, too. Too often we define worship as good or bad based on whether we liked or disliked the service. We need to redefine our definition; what did God think of the worship service? Was it done to his glory? Did people bring the best of what they had to worship Him? Was there evidence of the Spirit in worship? Did it stir up a deep longing in your soul for the imminent return of Christ and fuel the desire to stand in worship for all eternity?
The question isn’t one of style, it’s one of substance.
It was a dramatic shift in church for us, moving from a small church struggling with growth barriers to a large church struggling with space issues. We went from a church where 150 would be a full house to a church where 1,500 is the average attendance at a service. We moved from a church with limited leadership resources to one with an over-abundance of gifted people. We left a church where “involved” was our middle name to a church where we don’t need to be involved at all if we chose.
I attended the old church to support my daughter and our friend. They were still involved in the girl’s ministry there and their girls group, GEMS, was participating in the service. I had not been back since we left at the end of the year except to attend a mid-week funeral. I did not feel out of place; this is, after all, still my church. Many people came up and welcomed me, let me know they missed me, asked when we were coming back. There were lots of hugs and lots of handshakes. I felt that warm sense of family that we initially felt when we began to attend this church.
I sat with one of my friends during the service. It was a typical worship service, following the order of worship carefully. The Pastor gave a good sermon, not very emotional, but carefully following the text. The girls sang well but definitely were reflecting the quiet mood of the crowd. Afterwards I hugged my daughter and her friend, chatted with another old buddy then drove home to pick up my wife and son and head to the other church.
We got to the other church early enough to find seats on the main floor. No one hugged me, only the usher shook my hand. People were friendly but not beyond your normal friendliness. Then the worship began and led us in powerful ways into the presence of God. The music was solid and contemporary and meaningful, led by gifted musicians giving their best to God. The worship leader could feel the flow and let the music and spiritual mood continue a little longer. Prayer time there was emotional and moving. By the time we got to the message we felt like the doors of our hearts had heard Christ knocking and had been opened to him. We left the church with almost no one speaking to us personally.
I reflect on those two services and I ask myself; which was more meaningful worship? Both are valid forms and styles of worship, both have the potential to be meaningful, but which was more meaningful to me? That led me to another question; what am I truly looking for when I go to church? I loved being hugged and welcomed but the worship left me flat and uninspired. I loved being lifted up in powerful spiritual emotions but it would be nice for someone to recognize us; we have been going here consistently for 4 months.
Which brings me to this understanding; Rick Warren was right, it’s not about me. It’s about God. God was glorified that morning in the small, family church that morning. And God was glorified in the large church, too. Too often we define worship as good or bad based on whether we liked or disliked the service. We need to redefine our definition; what did God think of the worship service? Was it done to his glory? Did people bring the best of what they had to worship Him? Was there evidence of the Spirit in worship? Did it stir up a deep longing in your soul for the imminent return of Christ and fuel the desire to stand in worship for all eternity?
The question isn’t one of style, it’s one of substance.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Lessons in Living
It's been one of those weeks. Taxes were due, bills mounted. Seemed like every time I turned around I had to get something else done. And my wife is gone for the week, which typically leaves me in a little more of an unstable emotional state than usual.
And I ran into reminders. I cleaned off the mail on one of the cabinets, and in doing so came across an old announcement from my sister-in-law. It was the graduation announcement for my niece, Jessica. Something moved in my heart, a flutter of pain, the first step towards tears.
I kept cleaning and came across another document mentioning Jessica; her funeral bulletin. Just over 6 months ago Jessica, at a way-too-young age of 22, lost her battle with leukemia but won the victory. That flutter of pain became a stab of grief, opening a wound I tried hard to keep bandaged, and I cried hard tears. Just can't make sense of it, just can't figure out why God didn't just swoop down and heal her.
I'm reading a book called When the Game is Over It All Goes Back in The Box by John Ortberg, In one chapter he tells the story about his uncle Dale who fell off a roof and ended up in a coma. Amazingly, he came out of the coma and returned home to his family. Yet those events helped Ortberg, and us, to understand that...
"One thing is much clearer to everyone; that life is a gift, that every day is an unpurchased miracle, every second is overtime. I do not know why life works the way it does. I do not know why some people recover and others die. I do not know why some prayers get answered and some (seem to) go unheeded. But I do know that life is a gift. I know that it is not something we earn, create, control, or sustain. I know that one truth about us is that we forget that we are going to die. The other truth is that we forget we are alive."
Remember this day that you are alive, that God loves you and there's nothing you can do, nothing better, nothing worse, that can change that fact.
Live life.
a
And I ran into reminders. I cleaned off the mail on one of the cabinets, and in doing so came across an old announcement from my sister-in-law. It was the graduation announcement for my niece, Jessica. Something moved in my heart, a flutter of pain, the first step towards tears.
I kept cleaning and came across another document mentioning Jessica; her funeral bulletin. Just over 6 months ago Jessica, at a way-too-young age of 22, lost her battle with leukemia but won the victory. That flutter of pain became a stab of grief, opening a wound I tried hard to keep bandaged, and I cried hard tears. Just can't make sense of it, just can't figure out why God didn't just swoop down and heal her.
I'm reading a book called When the Game is Over It All Goes Back in The Box by John Ortberg, In one chapter he tells the story about his uncle Dale who fell off a roof and ended up in a coma. Amazingly, he came out of the coma and returned home to his family. Yet those events helped Ortberg, and us, to understand that...
"One thing is much clearer to everyone; that life is a gift, that every day is an unpurchased miracle, every second is overtime. I do not know why life works the way it does. I do not know why some people recover and others die. I do not know why some prayers get answered and some (seem to) go unheeded. But I do know that life is a gift. I know that it is not something we earn, create, control, or sustain. I know that one truth about us is that we forget that we are going to die. The other truth is that we forget we are alive."
Remember this day that you are alive, that God loves you and there's nothing you can do, nothing better, nothing worse, that can change that fact.
Live life.
a
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