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It’s a good thing I got my latte only half caff. I’m not sure whether I need to wake up or take a really long nap. The woman at the table beside me is complaining to her coworker about how their manager hasn’t responded to her email. Correction: emails. Six of them as of yet unanswered. Thank God she’s talking about her boss at a vitamin supplement company for whom she works; she could be talking about me.

I’m supposed to be answering emails right now, instead I’m typing this. Actually, I’m supposed to be meeting with someone right now, but they’re late, so instead I’m taking these precious fifteen minutes to answer emails. The queue is long and full—and not with your run of the mill one line response-needed kind either. It’s a bastion of issues, concerns, real life struggles, fears, and a host of other things weighing heavy on hearts.

One of the things technology has done for humanity is press us closer to one another in a smaller world—Facebook makes me feel so close to you, right next to you even. Twitter makes me think I have the whole story. Email makes longform conversation seemingly simple. Texting demands instant responses. Voicemail. Voxer. Voice-texting. Facebook messaging. Chatting. We have more communication tools at our disposal than ever before—and nobody leaves unscathed. For the one whose initiation goes unanswered—or delayed—they’re crushed by their expectations. For the one whose pile of communication keeps building—they’re crushed by the expectations of others.

The answer isn’t to stop communicating, but the bible does have some things to say to the communicator that might be helpful for us:

There is no god, but God:

No matter how much we want a pastor, minister, or friend to solve our problems or the problems we see in others, they cannot. When we jot off a digital initiation to someone whose vocation is people, we tempt them to play God for us—and we are tempted to believe they can and should. Paul says, “Therefore, my beloved, as you have always obeyed, so now, not only as in my presence but much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure.”

Don’t believe the lie that technology makes someone always available to you. Press into their absence and work out your salvation.

It is the glory of God to conceal things:

There is actually much glory in keeping things quiet and bringing them only to God. The bible speaks so much of what happens in the heart, but we seem to be much more concerned with what happens with our hands and heads. The beauty of journaling is one more of us ought to take up. Within those pages we can pour out our hearts to God so much so that pouring them out to man seems less of a holy thing. Don’t make digital correspondence your mechanism for holy war. It is the glory of God to conceal a matter and the glory of kings to seek them out.

Secret the concerns of your heart, bring them first and mainly to God instead of an email message. Seek God’s glory, not a foolish king’s crown.

Take responsibility instead of passing it on to someone else even if it’s their job:

So often we dash off an email to someone because it’s their job to handle the matter. But—especially for those in ministerial positions—we cannot handle the whole matter. People are a constant waterfall of goodness and difficulty. The beautiful thing here though is that people are God’s gift to His people. Pastors are a gift, shepherds are a gift, but they are not the only gifts. You, reader, are a gift to the Church! Ephesians 4:11 says, “And he gave the apostles, the prophets, the evangelists, the shepherds and teachers, to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ…” If we are tempted to pass off the work of the ministry to a pastor, teacher, or shepherd, let’s remember it’s we who are being equipped by them so we can do the work of the ministry.

Don’t jot off an easy message to someone saying, “We need this ministry!” or “Reach out to this person!” or “This person needs to be discipled.” Saint, do the work of the ministry.

. . .

When people bang up against the humanity of people they think are superhuman, it is actually a gift to everyone. We will fail and we will be failed. We will feel everything is either too much or not enough. Our instinct is to use quick tools to solve problems, but friends, our digital messages pile up under the weight of a thousand more pressing issues. We set ourselves up for disappointment.

How much better to start with the God of the universe, the caretaker of your soul, your heart, your circumstances, and your life. Today you will be tempted to dash off an email, a text, a message, or a tweet that will beg for response. Fight the inclination and find your shelter in the shadow of the Most High. He cares for you.

While the earth remains, seedtime and harvest,
cold and heat, summer and winter,
day and night, shall not cease.
Genesis 8:22

It’s a dark, chilly, rainy morning. Most of us were late for work, navigating city traffic among a people who are accustomed to 300 days of sunlight a year. All that sunshine makes a man forget how to drive through the rain.

One of the things I missed most about the northeast while I lived in Texas was four full seasons, each brilliant in their showtime. The neon green of spring, the evening breezes of summer, fall’s coat of many colors, and the stark cowlick trees against winter’s horizon. Moving to a state familiar with them all, even if it is farther from my native roots, is a comforting return of sorts.

Autumn is always my favorite. The food: roots, potatoes, squashes, apples, and pears; I crave the tastes of fall all year long and stretch it as far as I’m able, deep into December. The weather: chilly, dark mornings, followed by the last bursts of warmth, and sinking into early evenings with long nights. The clothes: moccasins and scarves and Smart Wool socks and flannel. I love it all.

God designed Autumn to slow us down, but we have hurried it up: school and classes have started, yearly planning meetings, hot caffeinated beverages flowing fast and furious into our systems. We rush through this season, and the next two, so we can get at last to summer and rest.

God didn’t design the year like that, though. He made the long days of summer to be our hardest working times so we would come to the dark days of winter and remember He is our maker and the Lord of rest. He made the land to produce in the Spring and Summer and the vestiges of Fall so when we arrived on the threshold of Winter we would stand awkwardly, not knowing what to do with our hands.

When Nate and I went home to New York a few weeks ago, one of our evenings was spent with one of the families who have most influenced my understanding of rest, sabbath, seasons, locale, and creation care. We sat at their table long into the evening, candles burning down to puddles of wax in pewter holders, and we talked. No one wanted it to be over and this is how God has made it, I think.

The world will tell you to work harder, to achieve more, and to not count the cost this fall. The Creator tells you through creation to rest more, achieve less, and to enjoy every small moment of every short day this fall. Don’t waste your autumn.

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I used to worry that God would make me marry a man who bored me or didn’t like to read or didn’t challenge me or who didn’t have a beard. You see my frivolity? A beard? I spent time worrying God would make me marry a clean-shaven, soft-cheeked, hairless-faced guy. But I stand by the other desires: I wanted to lay on a blanket by a lake and discuss church and Church, theology and Isaiah, politics and the shape of the clouds. I wanted to never get tired of talking to him. Or listening to him.

As I made my way through my twenties and then thirties, and dated good, nice, solid, kind men, I still found myself slightly stomach-knotted at the thought of tying myself to any of them for the rest of my life. I couldn’t imagine it would be worth giving up singleness (as difficult as it was and lonely as I felt) to latch myself to any of them—and latch myself to that stomach-knottedness—for life. They were good men, but they weren’t Nate.

A friend asked me the other day how a girl can avoid settling. The market is what it is, she said, and the pickings are slim. I hear her sentiments and shared them for 34 years and I hate the platitudinous answer I gave her, which was this: don’t settle.

And I wasn’t talking about settling for a man without a beard or a man whose physique may not be what you envisioned or who might have blond hair instead of brown and who may not play the guitar or write love poems for you—in this regard, women, settle yourselves down. No, I meant this:

Don’t settle in the belief that God knows what is best for you today and tomorrow and all the days of your life. He has given you the blessed-horrible gift of singleness today. One day you feel its blessedness and another you feel its horridness, but either way, it is the gift you have today. The question of settling is not attached to a man at all, but to the God whose job alone it is to give you the gift of a mate. So the question is not “Should I settle for a man who is less than what I envisioned?” and really, “Should I settle in the belief that God doesn’t hear or care about the desires of my heart?”

. . .

Nate and I have created a small ritual in our lives these days. At five o’clock, when the workday ends, we knot our sneakers, he slings a blanket over his shoulder, and we walk to the lake a few blocks away. We find a spot high enough up that we can see the sun set over the Rockies and we talk until it creeps down behind them. Sometimes one of us rants. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes he just listens, or I do. The other day we talked about Church history and architecture, and when the wind came blowing down the hill I pressed myself against his strong back, touched his beard, and I thanked God for not giving me the chance to settle. I thanked him for all the stomach-knotted uncertainty I’d had for the past 34 years. It was God’s good protection for me, and such a familiar feeling that when I knew I would marry Nate, I knew it with a surety and freedom I couldn’t have had without all those years of knowing it was not right.

Sisters and friends—and brothers, you too—do not settle for less than the belief that God has written your story before the foundation of the earth and he is the giver of good and perfect gifts in the proper time. He cares about birds and lilies and beards and you.


One of the most beautiful things about the cross is that the ground before it is level. Not the actual ground, of course, we all know it was on a hill far away, but the spiritual ground before the cross is as level as the carpenter’s measure—a flat plane. From the third chapter of the bible we’ve been measuring our sins, though, and passing them off as another’s problem. But Christ came in flesh, lived as one of us, and died, so that once and for all, no man’s head can rise higher than another’s and no man’s head will ever rise higher than Christ’s.

This is the theological truth, but the practical working out of it is what catches us. Mountains, molehills, plains, and valleys—we are always trying to make our station lower or higher than what He has called it.

I did it this morning on my way to work: Well, no one else is in a season just like this, undergoing all this transition, etc. etc. etc.. If God was a mocker I could almost feel his mockery: Oh really, Lore? No one understands you? No one understands this season? No one could possibly get what you’re walking through? Really?

And then his chastening comfort:

The ground before the cross is level, daughter. Every person you know is walking through a difficulty you could not possibly understand—and do not need to because I have. I am.

For every young mom who feels isolated and alone in her season there is an older single who feels isolated and alone. For every man with the weight of the world on his shoulders there is a young man who feels the weight of nothing on his shoulders. For every woman struggling with infertility there is a unmarried person longing for a spouse. For every one in need of the gospel there is another person in need of the gospel.

We all, at our base, need the issues of our hearts captured by the understanding that God alone understands—but that He gave us the gift of the Whole Church to walk alongside on this level ground before the cross.

Your season, and mine, is no more unique or special or any other season. They are all beautiful in their time—and only beautiful because God has given His Son to us as an intercessor in the midst of them. Stop looking for people who just get you and look for people who get the gospel—and if they do not, teach them the beauty of this leveled ground, the beautifully equal need we all have for the cross in every season of life.

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One of the guys I have the most respect for as a man, a pastor, a writer, a husband and father, and believer, is Jared Wilson. When he emailed me several months ago to ask if I’d consider writing for the new site from Midwestern Seminary, For the Church, I knew it was a place I’d be happy to be serve. There’s nothing on earth I love more than the Church, and so there’s nothing I love more than encouraging and building her up, and to get to do that under the leadership of Jared is a blessing indeed. If you haven’t yet checked out For the Church, I’d encourage you to do so. I pray the content there encourages and strengthens you as you serve your local church. Here’s my first post there: Lip Service. 

. . .

If we say we believe God is sovereign, but spend our days wringing our hands and fretting, we’re just doing lip-service to theology.

If we say we believe God is love, but spend our days berating ourselves and others, we’re just doing lip-service to theology.

If we say we believe God is faithful, but try to control outcomes and people, we’re just doing lip-service to theology.

Continue reading. 

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Adrienne Rich said, in one of my favorite poems,

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.

and that feels a lot like life sometimes. At least life right now. There’s some wreckage I don’t want to explore. I don’t want to use my words to find the treasures that prevail here. I’d rather just be heartbroken and walk through grief as it comes, instead of purposing with my words.

A friend told me a few weeks ago my life had been like a fallow field for a long time. Furrowed, plowed, ready for seeding, but still standing empty, waiting for the proper time. She was referring to a plethora of good, good things happening in my life right now—seeds and shoots and promises coming through from the dark, dark earth. But with growth also comes pain and these growing pains hurt worse than almost anything I’ve known.

I’m weeping as I write those words because I can’t talk about all the things weighing on me right now—that’s part of the wreckage and the seeds: both things pressed in deep places, hidden from the public eye.

The difference between wreckage and seeds though, is that one falls apart and produces nothing, and one falls apart and produces everything. And it is important to remember the difference and to keep on remembering it.

Something is breaking apart in every one of our lives. Something is giving away and changing and shifting and breaking. Some of it feels like wreckage and some of it is a seed. Some of it we need to dive straight into to see the treasures which prevail, and some of it we need to trust to the deep, dark earth and the sovereign hand of God who makes everything produce fruit in its season (Jeremiah 17:5-8).

Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.
John 12:24

The plan was to leave Texas almost as soon as I came to her. Six months, see if God was real, and if he could spare any love for a doubter like me, then move on, vagabond my way through life. I figured God (if he was real) could manage an oddity like me better than any one place could.

Five years later: I’ve tried to leave her a half a dozen times but she’s kept me, like the song goes, “Not from Texas, but Texas wants you anyway.” A year ago I sobbed on my bedroom floor before signing another year lease. It felt like signing a death warrant. Another hot summer, another suburban home, another brown winter, another flat year.

But God turns our mourning to dancing—or something like it.

. . .

I died a thousand little deaths throughout 2013 and 2014. Every one of them seemed a no to me and my desires. But the best of them were no to my lesser desires and I see that now. I have wanted a great many things, but too often I take the leftovers, certain God means for me to suffer until I am left with only Him.

A hundred decisions loomed in front of me over the past two years and I, like Rebekah, packed my little idols in my bags just in case. I worshipped the lesser gods of marriage, vocation, location, and more. I was certain God wouldn’t give me all the desires of my heart, so I settled for the scraps of just one, maybe two.

But something unexpected happened: the more I submitted to being all here, all in, Texan for as long as God would call me to be, I began to love Texas. Love for her people, her places, and specifically my place in her—it all began to grow. It was small at first, imperceptible glimmers, but it grew stronger and stronger until the thought of ever leaving seemed unlikely. I went to Israel last fall and the strongest emotion I felt while there was not wonder at the land upon which Jesus once walked, but homesickness for my own land.

For Texas?


And then in January I got an email, a job offer. It was not in the location I wanted, not in the church I wanted, nothing of what I thought I wanted, and all of the peace I imagined was possible. I did not trust my heart or desires, though, and passed it through to those who know my propensity to worship lesser gods. Elders and pastors and mentors who know my proclivities, my impulsivity, and, more than anything, know the Holy Spirit. The more I let it slip from my grip, the more it seemed God was saying, “No, daughter, this, this is good.”

. . .

I stood in that church building a few weeks ago, the sunlight streaming through the windows of the hundred year old sanctuary, the Rocky Mountains to the west outside, the liturgy spoken and sung by all of us, small families and staff on all sides of me who’d done nothing but bless me and answer every question posed to them over four days—and I worshipped God. I worshipped God because he heard all my prayers and during all my attempts to thwart Him and take the lesser portion, He was still storing up the greater one.

This is an announcement of sorts, true: I have been handed the description to a job that only existed in my dreams and been told, “It is yours if you want it.”

But this is also a proclamation of sorts: the lesser gods will always be there clamoring for my worship.

They will be prevalent in Denver, Colorado at Park Church where I will work with their leadership team to train and make disciples in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains. They will be there as much as they have been here in Dallas, Texas where the Lord brought me to the beautiful and full knowledge of Him, trained me in discipleship, taught me submission, and helped me to see He did not bring me out to the desert to die, but to truly learn that man does not live by bread alone—or all the feasts we think will bring us life—but we live on Him and His words and His water and His plans.

Those lesser gods do not always seem like the worst decisions. Mostly often they are just the less than good decisions. I have not fully learned that lesson and I suspect God will always be teaching it to me. But I have learned this lesson: I cannot thwart His purposes. He will not let me live on the crumbs while a feast awaits on the table above.

. . .

If you’re my family at The Village, I sent this in a letter to the elders last week: I’ve been more loved here than I could have ever imagined. The Lord saved me here and taught me more about the gospel, studying the Word, loving discipleship, loving women, submitting to leadership, loving discipline, than I could have known was possible. The Village Church is honestly the most humbling and beautiful common grace I’ve experienced, and you’ve each played a role in that. I’ll never stop being grateful for it and each of you. My heart is broken to leave, but expectant to go.

I mean that for the rest of you too. My heart is broken to leave this place and I’ll be more mourning than rejoicing for the next two months as I prepare to go. I want to end my time here well, which means prioritizing the girls at #highchapelhouse and my immediate community of friends and leaders. We will have a come-one-come-all going away party at Roots Coffeehouse the first week of June, details forthcoming. Thanks for understanding my limitations over the next few months. And thank you for loving me. At the end of one meeting about this with some elders and pastors here, one of them said, “You can always come home,” and my heart knew that home was Texas and you, so thank you. 

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I did it again. I dug my own cistern and it broke. I sought solace in the arms of a whore, a cheap imitation of the real thing, a creature instead you, the Creator. I long for the comfort of independence, making my own fortune, building my own kingdom, because I long for respite today instead of someday.

I’m hungry for heaven and for the bread of life, but today I just want to be full, to stop feeling the pangs of hunger in my heart. I ache with all the somedays of our faith. The tomorrows and better days ahead.

Jesus, you said You gave us water that would make us never thirst again, but the only water I know is the kind I need every day, again and again. I don’t understand a quench ever being filled and my heart ever being full. I have no concept of fullness, only hunger or the gluttony that makes us fat on the feast of earthly sweets. I starve myself or I indulge myself—fearful of living in the tension of what you have already done and what you have not yet done.

I do not trust you.

And I do trust you.

And I don’t know how to live in that ever expanding, ever closing gap.

The more I know you, the more I trust you, but the more I trust you, the more you give me to trust you with and the more I have to know and trust you. It is an endless cycle, this hunger. I eat of your words, they taste sweet and fill me, but I am oh so hungry again and the temptation to eat a lesser feast is always before me.

Fill me to full, Lord, to overflowing, and empty me of me in that process. Empty me, train my palate and my hunger so the only one for whom I thirst is you. Give me a taste for you.

The greatest enemy of hunger for God is not poison but apple pie. It is not the banquet of the wicked that dulls our appetite for heaven, but endless nibbling at the table of the world. It is not the X-rated video, but the prime-time dribble of triviality we drink in every night. For all the ill that Satan can do, when God describes what keeps us from the banquet table of his love, it is a piece of land, a yoke of oxen, and a wife (Luke 14:18-20). The greatest adversary of love to God is not his enemies but his gifts. And the most deadly appetites are not for the poison of evil, but for the simple pleasures of earth. For when these replace an appetite for God himself, the idolatry is scarcely recognizable, and almost incurable.

John Piper


I am not like those Israelites in the wilderness, the ones who handed over their riches to make the likes of a golden calf. I clutch to my idols in their original form. I do not trust a maker of any sorts with my valuables, I trust only myself. I adorn myself in them.


I wonder sometimes if all the Israelites gave Aaron their jewelry on that day, or if there were some who held back because an idol in their hands was better than one melded with a hundred thousand other idols.


Remember when Rachel hid the idols of her father’s household in her satchel? She carried them with her just in case. Just in case God failed her, just in case He didn’t come through, just in case the unseen God wasn’t as dependable as the seen gods. Just in case He didn’t give her what she wanted.


Sometimes the only way you can spot an idol is to have it wrenched from your hands. Empty hands can reveal idolatry.


Sometimes idols in the ancient Near East were the big kind you envision in temples, massive stone or golden statues with people prostrate around them in every form. But common ones were small ones, pocketed bits of clay and wood and rock—things they could pull from their pockets at a moments notice, to fill the void, cure boredom, feel validated, and seek answers from.


The message to the idol worshipper is the same as to the law worshipper, the same to the younger son as to the elder, the same to the Gentile as to the Jew: that idol and that law will only reveal your need for a Savior and a Father.


Underneath the gold and silver plated idols was the stuff of the earth: clay, wood, rock. All that glitters is not gold. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Then you will defile your carved idols overlaid with silver and your gold-plated metal images. You will scatter them as unclean things. You will say to them, “Be gone!”
Isaiah 30:22

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The Christian life, I am finding, does not grow easier with time. I somehow thought it would. I envisioned the sage men and women we would become and find only that my flesh is just as prone to wandering today as it was four years ago or four months ago or four minutes ago.

I am like the many disciples who turned back in John six, but I am also like Simon who said, “To whom else would we go? You have the words of eternal life.” But I take note of the verses before, “This is a hard saying; who can listen to it?” because my grumbling heart wants to be sure God knows how difficult the way of the cross is.

“Oh yes, I know,” he says. “This is why I told you that no one can come to me unless it is granted by the Father.” The only access is the Father and even then only to whom it has been granted.

This is a hard saying?

How can I believe this?

How can anyone, really, believe this and keep believing it and not stop believing it when the road is long and the grime is real and the cross is heavy and the suffering is present? How do we “believe and come to know that He is the Holy One of God?” when all around us is clamoring for us to lose faith and disbelieve?

No other vice will grip my heart as tightly as doubt, which seems strange because the essence of doubt is to let go. But to whom else can I go? Who else offers not only eternal life but words of eternal life? Eternal life is not so appealing a siren call that I could not shrug my shoulders at it and live as I please today. But the words of eternal life? I live on those words. Every one of them. When betrayal of Him seems easy and his offer of life with Him seem distant, it is his words that bring me back to his sweetness, goodness, and favor.

To whom else can I go in the midst of swirling confusion, painful realization, loss of control, and the presence of fear? He has the sweetest words of eternal life and they taste good.

How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!
Psalm 119:103

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“Christian spirituality means living in the mature wholeness of the gospel. It means taking all the elements of your life—children, spouse, job, weather, possessions, relationships —and experiencing them as an act of faith. God wants all the material of our lives.” 
—Eugene H. Peterson, 
The Contemplative Pastor: Returning to the Art of Spiritual Direction

Dear Father,

I confess it’s a lot easier to just let the elements of life carry me instead of experiencing them as what they are: expressions not only of my faith in you, but your entrustment of them to me to navigate in you. Life comes at me with both hands raised, ready for a fight, and I confess, I am not a fighter and so I stand there and take the pummeling.

If the Christian life means living in the mature wholeness of the gospel than that means at some point I have to let my requests rise to you and then let them fall back down in the form of today. Today you have answered every prayer with this situation. This home. These lives. This life. This work. These people. This church. This locale. Every prayer I have prayed has been answered in today’s portion, even if the answer still seems so far off. And even if the answer is not what I wanted.

Jesus, not only do you want all the material of my life, you are the maker of the material of my life—and I confess, I wonder what you’re making with this mess sometimes. My faith in you is strong, but my sight in life is dim and I don’t know how to walk in the dark very well.

Would you light my path, today and tomorrow and all the days I can see? Would you light them with your word instead of my worries, your cross instead of my circumstances, your love instead of my life? Would you help me experience today as an act of faith that you still hold tomorrow, and all the troubles and delights it holds? It’s in your name that I live and move and breathe, and it’s in your name that I pray, Amen.

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I am more poet than preacher, but I gravitate toward epistles when I am discouraged because my soul craves structure—but what it really needs is rest. I have learned that in times when I feel insecure or unsafe, what I need is not to be corralled, but to be wooed. The Psalms remind me that I am dust and that I am loved as dust.

Robbie Seay has been slowly releasing EPs of Psalms put to music over the past year and as each one came I found such comfort in them. This week he released the full album and it’s been streaming constantly for me. Robbie and his wife Elizabeth have been such an encouragement to me over the past few years and I wanted to see if I could help get the full album out.

Robbie is giving away five signed copies of the new album to five of you. Enter below three ways. Winners will be contacted after contest ends and we’ll mail the albums out to you.

I hope it blesses you as much as it has blessed me. If you’d rather just purchase the album and support the ministry of the Seays,  I’d highly recommend you do that.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Once a painting professor assigned me a project in which I could only use two colors for the piece. He told me, “Constraints are good. They teach you to use your imagination.” As in art, so in life.

Today is one of those days where from the blare of the alarm until this present second I feel the demand of living. It’s nothing unusual, it’s just life and the pressing of it. Demands, needs, hopes, tears, fears—some mine, most not, but belonging to those I love and therefore still mine. I don’t know how to use my imagination when what’s in front of me just seems to be so mundane and monochromatic, constraining and constricting. I feel kept and caught, and I’m questioning the great Artist for giving me this palette with which to paint my canvas of life.

David knew what I feel, and maybe what you feel too,

“Oh, that I had wings like a dove!
I would fly away and be at rest;
yes, I would wander far away;
I would lodge in the wilderness;
I would hurry to find a shelter
from the raging wind and tempest.”

David felt a very real constraint—the threat of death on his life—and maybe my constraints today aren’t of equal kind, but I think they’re similar.

Living within constraints means dying to myself and my desires, my demands and my mood. It means the temptation to run away, to live outside the boundaries God has given me and put me in, will be pressing and constant. Psalm 16 says the boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places. That means God has designed this day perfectly within His bounds and it is a delight—I only need to trust the artist who made it so.

Where are you finding yourself stretching at the boundary lines today? Where are you frustrated with the lot you’ve been given? The lack of finances? The lack of marriage prospects? The lack of children? The presence of children? The office building? Instead of running away or standing on the edge, stretching for more, why not live within today’s constraints and trust the Maker of heaven and earth?

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Some of my best childhood memories were spent watching historical documentaries. My parents had a great appreciation for history, and we lived in a part of the US overflowing with early American history, so access to it was easy. No one in our family (I am the second oldest of eight) was exempt from read-alouds and documentary viewings. I know virtually nothing about Saturday morning cartoons or popular music, but I have a rich, rich appreciation for the lives of ordinary people throughout history. This was an investment my parents made in me and I’m forever grateful for it.

I say all that because this morning I watched the newly released documentary Through the Eyes of Spurgeon. Spurgeon, called the Prince of Preachers, has been a peculiar blessing to me. His love for the word, his affection for Christ, and his depth of struggle, particularly with depression, have all been an encouragement to me in the past few years.

“I would go into the deeps a hundred times to cheer a downcast spirit. It is good for me to have been afflicted that I might know how to speak a word in season to one who is weary.”

I am deeply grateful for this man and grateful for this well-made documentary. I wish you would all take the time to watch it. But I also wish, if you are a parent, you would watch it with your children. Maybe watch it in parts, or make it a week-long viewing, but somehow I recommend you do it with them.

Jason Allen, president of Midwestern Baptist Theological Seminary says this, “It’s as though Spurgeon never lived a boring day in his life, every day was marked by gospel adventure and rigor of gospel service.” The heroes of my childhood were Benjamin Franklin and Marquis de Lafayette, Betsy Ross and Abraham Lincoln, but how much greater would it have been if my heroes were godly men and women like Charles Spurgeon? What a gospel adventure the man lived and what an example of servitude to Christ.

Watch the full documentary here.