Alphabet Gospel

Jesus on the Cross of Calvary

A
broken
command
divides
Eden-earth
from
God,
humanity’s
“I ate.”
Jesus — King, Lord, Master, now on earth
proclaiming,
praying,
preparing,
quoting,
quenching,
quieting,
remained
sinless,
taking
upon Himself a
vile
world —
executed,
yet, risen, brings us to
Zion

A Temporary Home

Our home under construction - late summer 2014

(Our Christmas letter generated enough comments that I decided to publish to a wider audience.)

Dear friends and family,

As most of you know, 2014 was a year of transition for our family. We sold our Mableton home and moved into a newly constructed home in Kennesaw, Georgia. We are so thankful to God for this new house. It has so many great features for Gwendolyn, like a roll-in shower and lots of hardwood floors for her to walk around on in her gait trainer. There is plenty of room for the boys, inside and outside. The location also puts us much closer to our fantastic church (Burnt Hickory Baptist) and great schools for all of our children.

But it was the in-between time, the time we were in a rental house, that I want to share about with you. We jokingly called it our “Acworth Exile.” The rental house was very small, had stairs to Gwendolyn’s bedroom, and was not ready for us when we arrived (no bathrooms were completely finished/working). We had to deal with lots of dust and bugs. And half the garage was full of the landlord’s stuff. It was temporary and a work in progress.

There were some good things, though. All the appliances were new. The location was close to Aidan’s school. We had access to a pool and basketball court. The lease was month-to-month. And, we knew it was temporary. Our new house was being built. We could go see the progress (though sometimes it seemed slow) and imagine what it would be like to move in. So, we crossed off the days on a Steelers calendar and made it work. It was just temporary.

Jesus, who is God Himself, left His forever home to temporarily make his home among us. He gave up His divine rights and power to become an infant, a child, then a man of no privilege. He became a servant to those whom He created and who could not fathom His purpose. We were not prepared for Him. He had to deal with dust and bugs. He left the grandeur and perfection of heaven to sweat, and cry, and hurt, and hunger, and ultimately to be rejected and killed. But He decided we were worth the temporary move. As it says in Hebrews 2:9, “But we see him who for a little while was made lower than the angels, namely Jesus, crowned with glory and honor because of the suffering of death, so that by the grace of God he might taste death for everyone.

1298 Hamilton Creek Drive is not our permanent home, either. As believers in Jesus, we trust Him when He said, “In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.” (John 14:2-3). Jesus is preparing a new heaven and a new earth as our forever home! So, while there is pain and heartache here — while there are temporary laughs and glimpses of eternity – while we gratefully accept our tasks and responsibilities for now – our real home is yet to come. We can’t always see the progress, and we don’t know how many days to mark on the calendar, but God is a builder we can trust. We can imagine (a little) what it will be like to move in. Throughout time, God’s people “desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared for them a city.” (Hebrews 11:16)

Our prayer for your family is that Christmas will remind you of Jesus’ temporary home with us and then you will turn your faith toward that city which God is building for those who trust in Him.

May God bless your temporary home and prepare you for the eternal one!

Thank you, Mr. Truett Cathy: My Tribute

Truett and Jeanette Cathy

I am rarely affected by the deaths of our culture’s celebrities. But, since I heard about Mr. Truett Cathy’s decline and then death, today, I have been saddened more than I expected. His life and example loom large in mine. Chick-fil-A, the company he started, guided, and ultimately bestowed upon his family has had a huge influence on my life.

At age 15, I took my first permanent job at the Chick-fil-A mall store at Orlando Fashion Square. At 16, my Operator, Henry Dixon, saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself. He promoted me to Assistant Manager with the responsibility of closing the store three nights per week. I learned so much about managing people and customer service during those years. And I worked with a fantastic team. I was even selected to help with a Grand Opening at another Florida store. Henry is still a family friend after over two decades that I have been gone. It was the best job I ever had, and I was there almost 4 years until I went away to Berry College. (btw – I know how everything is made — or was — and I still pay to eat there often. They do things the right way.)

I received both the $1,000 Chick-fil-A Scholarship and the $10,000 WinShape Scholarship (sponsored by Chick-fil-A). I was one of about 100 WinShape students at Berry. We had our meeting at 10 pm on Monday nights (oh, those wacky college schedules). Truett came and spoke to us several times in my years there. He was always funny, told rambling stories, and personable. He was more like a grandfather than a big company CEO. He encapsulated Biblical wisdom into his own unique phrase-ology. For example, he told us that one of his secrets was that if he “gave everyone what they wanted, he would get what he wanted.” That’s servant-leadership, homespun. Its also the perfect model for customer service – something for which I have been rewarded at many jobs after Chick-fil-A. It was through Berry, Chick-fil-A, and WinShape that God challenged my faith and called back into a relationship with Him. I briefly worked at the CFA at Cumberland Mall in Atlanta and met Stephen Kendrick (one of the movie brothers). Our faith conversations were instrumental in moving me back toward church. Another co-worker, Rodney Long, invited me to his church, which got me connected to my future wife (another long story), and — WOW, God really did use Chick-fil-A to change my life.

My mom and sister both worked at Chick-fil-A. (And, yes, I was their boss, but those are stories for another day.) I met my wife at Berry College, and she eventually worked as an accountant for the Chick-fil-A Home Office. She still does contracting work for Chick-fil-A. With her, I had the opportunity to attend several Operator Seminars. One in particular stands out, and I think was a watershed moment for Chick-fil-A. Dan Cathy (Truett’s son) had not yet ascended to his current position as President (and now, CEO). I think he was a VP. However, he spoke about servant leadership and pointed to Jesus’ example of washing the disciples’ feet. He then updated the application by providing everyone in the room with shoe polishing brushes. He proceeded to shine the shoes of his dad and President Jimmy Collins (and probably many others). Soon the whole auditorium was down polishing shoes. I don’t know all the company lore, but I think this was the beginning of what he now calls “second mile service” — all based on the example of Jesus. Truett and Jeanette raised their children right. Their daughter, Trudy, was a foster parent and helped grow their system of family-based foster care (it was about 9 homes back then).

I have heard Truett speak on several occasions. I have met him and shook his hand and said, “thank you.” He wouldn’t remember me, but I will never forget the impact he has made on me. He is the one I think about from Jesus’ parable of the talents. Some servants receive a huge responsibility, but they prove themselves faithful. That was Truett. The news stories focus on how much he had (describing him first as a billionaire). I think about how much he gave away. I don’t have access to any financial figures, but I know that he just kept on giving. One example is Southwest Christian Care. It is a hospice, senior care facility, and a respite center for medically fragile children. My daughter has received free weekends there over the last several years, giving us invaluable respite. All the hospice care is also free. I went to their fund raising dinner last year. Truett Cathy was the chairman of their board (I think) and was a long-time donor. Foster homes, Camp WinShape, scholarships, helping deserving folks start their own Chick-fil-A units, and so much more. These are the legacy of Mr. Cathy (outside his family, of course).

And even more, I think about his commitment to the most important things. Family – he always spoke glowingly of his wife, Jeanette. He challenged his children to work hard and not just expect to inherit the business. Faithful service – as long as I knew about him, he taught 13 year olds boys Sunday School. Worship – he would never compromise on stores being closed on Sunday. (The media seems to find this fascinating. At my store, we made more money in six days than all the other restaurants did in 7. There is an important “secret” here: Chick-fil-A has better employees. Simply put, those who want Sundays off are more likely Christians. And those Christians who value Sunday worship are more likely to be better, more faithful employees. And better rested, too! I’m sure that will enrage some, but visit any Chick-fil-A and compare the quality of employee with any McDonald’s, Burger King, Wendy’s, Arby’s or any other quick service restaurant. Chick-fil-A is easily the best. Consider this: in an industry that averaged 200% annual turnover, I had basically the same crew of teens working with me 3 nights per week for over 2 years.) No matter what challenge, success, or controversy, Truett kept his focus on the non-negotiables.

Chick-fil-A’s corporate purpose is “To glorify God by being a faithful steward of all that is entrusted to us. To have a positive influence on all who come in contact with Chick-fil-A.” I can think of no greater example of this than Mr. S. Truett Cathy. He was a faithful steward of what God entrusted to him and he was MUCH more than just a positive influence on me. Thank you, Mr. Cathy, for all that you did for me and my family. We will never be the same. And, somehow, I am sure that he is teaching the angels his favorite chant: “Is everybody happy? H-A-P-P-Y!”

How Far Our Nation Has Turned From Thee

Jeremiah Lamenting the Destruction of Jerusalem (Rembrandt)

A villanelle inspired by the book of Jeremiah.

How far our nation has turned from Thee
To Whom we once pledged our faith and trust.
But yet You call to us, “return to Me.”

Choosing chains, yet declaring we are free
Still earth-bound to our own pleasure and lust.
How far our nation has turned from Thee!

Pursuing wisps of fame, power and prosperity
We forsake what is right and just.
But yet You call to us, “return to Me.”

Bowing to desire, but not bending our knee,
Our occasional pleas for help scatter as dust.
How far our nation has turned from Thee!

Praising the sins we ought to flee,
We claim it is Your commands that should adjust.
But yet You call to us, “return to Me.”

Worshiping all but You, why can’t we see
Your judgments upon us are discipline not disgust.
How far our nation has turned from Thee
But yet You call to us, “return to Me!”

Applies equally to Judah at the time of Jeremiah or the United States today.

I Will Remember

Last 100 Yards Entrance

Last weekend, Melanie and I had the honor to visit the National Infantry Museum just outside Fort Benning in Columbus, Georgia. The entrance exhibit is called “The Last 100 Yards.” It is a ramp 100 yards long on which the stories of ten important U.S infantry battles are depicted in dramatic scenes. The infantry, they say, has to own the last 100 yards of the battle field in order to defeat our enemies. The museum also includes an overwhelming amount of the history of the U.S. Army throughout all our nation’s conflicts. It is a stirring tribute. There is something very emotional about seeing these reminders of all who fought and sacrificed for our country. I had to think about why.

Some would say that there is no room for patriotism for Christians. Jesus’ kingdom is not of this world. Our citizenship is in heaven, and there our hearts must be focused. There is no dual allegiance or dual citizenship, they would argue. I disagree, as I have written previously. Yes, our ultimate allegiance is to Jesus and His Kingdom, but America, at least in its founding ideals, exemplifies many Christian principles.

Duty, loyalty, personal courage, integrity, honor, respect – these are the ideals carved into the glass columns at the beginning of The Last 100 Yards. These are the traits which mark the best of America’s men and women who gave their lives defending our freedoms and advancing the cause of freedom around the world. It was Americans who turned the tide to end the seemingly endless and useless brutality of World War I. It was America who broke the Nazi stronghold on  Europe and liberated the death camps. It was America that fought back Japanese imperialism in Asia and the Pacific. It was America (primarily) who fought back the Communists in Korea, giving South Korea the opportunity for freedom. (Now, South Korea is one of the top three missionary-sending countries in the world.)

But what gets me so emotional when I see the tradition, brotherhood, commitment, and honor of our military throughout our history? At its best, it reflects the ideals of God’s Kingdom and Jesus, Himself. It was Jesus who never swerved from his duty to purchase our pardon from sin. It was Jesus who called us into a community united by a common mission. It was Jesus who walked the last 667 yards (using the Via Dolorosa as an approximation) to Calvary to die on the cross for our sins. It was Jesus whose death and resurrection won the victory over sin, death, and the forces of evil. And it is Jesus whose armor still protects us today as our defeated foe still tries to ambush us (see Ephesians 6:10-17).

So, as Memorial Day approaches, I will remember. I will remember those who gave their lives, so that I might have freedom. I will remember the families who grieve and mourn and, yet, carry on. I will remember there are missions that are worth the cost. And I will remember the Savior who remembered me.

The Last Letter

From the Top of the Ferris Wheel

(Something a little different. I have been dabbling with short (and longer) fiction. This is a short story I wrote. Comments and critiques in the comments section, please.)

“Forty-three years is too long to live a lie,” murmured Birdie Lewis as she clutched the letter to her chest again. She looked at her watch, Frank’s sensible 40th anniversary gift to her. Late. It was only a couple hours until Frank’s surgery. The doctor had told them to prepare for the worst. The cancer might have spread.

Sighing, Birdie looked away from the watch to the letter once again. Birdie could not imagine anything worse than what she should do now. She should have been at the hospital already, but she was lingering over the letter again — just one yellowed page with a well worn crease in the middle. Though she knew every word by heart, she kept it in the guest bedroom tucked away in an unmarked box among the flotsam of over forty years of married life. She moved the box every few years to keep it from being discovered. Yet she could always find that box and its illicit treasure without any incriminating illumination. Just like so many lonely nights, she was whispering Randall’s words as she cradled the letter to her chest.

She lifted the letter to her face, breathing in its comforting mustiness again. Here was tangible evidence of real love. It was not like the vicarious flings her friends found in romance novels or daytime dramas. This was no author’s fantasy or excuse for detergent commercials. After another caress and a sigh of resolution, Birdie tucked the letter into her purse. This time the letter was not going back into hiding. She couldn’t believe it was making her late again.

Birdie was really Bernadette. It was her younger siblings who unknowingly contorted her classy, given name to the silly nickname. The mistake stuck. Her small-boned frame and somewhat beakish nose contributed to its staying power so much that she finally accepted the moniker in grammar school. She became Birdie.

Settling into her car for the short drive to the hospital, Birdie looked in the visor mirror. She was still surprised by the aged woman who looked back. Without the mirror’s silent honesty, she saw herself the way Randall would have: young, vibrant, and hopeful. This older woman was still neat and proper, though she blamed guilt for pulling down her thin shoulders. She lifted them and forced a smile. Though her chestnut hair had grayed and her skin had loosened, Birdie still saw evidence of the younger beauty that attracted Randall and Frank.

Back then, Frank Lewis and Randall McIntosh were just boys from town, a year or two older than she was. Birdie considered them both beaus, but not serious contenders. They were all too young to be serious. Then came the war. Frank and Randall both volunteered and were eventually sent to the South Pacific, ending up in the same Marine unit.

Private Randall McIntosh wrote letters to her often. They were not seriously romantic or even serious about much of anything. He complained about endless drill exercises and bad food. He shared the newest jokes and excused the grown-up vices the boys took up to pass the time. Birdie was excited to get news from a real Marine, though any mentions of his location were callously blacked out by the censors. However, Birdie knew she was not the only recipient of Randall’s written attentions. He wrote to at least a few other girls in town. He was lonely and wondered why he was involved in this crazy war at all. Birdie supposed he yearned for return mail, care packages, and a passionate homecoming with someone. She willingly provided the first two and pondered the third.

Though Frank had dated Birdie a few times before the war, he had not written to her or anyone outside his family that she knew about. He was a man of few words. Randall wrote about him, though. He and Frank were constant companions through the rigors of boot camp and the battle in the Pacific.

A year went by and Randall’s letters waned with the apparent increase in his combat engagements. Birdie kept writing, though, imagining more romance than Randall actually promised. Love was easy when you could just erase words and start over. Birdie was so excited when the last letter came. She hadn’t heard from Randall in weeks. She tore it open and read:

Dear Birdie,
I am so sorry. I have not been serious with you. Now, I have gone and gotten myself shot fighting on one of these islands. I am lying here in a field hospital. It’s bad. The doctor told me I lost too much blood. This is probably my last letter.
Birdie, hon, I wanted you for my wife. I wanted to come home, sweep you up and whisk you away. Then we could get married, have some kids, and grow old together. But it seems the good Lord has other plans for me, now. Birdie, I love you and I hope you will forgive me.

Good bye, Randall

Birdie’s heart stopped and she slid off her bed to the floor. Why couldn’t she breathe? The letter was in a different, blocky hand from his earlier ones. Was this a joke or a mistake? No, Randall’s family got the dreaded telegram confirming the Secretary of War’s deep sympathy for the loss of their son. Apparently a nurse or chaplain had helped Randall spill his heart on the paper before the last of his blood did. Birdie thanked God for that nameless angel amanuensis. Without this letter, she would have never known the joy of shared love. But now, she was a widow before she even married.

Frank survived and returned from the war like many of the other soldiers, strangely older and harder. The world was a very different place now. Eventually he called on Birdie again. They dated quietly, calmly. His affection for her was sincere and tender. Privately mourning for Randall, Birdie numbly accepted his attentions. It was all she could think to do.

In September of 1946, Frank took her to the State Fair of Oklahoma in Oklahoma City. Thousands flocked to the renewed annual celebration. Frank and Birdie watched the rodeo events, ate corn dogs, and walked through the pungent farm animal exhibitions. As usual, Frank didn’t say much beyond what was necessary. As evening fell, Frank became even more seriously silent. He pulled Birdie to the ferris wheel. Uncharacteristically, he fidgeted while they waited in line. Finally they were ushered into their car and swept up into the deepening night. The fair lights glittered below as they neared the top of the ride. The voices below softened to a dull clamor occasionally punctuated by merry screams. Frank reached into his pocket.

“Bernadette, you know that I don’t say much. But this I have to say. I’ve seen war and death, and it ain’t pretty. Now, I’ve come home and I’ve found you. Actually, I think it was God that found you for me. I know I may not be all that you might dream in a man. And God knows you could do better. But, Bernadette, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I talked with your father, and he approves. Will you marry me?” He held out a ring with a tiny, shiny diamond.

Birdie and Frank had reached the top of the ride. The ferris wheel paused to take on new passengers. Joy radiated up from the crowd, and the stars mirrored the happy glow from the lights on the ground. She should have been happy and excited. But, Birdie felt trapped. It should have been Randall proposing here. Tears gathered in her eyes as a dry wind picked up. Frank would think they were tears of happiness. She nodded slowly and took the ring. The ferris wheel rotated sending them down one stop at a time.

Now on the ground they headed for the exit. Frank was beaming. Had she really said “yes?” She looked at the ring on her finger. She put a hand over it. She hadn’t said anything, but there was no denying that ring. She had taken it from him. No one would be surprised. Most of her friends had already married during the summer. The whole world was settling down into a shell-shocked peace. This would be for the best, she decided. Passion was too painful and loneliness too possible. Frank would be a good companion who would treat her well. Surely, over time she would grow to love him like she loved Randall. A carnival barker beckoned her towards one of the games, “Try your luck here, little lady.”

Birdie the bride was thirty minutes late to become Mrs. Lewis instead of Mrs. McIntosh. She was dressed in time for the ride to the church. Everything was neatly packed for the day. But Birdie’s thoughts were anything but orderly. Randall was there, casting her carefully controlled emotions into chaos. She claimed to be nervous about her dress or the ceremony or something while she pushed her mother and bridesmaids out of the room. Brides could be forgiven for tardiness. Alone, she tried to pry Randall out of her heart so that she could marry with a clean conscience. She paced and fretted. She worried and prayed. In desperation, she gathered all the letters from Randall and threw them into the trash. All the letters except the last one. Daring divine judgment, she tucked that last letter into her right hand glove and went to the church. Randall, through his last letter, accompanied her down the aisle.

Pulling into the hospital parking lot, Birdie chided herself as she pulled out the letter again. After all these years, she was still chained to this letter and the dead man who dictated it. She read it again and wept and prayed.

“Dear God, What have I done with my life? I married Frank when I loved Randall. I let Frank think I loved him – all these years! Why didn’t you protect Randall? We would have been the perfect couple. So many times I asked you to clean my heart and help me forget about Randall. Yet, here I am. I have lied to my husband for forty years. I haven’t loved him as I should have. I never had the chance to love and be loved like it was with Randall. You gave Frank and me a great family and all these years together, but it wasn’t what I wanted.”

A younger couple walked by Birdie’s car. The woman’s head rested on the man’s shoulder as they slowly walked. What did they think of her? They must have seen her crying and punctuating her prayer with jabs and grabs of the steering wheel. But, they walked on, nursing their own griefs. Crying wasn’t too unusual at hospitals. Or they just didn’t want to get involved. No one really cared about her.

Birdie stopped. Ahead she imagined a very dark path. She didn’t want to keep going that way. Did she really think the world revolved around her problems? Birdie turned to watch the couple. She wondered what news they had received. The man reached up and smoothed the woman’s hair. The woman slowed and eased her head and shoulders even closer into him. His arm gathered her shoulders and bore them up. Birdie imagined a weight sliding from the woman onto his sturdy frame. He paused to take it on and straightened his back. This woman was not alone. “What a tender man,” Birdie thought. “He reminds me of …”

Frank! Birdie bowed her head again. “Oh, God! Have I missed your blessing all these years? Let me apologize before…” She couldn’t finish. God knew what she meant. Stuffing the letter back into her purse, Birdie got out of the car and headed toward the elevator. Was she really so blind?

Frank had always provided well for his wife and their three children, Amy, Joseph, and little Johnny. Though successful, he had not buried himself in his work as an accountant. He made time for his family. He was comfortable with numbers, but not with letters and words. Birdie adapted and had learned to understand him even from a single gesture. Frank became a deacon at their little Baptist church. He didn’t just take his family and then linger in the back chatting and smoking with the other men. He actually participated in worship and serving others. Frank loved His Lord and His church. Because of Frank’s genuine faith and commitment to his family, Birdie was the quiet envy of many wives, not that they would have admitted to such a sin. Frank was a great man and a good husband and father. How had she missed that?

Birdie was late again. Brides may delay weddings, but wives cannot delay death. She considered the possibility that Frank would be gone already. Perhaps gone forever. What if she never told him? Her need to confess welled up again. He had a right to know, and she needed his forgiveness. She quickened her pace. After an elevator ride and short walks through confusing corridors, she reached Frank’s room. She stepped in and her heart stalled. The bed was missing. He was already gone. She wouldn’t get to …

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said a soft voice behind her. “Are you Mrs. Lewis?”

Birdie turned and saw a young nurse. Birdie took too long considering the proper answer. Then she stammered, “Yes, Frank is my husband. Am I too late?”

“The doctor needed one more scan before the surgery. Your husband is pretty drowsy already, but he will be back through here in just a minute.” An uncomfortable pause. “Mrs. Lewis? I helped your husband write some letters this morning. He wanted to say a few things — just in case. He wanted you to write them, but… They are over there on the stand. The last letter is for you. You should read it.”

Birdie looked at the stand and its short stack of papers. Frank had probably written to each of their children and maybe the grandchildren, a momentous feat for her quiet husband even if he had been healthy. Birdie looked down at her hand. She hadn’t grabbed a tissue from her purse. She was clasping Randall’s letter. Surprised, she shoved it back down. Then she walked to the visitor’s chair and sat on its edge. She picked up the plain, white paper. The nurse’s hand writing was crisp and efficient.

Dear Birdie,
I am so sorry. I have not told you the truth. Now, I am facing this surgery. I am lying here in the hospital waiting for you. It’s bad, what I haven’t told you. But the doctor says now is the time. This might be my last letter.
I know about Randall’s letter. I know how you have gone back to it over the years. And I know what it says — because I wrote it! Randall didn’t make it to a field hospital. But he told me you were growing fond of him. I wanted you to have a special reminder of Randall. I was young and stupid. I didn’t know what pain my deception would cause.
I didn’t know that God had other plans for me. For us. When I came home, I realized that I wanted to whisk you away and marry you. I wanted us to have kids and to grow old together. And God gave it to us. I am so blessed! Birdie, I love you, and I hope you will forgive me.

Good bye, Frank

Birdie’s eyes brimmed with tears. All these years, all those tears, and it had been Frank’s letter! If only… She scooted into the hall, though her legs didn’t obey as quickly as the young ones she still imagined. She looked left and right. Where was the nurse? Then she saw Frank. His bed was being pushed down the darker end of the hallway toward the elevator. She wouldn’t get there in time. He probably couldn’t hear her, but she chirped loudly anyway, “Frank, I’m so sorry. I do love you!”

She stood clutching the pure, white paper in her hands. The yellowed, crumpled one fell from her purse unnoticed, fluttering weakly to the ground.

Frank slowly raised a trembling arm in a slow wave that Birdie, his wife of forty-three years, understood immediately – “I forgive you, my love.”

(If you liked this, I have one more published – “Mercy?” First line: “Today, Todd would face his wife’s killer.”)

When You Cannot Walk – A Gait Trainer Faith

Gwendolyn in her gait trainer (June 2013)

Our daughter, Gwendolyn, cannot walk. She cannot even sit up on her own for very long. However, we have a device called a gait trainer to help her practice walking and strengthen her legs and torso. It has a saddle and a wide, chest belt to hold her upright. There are supports to keep her legs in line and rests for her arms. Finally it has wheels that make motion possible.

Last night I was helping her walk. I push her gait trainer along as she moves her feet and holds some of her weight. She is pretty good with her right leg, but she usually lets her left foot drag. Normally, she walks between the foyer and the kitchen, but we tried something new. We walked to her bedroom, which is down a fairly long hallway with a turn. She started giggling as we made it about halfway. She seemed to be excited about the journey. She did a good job of trying to keep her feet moving and holding up her weight. I was so proud of her that I gave her claps and kisses and cheers. Why? Because she did it all on her own? No, because she did what she could. I understand her weaknesses, and I want to help her along.

That made a Scripture come to mind: “For we do not have a high priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but One who has been tempted in all things as we are, yet without sin.” (Hebrews 4:15). Jesus, our high priest, is well-acquainted with my weaknesses. Weakness, in the original Greek, is astheneia. Helps Word Studies defines it as “an ailment that deprives someone of enjoying or accomplishing what they would like to do.” For Gwendolyn, her mitochondrial disease deprives her of mobility (among other things). Spiritually speaking, my weakness is sin, and it deprives me of the life I really want to live.

Jesus did not come to mock my weakness or to leave me in it. Instead, He came to walk me through it, with the power that He can provide. I certainly have my part to do, but, similar to Gwendolyn, my ability to walk the Christian life is severely hampered. I must have help. Thankfully, the indwelling Holy Spirit is there cheering me on: “In the same way the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words” (Romans 8:26). I may not even understand my I am struggling, but the Spirit knows exactly how to set my feet for the next step I need to take.

A gait trainer is designed so that the person using it may gradually walk on their own. Supports and restraints can be removed. The wheels can be loosened from a single direction to allow movement in all directions. However, it may also remain to allow for a degree of movement and freedom that someone like Gwendolyn might never achieve on her own. Paul saw this same dynamic at work in his faith. When God would not remove the “thorn” from his flesh, He told Paul, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.” Paul, instead of wallowing in his weakness, proclaimed: “Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me” (2 Corinthians 12:9). Paul is not boasting about sin as his weakness here, yet, I think the principle still applies. It is when I accept God’s help with my weakness that I can fully understand (and proclaim!) His powerful grace toward me.

Disease and weakness are part of our world for now. And, they are actually important factors in shaping our faith. But, for the believer in Jesus, there is an even greater hope — resurrection: “So also is the resurrection of the dead. It is sown a perishable body, it is raised an imperishable body; it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power” (I Corinthians 15:42-43). Gwendolyn and I will both be able to walk unaided in God’s presence one day!