Flight Paths

It happened most when we went to visit my Great Aunt, the one I only saw every couple of years.  The visit was always an adventure.  She lived in downtown Atlanta in an old stone apartment building on the corner of one of those ubiquitous Peachtree Streets.  We usually drove up and down and around for at least a half hour, my parents asking one another, "Was it Peachtree St or Peachtree Rd or Peachtree Ave or Peachtree Blvd?  Was it West or North or Northwest?"  Somehow we always found it, and had to parallel park on the busy street, remembering to crawl across the red and white houndstooth seats of our big old white Mercury hardtop to the sidewalk side.

              Her apartment was the first one on the first floor, first door on the right.  But when you stepped out of the hall into it, you thought you had stepped through a magic door into another world.  How could this much space be behind that door in that narrow hall? 

              It was dark—dark paneling, dark hardwood floors, and only dim lamplight in each room.  Only the tiny dining room enjoyed sunlight from a thinly curtained window, while the living room window was hung with heavy, dark, velvet draperies. 

               I had never seen such furniture—old, Victorian, satin and flocked velvet brocade, and yes, more dark wood, carefully carved, and sinuously curved across the back and arms.  The lamps boasted intricately detailed brass posts with frosted glass shades surrounded by hanging cut glass pendants.

              We ate Sunday dinner with her once, on a beautiful ivory linen tablecloth, the hem embroidered with ecru, and used the first cloth napkins I had ever seen.  I don't remember if I embarrassed my mother by asking what they were or not. 

                The meal was different too.  First, it was, in a word, late, especially for children.  Even though she did not go to church like we did, she still did not have the meal prepared when we arrived at 1:00.  About 3:00 we finally sat down to something pale and sauced that I scarcely remember, except for the greenest peas I had ever seen in my life.  I probably asked my mother who had dyed them like Easter eggs.

              I may have forgotten most of the food, but I remember the dishes.  The china was small, translucent white, and decorated with real gold paint, and the table was covered with serving pieces that I had never seen before and still do not know the use for.  Each adult place setting included a small matching ash tray because in those days everyone, except my parents it seemed, smoked.  I must have made over those dishes quite a bit because she left them to me—including the ash trays.
             
               She always greeted me with, "My how you've grown!"  I suppose I had if it had been two years, and it usually was.  I think it is a perfectly normal thing to say to a child now that I am an adult, but as a child I felt like rolling my eyes—though I knew better than to be so disrespectful if I hoped to be able sit down in the car when we left.

             We say that to children because children grow so quickly.  Paul calls us babes when we first become Christians.  Shouldn't we be growing fast enough spiritually to warrant that comment from others?  In fact, shouldn't we always, not just as beginners, be growing?  Shouldn't I be able to say to you, "My how you've grown in the Word!"  And shouldn't you be able to say to me, "My how your attitude, your outlook, or your perspective has grown?"

              Or are we still ignorant of the Bible, and shackled with the same old baggage and weaknesses?  We may have a besetting sin that always gives us trouble, but shouldn't we be overcoming more now?  If not, then maybe it's because we are satisfied with where we are since, "That's just how I am."  The problem is, you cannot stay where you are.  If you are not growing, you are dying.

              Wouldn't you just love to hear the Lord say to you, "My how you've grown"?  Let's encourage one another this week to keep on growing.  Let's compliment the changes and let those who hear those compliments take them as they should—a sign of their own growth and evidence of a family member who loves them, even an old maiden aunt who only sees you every other year.
 
…speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ, (Eph 4:15)
 
Dene Ward

Crepe myrtles are the super-plant of Florida summers.  Despite the heat, they bloom and seem to thrive, while everything else wilts and often dies.  The garden is over by the first of July, and the flower bed is far past its prime, but those crepe myrtles just keep on going, looking better than ever.  And it's all because of Andre Michaux.
 
             Michaux was not an aristocrat.  Born on March 8, 1746, he was the son of a French farmer who lived in the shadow of Versailles.  He was educated, as most Frenchmen were at the time, in the classics.  At 14, his father took him and his brother out of school to learn agriculture, a respected career at the time, and he soon showed a great affinity for making practically anything grow.

              When his wife of eleven months, Cecile Claye, died a few days after childbirth in 1770, he was devastated.  As we say these days, she was his soulmate, and he never married again.  In fact, the area surrounding him became unbearable with sad memories.  He soon came to the attention of Louis XVI's physician, who persuaded him to study botany.  Before long he became the Royal botanist and was sent on missions to find new trees and plants, specifically to revitalize stripped French forests, and leaving his new son with his grandparents, was happy to get away.  After that his life reads like an adventure novel, with treks to all parts of Asia, Africa, and the wilderness of North America, riding for miles on horseback, canoeing down uncharted rivers, and once being kidnapped by hostile tribes. 

              And here is where we find Andre and the crepe myrtle.  Originally from China it was first taken to England.  No one was impressed.  England was too cold a climate, even in the summer, for it to bloom.  So in 1786, Michaux brought it to the American South instead.  "Voila!" Michaux might have said in his native French.  This plant loved the heat, the humidity, and any type of soil you stuck it in.  He is also credited with introducing the mimosa and the camellia here in the South.

              So thanks to Andre Michaux, we had been looking for crepe myrtles for a while, the bush variety, not the trees.  Nathan and Brooke gave us some shoots that had come up around theirs and we gratefully planted them, and kept on looking for those bushes.  I am still not sure there is actually a difference in the plant, as one article I read said, or if it is all about how it is pruned, but after five or six years we still hadn’t found what we wanted, and that fall noticed the seed pods on our transplants.  We looked at each other and said, “Well, I’ve never heard of doing it before, but why not plant those seeds in some nursery pots?”

              We did, and guess what?  In spite of the fact that we had never heard of doing it before, they grew!  This past spring we transplanted 8 one foot high crepe myrtles from that nursery pot experiment, all of which are blooming just fine in the Florida summer.             

              Haven’t you heard it?  Someone comes up with an idea for spreading the gospel—one that is not beyond the bounds of God’s authority—but someone else pipes up, “I never heard of doing that before,” and expects that to be the end of the discussion.  In fact it often is, especially when prefaced by “Why, I’ve been a Christian for forty years...”  I wonder how many things would never have been done if everyone had that notion? 

              And the king made from the algum wood supports for the house of the LORD and for the king's house, lyres also and harps for the singers. There never was seen the like of them before in the land of Judah, 2 Chronicles 9:11

              The throne had six steps, and at the back of the throne was a calf's head, and on each side of the seat were armrests and two lions standing beside the armrests, while twelve lions stood there, one on each end of a step on the six steps. The like of it was never made in any kingdom, 1Kgs 10:20.

              And because of all your abominations I will do with you what I have never yet done, and the like of which I will never do again. Ezekiel 5:9.

              He has confirmed his words, which he spoke against us and against our rulers who ruled us, by bringing upon us a great calamity. For under the whole heaven there has not been done anything like what has been done against Jerusalem, Daniel 9:12.

              God didn’t seem to have any trouble accepting Solomon’s unique adornments for his throne and for the Temple.  He wasn’t above using punishments the like of which no one had ever seen before.  He certainly didn’t mind confounding the world by sacrificing His Son for our sins.  Aren’t you glad?

              We might be in bad company if “I’ve never heard of doing that before” becomes the source of authority for our actions. 

              As they were going away, behold, a demon-oppressed man who was mute was brought to him. And when the demon had been cast out, the mute man spoke. And the crowds marveled, saying, "Never was anything like this seen in Israel." But the Pharisees said, "He casts out demons by the prince of demons," Matthew 9:32-34.

              Jesus didn’t fit their preconceived notions so they accused Him of consorting with the Devil.  I’ve heard Christians come close when someone suggested something new to reach the lost, especially if it cost any money. 

              God tells us every word and action should be by His authority, not by whether we’ve heard of it or not.  I wouldn’t have any crepe myrtles if we had followed that dictum—and none of us would have a hope of salvation.
 
For from of old men have not heard, nor perceived by the ear, neither hath the eye seen a God besides thee, who works for him that waits for him, Isaiah 64:4.
 
Dene Ward

It happens every time Keith and I walk the property.  Suddenly I find myself pushed into the rough while he walks the path.  I learned a long time ago to just push back and he immediately realizes what he is doing.

              Keith was raised in the Ozarks, born in a farmhouse in the back country, down a rocky lane and across from a cow field lined with wild blackberries, a steep hill rising straight from the back porch.  As a boy he walked the woods, his feet naturally finding the easy way among all the stones, limbs, and golf ball sized black walnut hulls and acorns as he gazed upward into the trees.  If he doesn’t actively think about what he is doing, his feet still do that from long ingrained habit.  He’s always embarrassed and aggravated with himself when he realizes what he’s done to me, and he appreciates the nudges when I find myself knee high in briars. 

              Life is a little like that.  Most of us live everyday muddling through as best we can, oblivious to anything but our own cares, our own needs, trying to make things run as smoothly as possible.  What makes “a bad day” for us?  When things don’t go smoothly—a malfunctioning coffee pot, a stubborn zipper, a flat tire on the way to work, a traffic jam that makes us late when we had left in plenty of time, a spouse or toddler who had the ill grace to wake up in as foul a temper as we did. 

              It takes active thought to control your selfish impulses and consider others.  It takes effort to accomplish the difficult—self-control, self-improvement, compassion for people who, like us, don’t deserve it.  But that’s exactly what our Lord expects of us.  This is exactly the example he left us.

              Even under a weight of responsibility none of us can imagine, he gave his disciples his careful attention and encouragement.  Even in tension-filled situations he showed compassion to both the sick and the sinner.  Even in tremendous pain and weakness, he remembered his mother and forgave the pawns of a murderous mob.

              If Jesus had looked for the smooth way, none of us would ever have hope of one.  But if all we look for now is the smooth way, we may as well enjoy it while we can.  It’s the only smooth way we will ever have.
 
Enter in by the narrow gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leads to destruction, and many are they that enter in thereby. For narrow is the gate, and straitened the way, that leads unto life, and few are they that find it. Matt 7:13,14.
 
Dene Ward
 

Several years ago, a prominent female politician angered many American women when she answered a reporter about her choice of career over homemaking by saying, “Well I suppose I could have stayed home and baked cookies.”  Most of us read a sneer in her tone and, as I remember it, her office was inundated with homemade cookies baked and sent by outraged homemakers.
 
             One of the things I decided to do as a homemaker was to keep a cookie jar filled with homemade cookies, and for the most part I have.  Chewy oatmeal raisin, spicy gingersnaps, crumbly peanut butter, sparkly snickerdoodles, decadent triple chocolate, wonderful almond crunch cookies that always surprise people and steal the show, and all those variations of the All-American chocolate chip:  Toll House, Neimann Marcus, peanut butter chocolate chip, double chocolate chip, oatmeal chocolate chip, and death by chocolate chocolate chip.  My boys would come home from their friends’ houses talking about how deprived they were—all they had were Oreos.

               My younger son Nathan was especially fond of cookies.  As a toddler, he would pull up a chair to stand in so he could “help” me make cookies—help that usually involved tasting the dough to make sure it was good, and then “cleaning” the beaters.  When he was in high school, I bought him a shirt that said, Life’s Greatest Questions:  Who Am I?  Where Did I Come From?  Why Am I Here?  WHERE ARE THE COOKIES? 

              Eventually that chubby, tow-headed, blue-eyed cherub became a long, lean man who went off to college.  The first time he came home he brought a friend with him.  He immediately led the buddy to the counter where the cookie jar always sat.  “See?  I told you there would be cookies.”  Until he married I would bake cookies and save a dozen each week in a freezer bag until I had 4 or 5 kinds, then mail them to him and start all over.  This was one serious cookie connoisseur.  I am not sure what else made an impression on him, but I know he will remember that I loved him enough to make cookies for him.

               I am reminded of David after his small army defeated the Amalekites.  Not all of his men were as righteous as he.  Several “wicked men and base fellows” did not want to share the spoils with the men who had stayed at camp, guarding their belongings.  David said, You shall not do so, my brothers, with that which Jehovah has given us…the share of him who goes down to the battle shall be the same as he who tarried by the baggage; they shall share alike, and it was from that day forward a statute and ordinance in Israel.  1 Sam 30:23-25.  David understood the value of those who did the behind-the-scenes work, the jobs others considered less important, and which seldom received glory or recognition. 

              Think about Dorcas.  Stephen, the deacon and great preacher, had been killed not long before. James the apostle, a cousin of Jesus himself, would be next.  But who did Peter raise from the dead?  Not the powerful speakers who performed miracles, but a widow who made clothes for the poor, Acts 9:36-42.  Surely God was saying that what we consider small and unimportant tasks are actually some of the greatest of all.

               Never underestimate the importance of “baking cookies.”
 
For whosoever shall give you a cup of water to drink because you are Christ’s, truly I say to you, he shall not lose his reward, Mark 9:41.
 
Dene Ward

I still have fond memories of Silas’s first solo visit with us out here in the country.  He was not quite four and stayed three nights alone, no mom and dad to get in the way and spoil the fun!  The first morning we had to assure him that walking outside barefoot was not a capital crime, but once his toes hit the cool green grass, he giggled delightedly.  “I like bare feet!” he instantly proclaimed, and took off running. 
 
             He was used to being inside all day, playing with his Matchbox cars, putting together puzzles, reading books, and watching his “shows,” educational though they might be.  Yet he found out there were a lot of fun things to do outside, especially when you have five acres to romp around in instead of a postage stamp-sized yard.  That’s all they give you in the city these days. 

              He and Granddad whacked the enemy weeds with green limb “swords.”  They pulled the garden cart up the rise to the carport and rode it down.  They dug roads in the sandy driveway and flew paper airplanes in the yard.  They played in the hose and threw mud balls at one another.  Every night this little guy went to bed far earlier than he usually did at home—it was that or pass out on the couch from exhaustion as we read Bible stories.

              My favorite memory is watching him as we walked Chloe every morning.  He begged for one of my walking sticks and I adjusted it to his height.  Then he ran on ahead, hopping and skipping along, holding granddad’s too-big red baseball cap on his head with one hand so it wouldn’t fall off, the walking stick dangling from the other upraised arm, singing and laughing as he went.  That picture of sheer joy will forever be etched in my memory.  He may have been too little to remember it himself, but someday I will tell him about it, someday when he needs a reminder of joy at a not so joyous time. 

              I remember that time nearly every morning when I walk Chloe, especially when we reach the back fence where Silas’s little feet suddenly took off on the straightaway and his laughter reached its peak.  And I wonder if God has anything etched in His memory, anything from that time in Eden when everything was perfect and his two children felt joy every day in their surroundings, in each other, and in Him.  Surely, the God who knows all has special memories of how it used to be.  Can you read the end of Revelation and not think so? 

              Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. No longer will there be anything accursed, but the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and his servants will worship him. They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. And night will be no more. They will need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever, Revelation 22:1-5.

              Maybe God has recorded that so we, too, can be reminded not of what we have lost, but of what we have waiting for us.  Maybe He put it there for the times when life here is not so joyous, a picture of hope to carry us through.  It may not be etched in our memories—not yet—but the fact that He still remembers it and wants it, means someday we won’t have to count on etchings any longer.  Some day it will all be real once again.
 
Dene Ward

Keith was in the kitchen, cleaning up dinner dishes so I could begin my Bible lesson study.
 
             "Did I clean off the table?" he called from that room.

              "I think so."

              He went on with his work, dishes rattling in the sink, while I bent over my Bible and the workbook I had written for the class.  Before long I heard the water gurgling down the drain.

              Then he walked through the dining area, just a few feet away, stopped suddenly and said, "No I did NOT wipe off the table."

              "Oh," I muttered.  "Looked clean to me."

              He let out a laugh. "Yep, and it sounded good to me."

              If you know both of us well, you know what a ridiculous conversation this was.  He is 90% deaf and I am chasing his numbers in the blind department.  I would never ask him how something sounded, and he ought to have known better than to ask me how something looked.

              Now, think a minute.  Who do you approach with Bible questions?  Do they know what they are talking about?  Do they live what they are talking about?  Do they have a vested interest in you believing something a certain way?  Are they interested in saving your soul or in telling you what they know you want to hear?  Do they even like you very much?  Add to this list—I am sure there are more questions you need to be thinking about as you evaluate their answers.

              If you want to know what a passage of scripture means, don't go to a man who is so blinded by his own beliefs that he does things you can see with your own eyes are not scriptural.

              If you want the truth, don't go to a man who will only hear what he already believes and never question it.

              "Consider the source" has real meaning when your soul is at stake, and far worse consequences than a crumby dinner table.
 
Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life, (John 6:68)
 
Dene Ward

We sit on the carport most spring mornings with a last cup of coffee, looking for the first sign of spring green in the trees, patting Chloe on the head, and planning our day.  This morning a light breeze ruffled my hair and I shrugged my shoulders against the bit of chill left from the last cold front that had blown through earlier in the week.  A light tinkle made my eyes wander up to the new wind chimes hanging above my head, not your ordinary bong-y wind chimes, but a delicate, more musical note that had gotten my attention the first time I heard them.
 
             I have a friend, a sister in Christ, who crafts these things herself from antique flatware and keys, glass jar lids, beads, and anything else she can find as she wanders through flea markets and small dusty shops.  Mine has all these beauties hanging from an antique silver salt cellar, something I must explain to anyone younger than 60.  All of her creations are beautiful and unique, and mine has that particularly melodious sound that made me choose it from its fellows.

              Outward beauty does not determine the sound that a wind chime produces.  It can only make the sounds that its various elements make.  You won’t get the same sound from iron bars that you will from silver and glass.  Ever do the trick with your glassware, pinging an empty one to see if it’s truly crystal or just ordinary glass?  That’s the way it is with wind chimes, and that’s the way it is with you and me.  A stony heart will not produce the same fruit as a soft one.  An iron heart will not act the same way a heart of gold will.

              You also know this:  the harder the wind blows, the louder the chimes.  When it seems like the storms of life blow us about the most, those are the times that what we are becomes most obvious.  Those are the times that people see what we’re made of.  Even if they don’t really care about the faith you may have tried to share, it becomes so obvious they cannot miss it.  The wind blows where it will, and you hear the voice thereof, but know not from where it comes, or where it goes; so is every one that is born of the Spirit, John 3:8.  People will not see the Spirit within you personally, but they will see its effects on you.  You cannot disguise whether or not you are filled with the Spirit of God.

              If you would like one of these beautiful chimes, just get in touch and I will share my friend’s contact information.  But today think about this far more important thing—you are God’s wind chimes.  People will not be satisfied with your appearance.  The point of the chimes is the sound they make.  What sound does the Wind produce in you?
 
And they that are in the flesh cannot please God. But you are not in the flesh but in the Spirit, if so be that the Spirit of God dwells in you. But if any man has not the Spirit of Christ, he is none of his. And if Christ is in you, the body is dead because of sin; but the spirit is life because of righteousness. But if the Spirit of him that raised up Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he that raised up Christ Jesus from the dead shall give life also to your mortal bodies through his Spirit that dwells in you, Rom 8:8-11.
 
Dene Ward

“I enjoyed my dinner.”  Did your parents teach you to say that to the hostess every time you went to another home for a meal?  Mine did, and I am sure that the hostess knew that’s why I said it.  Some things are done just to be polite, like asking, “How are you?”  Everyone knows it is a greeting not a question to be answered.  It’s semantics, and part of our culture.

             But there are other times when the compliment is sincere.  Keith learned early on when someone was saying, “Good lesson,” to be polite, and when it was really meant, and the latter were precious to him.

              If we can know these things, why do we think God won’t?  Why do we think we can go through the motions without going through the e-motions? 

              There they cry out, but he does not answer, because of the pride of evil men. Surely God does not hear an empty cry, nor does the Almighty regard it, Job 35:12-13.  If the only time God hears from me is when I cannot fend for myself, why would He come to my aid then?  If I expect help, I must offer something myself—like love, devotion, worship, and obedience.  That’s why it is called a covenant—both parties agree to give something.

              They utter mere words; with empty oaths they make covenants, Hos 10:4.  Undoubtedly, the covenant Israel made with God fit this condemnation.  Instead of loving God “with all their hearts,” they did what they thought necessary to get along with Him, imagining that outward rituals mattered more than sincere hearts.  It has never been so with God, and never will be.

              You cannot give God ritual obedience and think you have offered sincere worship.  You cannot follow the Law to the letter and leave undone its “weightier matters” Matt 23:23.  Israel tried it and God said, “I hate, I despise your feasts, and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies.  Even though you offer me your burnt offerings and grain offerings, I will not accept them…” Amos 5:21,22.  Jesus echoed that comment when he said, “Go and learn what this means—I desire mercy and not sacrifice…” Matt 9:13.

              God has always required sincerity and truth; He has always wanted those who “obey from the heart” Rom 6:17.  He has always sought a people who will be His in more than name only.  God knows when, “I enjoyed my dinner,” comes from a thankful heart and when it is just a courtesy. 

              When you pray tonight, will He recognize your words as sincere compliments, or just more formulaic nonsense meant only to salve a hypocritical conscience?”  He knows the difference.
 
This day the Lord your God commands you to do these statutes and rules.  You shall therefore be careful to do them with all your heart and with all your soul, Deut 26:16.
 
Dene Ward

Chloe is afraid of everything and everyone.  The meter reader, the FedEx man, every repairman we have ever had, every visitor, and every family member, except my older son, all scare her to death.  I have often wondered if we actually had cattle, whether this Australian Cattle Dog would be afraid of them, too.

             What did all these people do to Chloe?  Nothing.  They simply exist in her world.  So when the grandchildren come visit, she is extra terrified.  After all, little boys are not still, quiet creatures.  Not only are they in her world, they are in it loudly and rambunctiously.  We will often tell her when our older son is on his way.  She knows his name and when she hears, "Lucas is coming," she runs to the edge of the carport, faces the gate, and waits until he arrives, joyously running up to greet him.  She does not know our grandchildren's names.  She thinks they are little monsters, though they are not at all.  They are actually sweet little guys, but to her "monsters" is the name.

              But there is one thing about this scaredy-dog:  when we tell her they are coming "tomorrow," it doesn't bother her a bit.  She still sits between us at the morning fire, relishing a head pat, a belly rub, and a tossed treat.  The thought of the monsters coming doesn't keep her from enjoying today.

              We need to be more like that.  Jesus told us that in almost those exact terms.  Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble [monsters]. Matt 6:34.  Handle today's problems today.  Let tomorrow take care of itself.

              Easier said than done, I know, but consider just two short things in the same passage.  First, worry shows a lack of faith (v 30).  God has promised to care for his people.  He has promised to hear our prayers.  He has promised he will never forsake us.  No, he has not promised to fix everything exactly how we want it, nor has he promised we will never have trials and difficulties in life.  But what he has promised will be far more help than worry ever could be.  Trust him to help you and be with you through it all, and the monsters will be easier to bear.

              Second, only pagans should worry (v 32).  Any time we fail to trust God and become so anxious that we can no longer even function, we are showing ourselves NOT to be children of God, but children of the Devil.  For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. Matt 6:32.  Unbelievers have a father who doesn't care about them.  You have a Father who gave His Son to save you.  What would He NOT give you if you are faithful to Him?

              Remember Chloe's lesson for you this morning.  Take care of today.  There are head pats and belly rubs and treats to be had—don't ruin them by worrying about the monsters of tomorrow.
 
Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.  Phil 4:6
 
Dene Ward

In the winter sparrows invade my yard, swarming the feeders like ants.  It is nothing unusual for 15 or so to cover the trough by the window, while half a dozen more sit in the azaleas waiting for an opening.  Meanwhile, thirty to forty hop along the ground, flitting back and forth to the smaller hanging feeders, which sway from the impetus of their continual take-offs.  After several frosts the brown and black grass successfully camouflages their drab brown and gray feathers.  I can only tell they are there because frosted off grass doesn’t ordinarily move, but that grass literally writhes.
 
             Brown and gray—drab colors compared to the brilliant red cardinals, the bright yellow goldfinches, the contrasting red and yellow bars on the blackbird’s wing.  Even the brown of the Carolina wren is comparatively bright, and the stark contrasts of the zebra-striped black and white warbler perched pecking at the suet cage draws your eye far sooner than the mousy little sparrow.

              But someday you should sit at my window when one of them lands on the trough not six inches from your nose.  Up close the intricate patterns on their wings suddenly turn those drab colors into a source of wonder and delight.  Like delicate lace, the brown and gray sections, outlined by white and spotted with black, will keep your attention for a half hour or more as you struggle to discern the pattern God has placed in their tiny feathers.  No artist could have created anything so exquisite, especially using those colors.

              And what about you?  God can take your drab colors and create a creature far beyond your imagination.  He can take a miserable life and give it purpose, a sorrowful spirit and make it joyous, a selfish heart and tenderize it with compassion.  He can take a soul overwhelmed by the darkness of sin and make it bright with the reflection of its Savior.

              There is nothing drab about the life of a Christian.  God can make even the most ordinary person extraordinary.  We have no need for garish colors, for manmade ornament, or the laurels of worldly praise.  We know who we are—new creatures, “created in Christ Jesus for good works,” each of us beautiful in His glory.  If all you see are drab colors, you just haven’t gotten close enough.
 
…Put off your old self, which belongs to your former manner of life and is corrupt through deceitful desires, and…be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and…put on the new self, created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness, Eph 4:22-24.
 
Dene Ward