​The first of a five part series running through this week.

Keith has mown a path for me, as safe as a path can be for someone with my eyesight, so I can walk Chloe, our Australian cattle dog, at least one lap every day with the trekking poles for balance and stability.  Elliptical machines are great for low impact aerobics, but you don’t get any fresh air and the scenery never changes.  With this path I get the best of both.  Let me take you for a stroll, beginning with the east side.

            When I come out and slip on my walking shoes, Chloe, always waiting expectantly under the porch, bounces out and sits impatiently on the steps, her ears tall and her eyes never leaving me.  “Just a minute,” I tell her, and she seems to have grown to recognize those sounds.  She knows I will indeed be outside shortly, but I wonder if her doggy brain wonders about people having to put on their feet before they come outside.  Sometimes she cannot abide the wait, especially if I have to do more than put on my shoes—like spot Keith as he lifts weights on the other end of the porch—so she gives just a tiny little whine, so anxious she shimmies across the boards on her rear end. 

As soon as I open the door she is halfway through it.  We cannot go anywhere or do anything until she gets a pat on the head.  Then I say, “Let’s go walk,” and she heads toward the morning sun peeking through the woods to the east, dappling the ground where we walk.  Often she has to stop and wait for me to catch up, but as soon as I round that first corner she is off again, inspecting every mound of dirt, every dew-heavy hanging shrub, every disturbed pile of leaves at the fence bottom.

Occasionally she will stop and stare through the fence to the property on the other side, heavily wooded, vines snaking up and through the oaks, pines, maples, and wild cherries.  Just over the fence lies the run.  We thought it was a creek when we first moved here, a shallow one but water always sat in the bottom, slowly draining to the south.  Then we went through the drought of the nineties and learned differently.  It’s a run.  Whenever rain comes through, the land on all sides of us for at least a half mile in every direction, runs into that narrow, deep channel and heads for the swamp a mile to the south.  After a typical summer afternoon downpour the water will rush loudly, white water at the bends and at every drop, carrying with it leaves and limbs shed by the overhanging branches. 

You do not realize how powerful water moving downhill can be until you see the aftermath.  We came out one morning to find the trash can washed up against the south fence, the run itself clear of all debris, and the pigs in the southeastern pigpen a pinky white they hadn’t been since they were born.  Only a small circle in the center of their backs remained black and muddy.  Good thing they managed to find a high spot so they could get their noses up out of the draining water that had rushed over the banks of the run, gushing through the fence and cutting across the southeast corner of the property.  We had no idea the water could rise that high.

The power of water is a constant theme in the Bible.  We completely misunderstand 1 Pet 3:20,21, especially when we read the newer translations that make water not something that saves, but something to be saved from.  Leave your new version a moment and look at the old ASV translation:   …the longsuffering of God waited in the days of Noah, while the ark was a preparing, wherein few, that is, eight souls, were saved through water: which also after a true likeness doth now save you, even baptism…  The waters of the flood saved Noah by bringing him and his family safely out of a world of sin, into a new world, one that was washed pure and clean.  Baptism does the same for us.  It saves us from the world of sin we live in, raising us to a new life free from sin—a chance to start over, this time with help from above.  It also washes away the detritus of our old lives, if we let it, if we are willing to let go of the baggage and surrender all to the Lord.

Water had saved the Israelites in a similar way.  They were “baptized” in the cloud and in the sea, walls of water on the side, a roof of vapor overhead. And then with a whoosh of water, God destroyed their enemies and set them in a new world, one where He and they were to enjoy a covenant relationship, 1 Cor 10:1ff.

Amos uses water to symbolize the power found in justice and righteousness.  Israel thought that multiplying sacrifices and feasts and other religious observances was all that mattered.  God would be pleased, especially if the prescribed rites were even more elaborate than commanded.  Then their lives during the rest of the week wouldn’t count against them.  The prophet told them differently, “Let justice roll down like water and righteousness like a mighty stream,” 5:24.

That is just a small sample of the passages using water as a symbol.  Spend some time today, as I did on my walk with Chloe, meditating on the simplest drink known to man.
 
Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust, and will not be afraid; for Jehovah, even Jehovah, is my strength and song; and he is become my salvation. Therefore with joy shall ye draw water out of the wells of salvation. And in that day shall ye say, Give thanks unto Jehovah…Isa 12:2-4
 
Dene Ward

Until we got Chloe, we had always practiced what pet owners know as “self-feeding.”  You fill up the feed pan and a few days later, when you notice that it is finally empty, you fill it up again.  Magdi always just ate what she needed to eat and no more, like most animals do.  In spite of the fact that she was an athlete who worked off an incredible number of calories every day, she was never tempted to overeat.
            Then came Chloe.  We kept up with the “self-feeding” once she started eating adult food because we wanted to make sure she got enough.  Magdi had a tendency to claim the feed pan as hers and guard it whether she was eating or not.  But we should have realized when we stood over Chloe and looked down that she was getting plenty to eat.  Instead of a straight line from her shoulders to her hind quarters, there was a significant bulge on each side.  When we took her to the vet, the doctor strongly recommended a low calorie diet.  Self-feeding does not work with Miss Piggy dining in the doghouse.
            In just a couple of weeks of measured daily feeding she slimmed down. She was much more active, running with Magdi across the fields as they played, and tearing up the ground to greet Keith at the gate when he came home.  She even leapt into the air chasing a bee a few weeks afterward and managed to get all four feet off the ground a foot or more.  We no longer have a piglet with a cold wet black nose and a wagging tail.
            God practices a sort of spiritual self-feeding.  His word is available to us any time we want it.  He has given us elders, wise leaders who see to our more formal spiritual meals, and who take that responsibility seriously.  But we can reach into the “pantry” any time we want and snack to our hearts’ content.  In fact, the shame is that instead of looking pleasantly plump in a spiritual sense, too many of us look like we have been on a fast.  When I have labored over a meal for several hours and hardly anyone comes to the dinner table, and those few just pick at their meals, I get a little miffed.  Don’t you suppose God does, too?
            Now, more than any other time in history, and here, more than any other place in the world, we can study the Bible any time we want to.  Where is our appreciation of the providence of God?  Where is our hunger for the meat of the word?  Have we filled ourselves up with the empty calories of pop culture and the simple carbs of modern philosophy to the point that we have no room for real food? 
            Take a moment today to examine what you are taking into your spirit, what you are filling your soul with, and determine to make a change in your spiritual diet.  Jesus called himself the Bread of Life.  Aren’t we interested in that life at all?
 
Our fathers ate the manna in the wilderness, as it is written, He gave them bread out of Heaven to eat.  Jesus therefore said unto them, Amen and amen, I say unto you, It was not Moses who gave you bread out of Heaven, but my Father gives you the true bread out of Heaven.  For the bread of God is that which comes down out of Heaven, and gives life to the world.  They said therefore to him, Lord, evermore give us this bread.  Jesus said unto them, I am the bread of Life; he who comes to me shall not hunger, and he who believes on me shall never thirst, John 6:31-35.
 
Dene Ward

Today's post is by guest writer, Keith Ward.

During Dene’s major eye surgeries (2005-2008), I realized she would not be able to stand much light, reading would be limited and TV boring.  I had just read an article about attracting birds, so I built a 4’ long trough between 2 boards (total width one foot) on posts just a foot from the window by her recliner.  The birds began coming: counting those passing through, we have fed over 30 different kinds of birds (she has a category of devotionals on the sidebar, “Birds & Animals”).  It is not unusual to count 20+ cardinals at once around 5pm—“the cardinal hour”.  Suddenly they are all gone!  We see a couple of doves, a catbird or two, maybe, and a cardinal in a whole day.  No titmice, no wrens, no chickadees.  This has never happened before.  Of course, with spring we get some travelers, the dozens of sparrows migrate away and “our” (generations have been hatched here) cardinals come less frequently, but never such a total absence of birds.  No, there have been no signs of predators or predation. 

But this made me think a bit, I think the Bible calls it meditation, all the beautiful things we have are evidences of God’s grace and love.  We live in a world of sin and have become so accustomed to it that we do not comprehend its ugliness.  One man did.

Jesus, holy one of God who left purity and wonder beyond imagination to walk through a cesspool for over 30 years said more about hell than all the rest of the Bible.  These are the descriptions of punishments that make us begin to understand how awful sin must appear to God (and what a sacrifice it was for Jesus to even live as a man).  They are contradictory and exorbitant because they are figures of speech to convey the inexpressible.  “Unquenchable fire,” “Outer darkness,” “their worm dieth not.” At a loss for words to convey the horror more clearly, Jesus said that it would be better to tear out your own eyeball than to go there.  God is just.  These describe the wrath of God that Jesus saved us from.  God is just and such a destiny is the fair end for those who sin.  We had best distance ourselves from sin.

But, in this life, brambles, thorns, sickness, cancer, are all the results of God’s curse on the world for Adam’s sin and “because all sinned” (Rom 5:12).  Should we consider the “exceeding sinfulness of sin” we would wonder why there are any flowers, beautiful birds, colors, music, tastes, beauties anywhere.  A sin cursed world should be bleak, ugly-only and nasty. 

But, God gives us birdsong, flowers and fragrances, sounds and tastes that delight the senses, scenery that awes the soul.  Why?  He loves us.  These are signs of his grace to reveal his character.  “And so, because we have sinned, there is ugliness, but because God is good, there is beauty and wonder.
 
If God can leave such grace and wonder in our sin cursed world, truly, “How Beautiful Heaven Must Be.” When God so loved that he gave his only begotten son, can you imagine what it must be like to be where that love is, and is forever? 
 
Therefore, as through one man sin entered into the world, and death through sin; and so death passed unto all men, for that all sinned…But not as the trespass, so also is the free gift. For if by the trespass of the one the many died, much more did the grace of God, and the gift by the grace of the one man, Jesus Christ, abound unto the many (Rom 5:12,15).

Keith Ward

Recently Keith’s sister came to visit and we took her to the Butterfly Rainforest at the Museum of Natural History at the University of Florida.  We have lived here since before the exhibit even opened and never managed to get there.  When we went in, we saw what we have been missing.
            In the first place you cannot go inside with anything that cannot be closed properly, which means I had to leave my purse behind—it has a snap across the top, but is not sealed with a zipper.  Then you enter one door and cannot open the second until the first door has closed.  When you leave, you go through the same process—through one door, wait, close the door, then through the second door—but with an added precaution:  you check each other over for hitchhikers.  The butterflies will land on you, especially, it seemed from our experience that day, if you have on bright colors or large floral prints.  They will also land on your bare head and arms.  You must walk the paths carefully so as not to trod upon one that has landed there.  You sit on benches only after inspecting them.  But mainly, you just look and look and look, up and over and around.  They are everywhere.
            The colors and patterns are breathtaking.  Scarlet and black, Halloween orange and black, an intricate black and white that looks for all the world like a tatted doily; olive and black, chartreuse and black, emerald green and aqua; pale blue, royal blue, teal and blue violet; solid brown, spotted brown, banded brown, and a brown design that looks like it belongs on the walls of ancient Aztec ruins—and that’s not the half of it.
          Many of these beauties were brought from other places as pupae, and as they hatch are let go every day while the visitors watch.  It was a wonderful couple of hours.  And after I got home I started wondering if there were any butterflies in the Bible.  Well, yes, in a way.
          First of all I found that back in the early days, the butterfly symbolized the resurrection of Jesus and later the resurrection of his saints.  That makes a certain amount of sense.  The caterpillar spins its pupa, which hangs there looking dead for a couple of weeks.  Then suddenly the adult emerges, alive again, or so it appears.
         But it seems to me that the better Biblical image comes from Romans 12:2:    Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.  Just as the caterpillar is transformed into something completely different, we should be too.  I am, in the words of 2 Cor 5:17, “a new creature.”  Those butterflies were beautiful, but when we walked the exhibits in the halls outside their “rainforest,” the pupa on display there were mottled gray-brown and just plain ugly.
          I looked up that word “transformed” and guess what the Greek word is?  Metamorphoo.  I would be surprised if you haven’t heard that in a sermon sometime in your life, but maybe you have never really thought about the change that insect makes from worm to butterfly.  Looking at those beautiful things that morning, and then seeing those ugly pupae hanging by the score really brought the message home to me.  I am not just to change a little bit; I am to change drastically.  That may be difficult for you to comprehend if you were “brought up in the church” as we are prone to say, and have never really done any “big bad sins” as we tend to define them.  Yet it is my obligation to find the things that need changing. 
          I may not read pornography, but I might become insensitive to the sin around me, especially when our culture deems it “appropriate” for television.  I may not steal, but my selfishness can rob others of any time or service they might need from me.  I may not commit idolatry, but I can become so celebrity-conscious that what those people say, do and wear becomes my model instead of Christ.  I may not murder, but I commit character assassination every time I call, text, or post unkind words about another.
          Those butterflies we saw that day were almost too pretty for this sin-sick, ugly world.  That’s what people should be thinking about us.  We are not like the world, and we don’t like the world.  There is a better place coming, a “Butterfly Rainforest” for all those who have transformed their lives to be like their Lord.  Don’t land on the coat of a passerby and allow yourself to be removed from that hope.
 
…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
 

Possums, or more properly “opossums,” can be a nuisance.  They rummage in the garbage, they poke about in the shed, and they ramble into the garden destroying perfectly good melons with a bite or two out of each one.  That is one reason we have dogs, and Magdi, our first Australian cattle dog, did better than any other at solving the problem  For awhile we had to bury one every day; she must have come across some sort of Possumopolis out in the woods.
            One morning Keith found yet another as he was leaving for work, but he was so late he had no time to properly dispose of it.  It was my turn to do the honors.  I have come a long way in 32 years of country life, but I still won’t pick up a dead thing, even with big thick gloves.  So I got the shovel.
            I am glad my neighbors are not close.  I stuck the shovel edge down by the possum and pushed, assuming it would just slide under the offensive creature so I could carry it out to the woods and let nature do the disposal work.  Instead, the shovel just pushed the possum along.  I tried again, and again, and again.   Every time I pushed, the possum moved farther and I wound up following it in a circle around the field.  This possum might as well have been alive it was making such a merry chase.
            Meanwhile Magdi stood to the side.  She looked at me like I was nuts, but she also looked at me like she would really like to have her possum back.  Occasionally she lunged at the possum as I made the circle yet again passing her on the right.  So there I was pushing a dead possum in a circle around the yard with a shovel, while yelling at the dog at regular intervals, like some sort of bizarre ritualistic dance. 
            I stopped, winded and frustrated, and found myself next to the oak tree across the driveway from the well.  The answer struck me, if only I had the energy left.  I pushed the shovel again.  Again it pushed the possum, this time right against the tree and the tree held it there for me as the shovel slid beneath it.  Success! 
            I lifted the shovel--and the possum rolled right off of it.  Somehow I kept from screaming.  Okay, I told myself.  You have learned something.  Possums are heavy and you have to hold the shovel handle tightly so it won’t tip.  I tried again, pushing the possum up against the tree and lifting the shovel, this time ready for the shifting weight.  Now I just had to get it to the woods.  It was a several hundred yard trip, and that possum at the end of the shovel got heavier and heavier. 
            About halfway there I knew I was not going to make it, so rather than let the thing drop in a clearing where there were no trees to push against, I carefully lowered the shovel to the ground.  As much as I hated to, I had to move my hand farther down the handle, closer to the possum so the weight would be easier to manage.  I did, and it was easier, so much easier I could even walk faster without being in danger of losing the possum.
            I was already dressed for Bible class and did not want to traipse into the woods among the briars and brush, so I carefully pulled back on the shovel and slung with all my might. The possum slid off the shovel about five feet into the brush, not much further than the length of the shovel handle.  By then, I was ready to call that a great success, and left it.
            As shocking as it might sound, that is the way we treat God sometimes.  Instead of rushing into His safe and loving embrace, we keep Him at arm’s length.  Like a teenager who is too embarrassed to act like he loves his parents, we are too embarrassed to let our love for God show to those around us.  We don’t want to look too weird, too strange, too “fanatical.” 
            Early Christians were known for their good works.  In fact, that is how they often gave themselves away to their persecutors.  They looked and acted so differently from everyone else.  No one else was kind and forgiving, even when mistreated.  Would our godly behavior give us away under similar circumstances, or would it lump us in with the crowd because our religion has not “contaminated” our lives?
            Even among ourselves we don’t want to say things that might make people look at us askance.  It’s like the old joke where the new convert sits in the pews saying, “Amen,” and “Praise God,” only to have some older member take him aside and say, “Son, we don’t praise God here.”
            God wants us close to Him.  Think about that for a moment.  Our awesome all-powerful Creator wants a relationship with us.  He made an incomprehensible sacrifice to make it possible.  Maybe we need to be shocked with this analogy, so we will wake up.  When we keep Him at arm’s length like something disgusting, we are treating God like a dead possum.
 
Wherefore also He is able to save to the uttermost them that draw near unto God through Him, seeing He ever lives to make intercession for them…Draw near to God and He will draw near to you,  Heb 7:25; James 4:8a.
 
Dene Ward

The other morning I headed for the bluebird houses to give them a good cleaning out.  "Before nesting season," I wanted to add, but it was early March already, and as I made my way to the farthest house, a daddy bluebird flitted out and sat on the fence before I could get there.  I put on the brakes immediately.  He was doing his job of trying to distract something he thought of as a predator away from the nest.  Yes, I was indeed too late, and had suspected so already.  Late January would have been much better. 

I headed for the next bluebird house a little more slowly and quietly.  Nothing flew out as I approached, so I carefully unlatched and opened the door and saw what appeared to be a brand new nest, waiting for the Mama and her eggs.  Another too little, too late moment for me.  The third house was the only one we could actually clean an old nest out of, and make ready for a new avian family.  Next year I will do better!

I have watched birds parenting their babies for fifteen years now and it always amazes me.  I have seen cardinals bring their young to the feeder to show them where to eat.  I have seen a mockingbird do the same as that first bluebird I mentioned, flying away from the nest in hopes of distracting me from the eggs, and later the nestlings.  I have seen a hawk teach her babies how to hunt, bringing them back to the nest in the evening with whatever prey they have found, a good week of lessons before the young hawk finally flew away to fend on its own.  I have seen a mama wren teaching her little ones to fly, watching them carefully as they flitted barely a foot off the ground, moving with them around the house until they could finally lift themselves high enough to safety.

All of those small feathered parents have succeeded in their tasks.  The babies eat and grow, learn and practice, and ultimately leave behind an "empty nest" to begin their own lives, to have their own babies, and do the same teaching all over again.

I wonder about some human parents.  Some of us forget that the point of teaching is to work our way out of a job.  If your children still need you to tell them how to behave, how to take care of their personal hygiene, how to handle money, how to get along with others, how to obey the laws of the land and stay out of trouble, when they are approaching thirty, what in the world did you do all those years when you had them as a "captive audience?"  If they cannot leave the nest and survive in the world, something went dreadfully wrong.

Some parents are too sheltering.  It is one thing to hide the ugliness of the world from a little one, it is another to allow a teenager to think everyone is a friend and can be trusted implicitly, even the stranger on the street corner.  If, as I did, you live mainly among your brethren, your children will more than likely be taken advantage of one way or the other because they have not learned that not everyone out there has good intentions.  It's up to you to warn them.

Some parents want so badly to be their child's "friend" that they do not act like the parents they truly need, teaching them responsibility and a good work ethic.  So we continually pick up after them and wait on them like they are royalty, granting every wish their heart desires.  Meanwhile, they never learn how to take care of themselves and, in fact, as adults they do not, wreaking havoc on their physical health, their economic reputations, and their ability to work for a living.  One reason we chose to live in the country is that the chores were not make-work.  Helping their father cut wood, stack it so it would be preserved, and carry it to the wood stove in the house, kept us warm on cold, winter days.  They knew their work mattered.  Do you know how those Bible characters did so well as children?  People in those times raised their children to be responsible over serious matters from the time they could walk.  They were expected to be adults, having families and providing for them by their mid-teens because they were trained to be able to do that by then.  (No. I am not advocating teen marriages.)  We mollycoddle them, then wonder why they are still so immature at 16 and 17!  Meanwhile, we expect them to be able to commit their lives to God at 12, when our culture does not prepare them for such a thing.  That does not mean a particular set of parents can't do it, but how many of those twelve year olds still have to be nagged into doing their Bible lessons and refuse to turn off the video games to do so?  They have no clue what lifetime commitment and devotion mean at all.

Some parents shield their children from the consequences of their mistakes.  We want to "fix" everything for them if we can, but at some point, we need to stop that.  They will grow up thinking they will always get out of the messes they make of their lives unscathed.  Far better to let them suffer a tiny bit on something that may seem earth-shattering at the age of 8 and learn the lesson then, than to let them learn it as they sit across the table from a probation officer, or worse, in a prison cell.  At that point, it may even be impossible for them to learn.

And some parents seem to think that their children should never leave the nest at all.  Oh, they might have their own apartments or even houses, but it had better be close by and we had better see them several times a week!  And many children love it.  They are so used to Mom doing their laundry and cooking their meals they wouldn't want it any other way.  That "empty nest" that so many are afraid of is perfectly normal.  That's why it is so important to keep your marriage strong—one of these days, God meant that it would just be the two of you again, as it was for your parents when you left the nest. 

If we were all birds, I can't help but wonder how many of our children would survive.  How many would never learn to fly and wind up easy pickings for the neighbor's cat, or out here in the country, the coyotes, foxes, bobcats, and snakes?  How many would starve because they never learned how to provide for themselves?  And how long before all birds ceased to exist because all the babies stayed in the nest without forming normal healthy relationships with anyone except Mom and Dad?

I used to tell my piano students that my job was to help them reach the point that they no longer needed me.  That's a hard thing for a parent to even contemplate, but all things being equal, one day we will be gone long before they are.  What will happen to your little birds then?
 
Yea, the stork in the heavens knows her appointed times; and the turtle-dove and the swallow and the crane observe the time of their coming; but my people know not the law of Jehovah, Jer 8:7                                                          
 
Dene Ward

Keith says I have a personality disorder—I think my name is Francis and I was born in Assisi.  Can I help it if the hawk insisted on having a conversation with me this morning?
            I haven’t been out for awhile due to one thing and another, but he must remember me from all the times I went out while he was a baby and spoke to him up in his nest.  So whenever I am outside and he is anywhere nearby, he gives me a shout, and I say hello. 
            I had my trekking poles so I could give Chloe a little bit of exercise.  She is a bit like her mistress, prone to gaining weight at the slightest sniff of food, forget about actually eating it, and she needed a walk.  After our first greeting across the fence from one another, the hawk flew behind me and caught up, still staying in the trees on the other side of the boundary, but a little closer this time.
            I told him he should come on over.  If he wanted to stay safe, we had plenty of trees, plenty of food—he should have known that anyway.  His parents had sat on the tomato fence in our garden, diving for mice, squirrels, rabbits, and other goodies that they took to him for supper every night.  I kept walking and again he flew to catch up, but once again landed on the other side of the fence.
            When we reached the point where the path cut inward to the center of our property, I told him it was time for him to make his decision.  “Come on,” I told him.  “You’ve been here before.  You grew up here.  You know it’s a good place and a safe place.  If you stay over there, who is going to look after you?”
            I waited a minute then turned and headed down the path toward the drive.  His wings flapped behind me like a big rug flapping on a clothesline in the wind.  I turned, only to see he was headed away, deeper into the woods. 
            I suspect I will still hear from him once in awhile and even see him again.  At least until that time when something nabs him and he stops showing up.  It’s a pity.  He would last longer if he stayed close by, but now some neighbor may shoot him just for fun, or he may stray into some other hawk’s territory and lose the fight for it.  That’s what happens when you turn your back because all you can see is restrictions instead of safety, and when all you want to see of the other side of the fence is freedom instead of danger.  Sooner or later, one way or the other, it will be too late to come back.
 
In the fear of Jehovah is strong confidence; and his children shall have a place of refuge. The fear of Jehovah is a fountain of life, that one may depart from the snares of death. Prv 14:26,27.
 
Dene Ward

If you have been with me for awhile,  you will realize that this is an old one.  Chloe turned 14 this past weekend, and her days are obviously numbered, but we can still learn a lesson or two from her.

We have a new puppy.  Chloe is an Australian cattle dog, a companion for our 6 year old Australian.  They are great dogs, playful, loyal, and smart—too smart sometimes for their owners’ good! 
            Magdalene, our older dog, seems to enjoy the little one, even though she did have to growlingly remind her yesterday that her tail was NOT a chew toy.  They both walk with me now, Chloe struggling with her short legs and puppy-plump tummy to keep up, and we look like a parade as we make our morning laps.  Magdi has developed some arthritis in her hips so they sit out after the first two rounds, but Chloe still had excess energy this morning.  She wanted to be with Magdi, but wanted to run too, so she compromised by running circles around the patient older dog, by turns prancing and ripping back and forth, turning on a dime, as that breed is capable of doing, and yipping playfully.  I thought, as I rounded my last bend and came upon this scene that no matter what the scientists tell me about dogs not having emotions, if she did not have it, Chloe was managing a very good impression of pure, unadulterated joy.
            First century Christians had that feeling in spades.  I did a study on joy recently.  Do you know what surprised me?  Not a single time does the New Testament say their joy was caused by the physical things in this life—not their health, their wealth, their careers, their homes, not even the weather—is listed as a cause for their joy at all.  If it’s in there, I missed it.
            What caused their joy?  Hearing the gospel, Acts 13:42; being baptized, 8:39; having a hope, Rom 12:12; being counted worthy to suffer dishonor for Christ, Acts 5:41; being afflicted, 2 Cor 7:4; being persecuted and having their possessions confiscated, Heb 10:32-34; being put to grief through trials, 1 Pet 1:6-9; becoming partakers of the suffering of Christ, 1 Pet 4:12-16—whoa, now!  What’s going on here?  Are these a bunch of masochists or what?
            The problem is that we confuse joy with happiness.  Hap-piness comes because of things that hap-pen, as does un-hap-piness.  Joy is an overriding foundation for how we live our lives.  I may experience moments of unhappiness, but as long as I do not let them overcome my life of joy, I am able to survive with that joy intact.  I may lose my belongings, lose a loved one, contract a serious illness, even face death, and still not lose my joy. 
          All those things that caused joy in the early Christians are based upon having a Savior who has gone through every type of problem I ever will have (Heb 4:15), and more than that, gave up an incomprehensible position (Phil 2:6,7), and separated himself from the Father for the first time in all Eternity (Matt 27:46), all so I could have salvation.  Anything I have to face in this life, no matter how dire, is petty compared to that.  That is why I should only experience moments of grief.  To make a “career” of sadness is to devalue everything He went through for me.  Nothing I have to face is worse than He faced so that I might some day be in a place where joy will reach its full potential.
            Maybe, as Thoreau said in Walden, “the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” but not Christians.  We lead lives of joyful anticipation.
 
Beloved, do not think it strange concerning the fiery trial among you, which comes upon you to prove you, as though a strange thing happened to you; but insomuch as you are partakers of Christ’s sufferings, rejoice, that at the revelation of his glory also you may rejoice with exceeding joy.   1 Peter 4:12,13
 
Dene Ward