Could it be because . . .
. . . my tonsils are so swollen I can barely swallow.
. . . I ate Kentucky Fried Chicken yesterday (original recipe) for the first time in sixteen years. I also had some of the Colonel's mashed potatoes and gravy. ughh!
. . . the Tiger's blew a one-run game in Chicago last night.
. . . speaking of baseball, Isaac's last game of the season was cancelled. Why? Well rain of course.
. . . I just spent two hours scrubbing black mold off my basement walls. Nothing beats the smell of Clorox on your hands. Mmm.
. . . I have hampers of ironing to do and my diet pill is wearing off (extra points if you can name the movie).
Well, I just popped two Motrins and happy hour is minutes away.
Relief is in sight!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Producing Pearls
Yesterday's sermon at St. Ambrose Church included reflections upon a well-known biblical parable--about the guy who searches the world to find a pearl of great value. And, when he finds it, he sells everything that he owns to buy it. The point is clear, that the Word of God is a like a valuable pearl. It may be small and is easily lost. But to look at a perfect pearl is to see great beauty of unestimatable (is that a word?) value. It's worth searching the world to find.
Rather than focus on the big and flashy, sometimes it's what's small, beautiful and hard to find that is of real value. Sometimes small, hidden things are worth much more than what we show the world. When walking down the street we notice the flashy dressers, and the showy jewelry, but a generous spirit and a joyful heart are not immediately evident. Sometimes we need to search long and hard to find them. Like Neil Young sang, "Keep me searching for a heart of gold. I am a miner for a heart of gold. And I'm getting old."
Second point of Father Tim's sermon yesterday--and yes, I was listening despite all evidence otherwise--relates to how pearls are formed. It starts as a grain of sand, an irritant, that get's inside the oyster. To protect itself from this irritant, the oyster secretes a substance that surrounds the grain of sand, and, in time, a pearl is formed. Without on obnoxious intruder, that grain of sand, there would be no pearl.
The point to reflect upon is to think about those things in our life that annoy us, but make us better in the end. As Kanye West said so eloquently, "Th-th-that that don't kill me, can only make me stronger." Sometimes the irritating action require physical activity when we'd rather rest--like cutting the grass in the summer heat, or taking the dog for a walk after dinner. Those are things I'd rather not do, but in the end make me stronger. But more than the physical, there are chores in our lives, things we do out of a sense of responsibility, that help us be better persons.
Visiting my mother in her hospital, talking to Clarisa's 95-year-old great uncle on the telephone, passing the peace to every person within ten feet of me, requires me to stretch oh so slightly. But, in the end, I'm better for extending myself. Kindness and thoughtfulness require effort. It's so much easier to remain wrapped in my own thoughts than to empathize with others, especially those in pain. Empathy sometimes requires putting yourself in the shoes of someone old and alone. It sometimes means touching a person I'm not attracted to.
If your life was always smooth, with no pain or irritants, then we'd never change or grow. We'd just keep going along as always. However, as we encounter difficulties in life, irritants that drive us crazy, we find opportunities for growth and even beauty to emerge. It's as we adapt to hardship that the best parts of our character develop. As we deal with difficulty, we create for ourselves and for other pearls of inestimatable value.
Think about that next time you lend a hand to that annoying neighbor.
Rather than focus on the big and flashy, sometimes it's what's small, beautiful and hard to find that is of real value. Sometimes small, hidden things are worth much more than what we show the world. When walking down the street we notice the flashy dressers, and the showy jewelry, but a generous spirit and a joyful heart are not immediately evident. Sometimes we need to search long and hard to find them. Like Neil Young sang, "Keep me searching for a heart of gold. I am a miner for a heart of gold. And I'm getting old."
Second point of Father Tim's sermon yesterday--and yes, I was listening despite all evidence otherwise--relates to how pearls are formed. It starts as a grain of sand, an irritant, that get's inside the oyster. To protect itself from this irritant, the oyster secretes a substance that surrounds the grain of sand, and, in time, a pearl is formed. Without on obnoxious intruder, that grain of sand, there would be no pearl.
The point to reflect upon is to think about those things in our life that annoy us, but make us better in the end. As Kanye West said so eloquently, "Th-th-that that don't kill me, can only make me stronger." Sometimes the irritating action require physical activity when we'd rather rest--like cutting the grass in the summer heat, or taking the dog for a walk after dinner. Those are things I'd rather not do, but in the end make me stronger. But more than the physical, there are chores in our lives, things we do out of a sense of responsibility, that help us be better persons.
Visiting my mother in her hospital, talking to Clarisa's 95-year-old great uncle on the telephone, passing the peace to every person within ten feet of me, requires me to stretch oh so slightly. But, in the end, I'm better for extending myself. Kindness and thoughtfulness require effort. It's so much easier to remain wrapped in my own thoughts than to empathize with others, especially those in pain. Empathy sometimes requires putting yourself in the shoes of someone old and alone. It sometimes means touching a person I'm not attracted to.
If your life was always smooth, with no pain or irritants, then we'd never change or grow. We'd just keep going along as always. However, as we encounter difficulties in life, irritants that drive us crazy, we find opportunities for growth and even beauty to emerge. It's as we adapt to hardship that the best parts of our character develop. As we deal with difficulty, we create for ourselves and for other pearls of inestimatable value.
Think about that next time you lend a hand to that annoying neighbor.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Let's Do the Time Warp Again
While I'm not much of a Rocky Horror Picture Show fan, nor did I really like the endless film loop known as Groundhog Day, the idea of reliving parts of your life over and over, until you finally get it right appeals to me. Yet at some point in your life relentless replays can become exhausting, especially if you never seem to get that aspect of your life right.
As you've grown older/wiser/more mature, what have you gotten better at. Me? I think I've become a better parent--finding that balance between discipline and encouragement is easier with practice. However, I can't seem to figure out friendships--how to open myself to relationships outside my family circle.
I'd love to hear your stories/observations about personal growth and areas where it's the same thing over and over. We have one life to live, and the more help we get along the way, the better our chances for success.
Cheers!
As you've grown older/wiser/more mature, what have you gotten better at. Me? I think I've become a better parent--finding that balance between discipline and encouragement is easier with practice. However, I can't seem to figure out friendships--how to open myself to relationships outside my family circle.
I'd love to hear your stories/observations about personal growth and areas where it's the same thing over and over. We have one life to live, and the more help we get along the way, the better our chances for success.
Cheers!
Saturday, July 9, 2011
So Says the Doctor
"It's severe arthritis," the doctor said.
We immediately were relieved, having feared a worse diagnosis.
"Look at the spinal column," the doctor explained. We studied the x-ray film closely. "The lumbar are supposed to be flush with each other, but see these raised areas between each vertebrae? That's what arthritis looks like."
It looked painful. "So what do we do?" we asked the doctor.
"Well, with medication, continued exercise and daily doses of Glucosamine, she should be able to walk normally, even run some," the doctor said reassuringly. But now I understood what I had noticed over the last few months. Long a faithful running partner, this year we walked more and ran less. Sometimes, at night, she preferred to stay downstairs rather than climb stairs. The signs of her declining physical abilities were obvious, I just overlooked them. But, earlier that morning, I feared a much worse outcome from our doctor's visit.
Shortly after waking up I found her in the kitchen where she had remained all night. She hadn't even gone to bed. When I tried to help her move, she winced in pain. Had she broken her hip? Was it a stroke? Was her life in danger?
But Carly is not yet ten years old. She suffered no apparent trauma. Yet, seemingly in one day she went from being a vibrant companion with a puppy's spirit to a cautious old dog. And I was concerned.
Carly is my first-ever dog. My parents didn't approve of pets and I carried that bias into my family as well. However, when a free Labrador Retriever puppy became available, even I succumbed to my children's pleadings. "But, if she ever starts costing me money," I warned the children, "I'll put her down in a heartbeat."
Now, almost 10 years later, I was willing to pay a veterinarian whatever it cost to make Carly comfortable. "How long do labs typically live?" I asked the vet. "Ten to twelve years," he replied.
I was astounded. "That's all? I thought dogs lived about fifteen years." "Not big dogs like labs," said the vet.
It felt like a slap in my face. In my heart I know Carly has only a few more years left in her, but the vet's words felt like a death sentence. "Yeah, if you're lucky she could reach fourteen," he added, seeing despair flash across my face. All of a sudden the ongoing conversation about getting a second dog flashed in my mind. I've joked that the same year Isaac, our youngest child, leaves for college, might be the year Carly dies. Talk about an empty nest! We should get another pet soon, BEFORE Carly passes.
I always said Clarisa needed a "pet in reserve," but honestly, hearing from the vet that Carly's demise really is imminent, put me in a panic. What would I do without my dog?
I never expected that I would become attached to an animal. And, I've inwardly chuckled at persons who express humanlike affection toward their animals. But, now that I know what it like to care about a pet, I understand those feelings.
Fortunately Carly is chowing down her meds like a champion and she's moving around now with seemingly less pain. She walked five miles today, and looks like she can do it again tomorrow.
The old girl has a few more years in her--but I'm aware now that the days are numbered and that difficult times await us as she wears down further. I hope Carly understands that her family will walk with her each and ever step until the day she passes.
Reading this I can't believe I feel this way about a dog!
We immediately were relieved, having feared a worse diagnosis.
"Look at the spinal column," the doctor explained. We studied the x-ray film closely. "The lumbar are supposed to be flush with each other, but see these raised areas between each vertebrae? That's what arthritis looks like."
It looked painful. "So what do we do?" we asked the doctor.
"Well, with medication, continued exercise and daily doses of Glucosamine, she should be able to walk normally, even run some," the doctor said reassuringly. But now I understood what I had noticed over the last few months. Long a faithful running partner, this year we walked more and ran less. Sometimes, at night, she preferred to stay downstairs rather than climb stairs. The signs of her declining physical abilities were obvious, I just overlooked them. But, earlier that morning, I feared a much worse outcome from our doctor's visit.
Shortly after waking up I found her in the kitchen where she had remained all night. She hadn't even gone to bed. When I tried to help her move, she winced in pain. Had she broken her hip? Was it a stroke? Was her life in danger?
But Carly is not yet ten years old. She suffered no apparent trauma. Yet, seemingly in one day she went from being a vibrant companion with a puppy's spirit to a cautious old dog. And I was concerned.
Carly is my first-ever dog. My parents didn't approve of pets and I carried that bias into my family as well. However, when a free Labrador Retriever puppy became available, even I succumbed to my children's pleadings. "But, if she ever starts costing me money," I warned the children, "I'll put her down in a heartbeat."
Now, almost 10 years later, I was willing to pay a veterinarian whatever it cost to make Carly comfortable. "How long do labs typically live?" I asked the vet. "Ten to twelve years," he replied.
I was astounded. "That's all? I thought dogs lived about fifteen years." "Not big dogs like labs," said the vet.
It felt like a slap in my face. In my heart I know Carly has only a few more years left in her, but the vet's words felt like a death sentence. "Yeah, if you're lucky she could reach fourteen," he added, seeing despair flash across my face. All of a sudden the ongoing conversation about getting a second dog flashed in my mind. I've joked that the same year Isaac, our youngest child, leaves for college, might be the year Carly dies. Talk about an empty nest! We should get another pet soon, BEFORE Carly passes.
I always said Clarisa needed a "pet in reserve," but honestly, hearing from the vet that Carly's demise really is imminent, put me in a panic. What would I do without my dog?
I never expected that I would become attached to an animal. And, I've inwardly chuckled at persons who express humanlike affection toward their animals. But, now that I know what it like to care about a pet, I understand those feelings.
Fortunately Carly is chowing down her meds like a champion and she's moving around now with seemingly less pain. She walked five miles today, and looks like she can do it again tomorrow.
The old girl has a few more years in her--but I'm aware now that the days are numbered and that difficult times await us as she wears down further. I hope Carly understands that her family will walk with her each and ever step until the day she passes.
Reading this I can't believe I feel this way about a dog!
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Didn't Expect to Hear That
So last week I'm visiting my mother in her nursing home and she says to me, "Kevin, can you find my underwear?"
Dumbfounded but without missing a beat I replied, "Sure Mom, what in particular are you looking for? A bra?"
She replied, "Well I know I have a whole pile of bras and panties but the aid couldn't find them. Would you please look for them?"
This is what happens when a person's world shrinks after eight months of health setbacks. In little more than a year, my mother has gone from a woman living on her own in a two-bedroom condo packed with possessions gathered over a lifetime, to a woman in a hospital bed with a few family pictures on the window sill, some clothes hanging in a closet, a few books, some jewelry, toiletries, and, well that's about it. I could fit her possessions in a medium-sized suit case. And, unfortunately, there was no underwear anywhere to be found.
At my mother's insistance I telephoned my sister. A few months ago, when my mother could no longer stay in her little apartment after falling and breaking her back, my sister moved my mother's few furniture pieces into storage and is keeping most of her clothes. She explained to me that my mother didn't need additional underwear beyond what the hospital had provided. However, we agreed, that since she was asking, she'd bring some bras and panties to the facility.
Wow. It took nearly fifty years, but that was my first-ever conversation about women's underwear with my mother. Fortunately, when I visit we talk about other things as well. Many topics are new, like how she needs to keep working in physical therapy, that her family loves her and wants to see her up and about, and that if she can't find the strength to get out of bed, we may not have her around too much longer.
While I still believe my mother can recover somewhat and live independently again, there's no guaranty I'll see anything better than this. The years have taken a mighty toll and she's tired. I don't blame her for her condition, because she has been the wronged party in many relationships--from her overly strict parents to her philandering husband, my mother has endured a life where she didn't feel celebrated or wanted. She, however, did soldier on giving unselfishly (though imperfectly) to her family and succeeded in launching four children relatively unscathed into adulthood, which is a pretty amazing feat.
I don't know how to help my mother get better. I know I can be a better son, but I talk to her more frequently now than at anytime in my adult life. I consult with my siblings as we talk about how best to support her, and we've become closer as a result. I've even spoken to medical and legal professionals for advice. However, when I'm with her, there's not much to say beyond, "I pray for you Mom." "I want you to get better." "Your grandchildren would like to see you more." "You can do it!"
And, when I'm with her I'll do whatever she asks, even if it involves looking for errant panties.
Dumbfounded but without missing a beat I replied, "Sure Mom, what in particular are you looking for? A bra?"
She replied, "Well I know I have a whole pile of bras and panties but the aid couldn't find them. Would you please look for them?"
This is what happens when a person's world shrinks after eight months of health setbacks. In little more than a year, my mother has gone from a woman living on her own in a two-bedroom condo packed with possessions gathered over a lifetime, to a woman in a hospital bed with a few family pictures on the window sill, some clothes hanging in a closet, a few books, some jewelry, toiletries, and, well that's about it. I could fit her possessions in a medium-sized suit case. And, unfortunately, there was no underwear anywhere to be found.
At my mother's insistance I telephoned my sister. A few months ago, when my mother could no longer stay in her little apartment after falling and breaking her back, my sister moved my mother's few furniture pieces into storage and is keeping most of her clothes. She explained to me that my mother didn't need additional underwear beyond what the hospital had provided. However, we agreed, that since she was asking, she'd bring some bras and panties to the facility.
Wow. It took nearly fifty years, but that was my first-ever conversation about women's underwear with my mother. Fortunately, when I visit we talk about other things as well. Many topics are new, like how she needs to keep working in physical therapy, that her family loves her and wants to see her up and about, and that if she can't find the strength to get out of bed, we may not have her around too much longer.
While I still believe my mother can recover somewhat and live independently again, there's no guaranty I'll see anything better than this. The years have taken a mighty toll and she's tired. I don't blame her for her condition, because she has been the wronged party in many relationships--from her overly strict parents to her philandering husband, my mother has endured a life where she didn't feel celebrated or wanted. She, however, did soldier on giving unselfishly (though imperfectly) to her family and succeeded in launching four children relatively unscathed into adulthood, which is a pretty amazing feat.
I don't know how to help my mother get better. I know I can be a better son, but I talk to her more frequently now than at anytime in my adult life. I consult with my siblings as we talk about how best to support her, and we've become closer as a result. I've even spoken to medical and legal professionals for advice. However, when I'm with her, there's not much to say beyond, "I pray for you Mom." "I want you to get better." "Your grandchildren would like to see you more." "You can do it!"
And, when I'm with her I'll do whatever she asks, even if it involves looking for errant panties.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Detour on the Path to the Fountain of Youth
The road to maturity is not a straight line. It zigs and zags and sometimes backtracks. Youth on the other hand is fleeting. Once it's gone, it's gone. Youth leaves strong memories that flash to the front of your mind through sights and sounds and feelings.
Baseball reminds me of my youth. So do popsicles and lazy summer days. Something about being outdoors and carefree reminds me of being young. I love summer and I love the memories of summers past.
My summer opened with a flourish this past weekend as I competed in my season's first triathlon. After my successful return to competition last year, I trained throughout the fall and winter with hopes of greater success this summer.
2011 was going to be my breakout triathlon season. Having fallen in with a few seasoned veterans who know how to train, I developed a training routine that got me faster and stronger. Also, because I turn 50 this year, this season I get to compete against older athletes. In fact, in many races this year, I'm going to be the youngest competitor in the 50 - 54 group.
My hopes for great success were dashed somewhat in January when I had my first ever operation--a bilateral hernia repair. That stopped my training for nearly two months. Then, in early April, just when I was getting back up to speed, my left shoulder became so sore, I could barely lift it.
But, I soldiered on, and continued training. Slowly I added more swimming laps, testing the shoulder. Then I started adding distance to my runs. I even took the bike out for a couple of spins. Ready or not, race season was here and it was time for me to get moving.
While competing in triathlons doesn't make me feel young, it does help me contend with aging. Training helps me keep my weight down, my joints flexible, and my spirits up. Since I have no choice but to turn 50 this year, I might as well be the strongest, fastest, meanest 50-year-old I can be. So I run, I bike, I swim, almost every day.
Youth is so attractive, which is why finding the fountain of youth is a never ending quest. While adventurers and explorers no longer drudge through malarial swamps in search of the fountain, hordes of middle aged strivers flock to physicians hoping to find a pill an injection or an operation that will give back at least the appearance of youth.
On the other hand, old age can be repellant. As my mother's health continues to decline, I'm amazed at how uninviting are her nursing homes. Unlike my son's school that is filled with youth and virtually throbs with energy, my mother's nursing home feels cold and lethargic. Though smiling staff give a welcoming appearance, the residents are hunched, unsmiling and lifeless. I want to leave the minute I get there.
So in my quest to remain lively, if not exactly youthful, I've found triathlon training the right tonic for me. As I push myself I'm engaged, alert and alive. It's the best I can do right now.
After Sunday's race, I was satisfied with my results. Considering that I lost almost eight weeks of training this year while recovering from major surgery and injury, to finish 8th of 30 in my age group was not a bad result. My goal is still a top five finish sometime this summer, and I have several races ahead for me to achieve that goal.
Being young is easy. In the world's eyes, you are appealing simply because of your youth. As you get older, however, the world turns its gaze away ever so slightly as each day passes. By the time you're my age, you are interesting only if you've achieved something or can do something for others. As you connect with the world, to stay relevant you must give more and expect less in return. Just at the time when you have more to offer because of your wisdom and experience, the world looks to younger faces for fresh ideas and creative energy. I can't control that.
But I can shave some seconds off my quarter mile splits. I can improve my swimming stroke. And I can get a decent racing bike, finally! And I can crack the top five. Don't worry, you'll be the first to hear it. Haha.
Baseball reminds me of my youth. So do popsicles and lazy summer days. Something about being outdoors and carefree reminds me of being young. I love summer and I love the memories of summers past.
My summer opened with a flourish this past weekend as I competed in my season's first triathlon. After my successful return to competition last year, I trained throughout the fall and winter with hopes of greater success this summer.
2011 was going to be my breakout triathlon season. Having fallen in with a few seasoned veterans who know how to train, I developed a training routine that got me faster and stronger. Also, because I turn 50 this year, this season I get to compete against older athletes. In fact, in many races this year, I'm going to be the youngest competitor in the 50 - 54 group.
My hopes for great success were dashed somewhat in January when I had my first ever operation--a bilateral hernia repair. That stopped my training for nearly two months. Then, in early April, just when I was getting back up to speed, my left shoulder became so sore, I could barely lift it.
But, I soldiered on, and continued training. Slowly I added more swimming laps, testing the shoulder. Then I started adding distance to my runs. I even took the bike out for a couple of spins. Ready or not, race season was here and it was time for me to get moving.
While competing in triathlons doesn't make me feel young, it does help me contend with aging. Training helps me keep my weight down, my joints flexible, and my spirits up. Since I have no choice but to turn 50 this year, I might as well be the strongest, fastest, meanest 50-year-old I can be. So I run, I bike, I swim, almost every day.
Youth is so attractive, which is why finding the fountain of youth is a never ending quest. While adventurers and explorers no longer drudge through malarial swamps in search of the fountain, hordes of middle aged strivers flock to physicians hoping to find a pill an injection or an operation that will give back at least the appearance of youth.
On the other hand, old age can be repellant. As my mother's health continues to decline, I'm amazed at how uninviting are her nursing homes. Unlike my son's school that is filled with youth and virtually throbs with energy, my mother's nursing home feels cold and lethargic. Though smiling staff give a welcoming appearance, the residents are hunched, unsmiling and lifeless. I want to leave the minute I get there.
So in my quest to remain lively, if not exactly youthful, I've found triathlon training the right tonic for me. As I push myself I'm engaged, alert and alive. It's the best I can do right now.
After Sunday's race, I was satisfied with my results. Considering that I lost almost eight weeks of training this year while recovering from major surgery and injury, to finish 8th of 30 in my age group was not a bad result. My goal is still a top five finish sometime this summer, and I have several races ahead for me to achieve that goal.
Being young is easy. In the world's eyes, you are appealing simply because of your youth. As you get older, however, the world turns its gaze away ever so slightly as each day passes. By the time you're my age, you are interesting only if you've achieved something or can do something for others. As you connect with the world, to stay relevant you must give more and expect less in return. Just at the time when you have more to offer because of your wisdom and experience, the world looks to younger faces for fresh ideas and creative energy. I can't control that.
But I can shave some seconds off my quarter mile splits. I can improve my swimming stroke. And I can get a decent racing bike, finally! And I can crack the top five. Don't worry, you'll be the first to hear it. Haha.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The Power of Penance
King Nebuchadnezzar felt miserable when he should have been overjoyed. As the King of Babylon and head of an empire that dominated the known world he was certainly the richest and most powerful man in the world.
Yet, his sleep was troubled by dreams. Dreams that gnawed at his insides and invaded his waking hours. On top of the world yet during the darkest hours he saw brokenness and devastation.
"What do these dreams mean?" the King asked his trusted advisor Daniel. Daniel hesitated--because he loved the King and hated delivering bad news. "I wish this dream belonged to your enemy, not to you," he said.
"Tell me anyway," the King demanded. "Well," said Daniel, "you have not honored God for your accomplishments, therefore, all this will be taken away from you. Beg God for mercy and maybe this fate will pass."
The story jumps from Daniel's plea to a day in the future when Nebuchadnezzar was on top of his palace, surveying his magnicent city and empire. "What great works I have done," he said to himself with a satisfied smile. Clearly he had never begged God for mercy--and perhaps the dreams ceased to trouble him. In any event neither the dreams nor Daniel's pleas made a lasting impression.
At that moment, the King hears the voice of God who says, "Because you have not honored me, I am taking this all away from you."
The story then shifts to a first person narrative. Nebuchadnezzar speaks directly to the readers and tells of his ordeal--how at that moment he lost his mind and lived like a wild beast. However, after a year, he turned his face to heaven and as quickly as it was taken away, everything was returned to him: his sanity, his position and his wealth.
Apparently that singular act of looking to God was all the King needed to do to show the creator of the universe that he was truly humbled. At that moment he knew in his heart that the splendor of his life came as a result of God's favor, not simply because of the King's merit.
Sin is disobeying God either in the things we do, or the things we fail to do. In Nebuchadnezzar's case, his sin was one of omission, not one of commission. He had not committed any particularly evil act, on the contrary, Nebuchadnezzar's rule was reknowned for its wisdom, tolerance and mercy. No, the King's sin involved a failure to act. In his pride he refused to honor the true power behind his throne, the Lord God Jehovah. And, for failing to acknowledge God, the King was humbled.
Many of us consider ourselves "good" because we don't do a lot of "bad" things. We don't beat children. We don't post pictures of ourselves in our underwear on the internet. And we don't steal from the elderly (though wrong change we consider a "gift").
But how many acts of goodness do we do simply to honor God. Do we praise him for a beautiful day. When breaks seem to fall our way to we congratulate ourselves for our good fortune?
The lesson from the Scriptures is that humans are supposed to praise God not just when the mood strikes, or when we need something, but because from deep down in our hearts praises seem to well up, almost without conscious thought. Until we reach that place--where the love of God is something we feel without any special prompt or reason, we may find ourselves in Nebuchadnezzar's shoes. God's favor is not something we earn. It's not something we can manipulate. God's favor comes when our spirit finds union with the Creator. And sometimes achieving that union, if it comes at all, requires a long sojourn in the wilderness.
May we all find that place of union and harmony with God, without encountering too much pain and suffering first!
Yet, his sleep was troubled by dreams. Dreams that gnawed at his insides and invaded his waking hours. On top of the world yet during the darkest hours he saw brokenness and devastation.
"What do these dreams mean?" the King asked his trusted advisor Daniel. Daniel hesitated--because he loved the King and hated delivering bad news. "I wish this dream belonged to your enemy, not to you," he said.
"Tell me anyway," the King demanded. "Well," said Daniel, "you have not honored God for your accomplishments, therefore, all this will be taken away from you. Beg God for mercy and maybe this fate will pass."
The story jumps from Daniel's plea to a day in the future when Nebuchadnezzar was on top of his palace, surveying his magnicent city and empire. "What great works I have done," he said to himself with a satisfied smile. Clearly he had never begged God for mercy--and perhaps the dreams ceased to trouble him. In any event neither the dreams nor Daniel's pleas made a lasting impression.
At that moment, the King hears the voice of God who says, "Because you have not honored me, I am taking this all away from you."
The story then shifts to a first person narrative. Nebuchadnezzar speaks directly to the readers and tells of his ordeal--how at that moment he lost his mind and lived like a wild beast. However, after a year, he turned his face to heaven and as quickly as it was taken away, everything was returned to him: his sanity, his position and his wealth.
Apparently that singular act of looking to God was all the King needed to do to show the creator of the universe that he was truly humbled. At that moment he knew in his heart that the splendor of his life came as a result of God's favor, not simply because of the King's merit.
Sin is disobeying God either in the things we do, or the things we fail to do. In Nebuchadnezzar's case, his sin was one of omission, not one of commission. He had not committed any particularly evil act, on the contrary, Nebuchadnezzar's rule was reknowned for its wisdom, tolerance and mercy. No, the King's sin involved a failure to act. In his pride he refused to honor the true power behind his throne, the Lord God Jehovah. And, for failing to acknowledge God, the King was humbled.
Many of us consider ourselves "good" because we don't do a lot of "bad" things. We don't beat children. We don't post pictures of ourselves in our underwear on the internet. And we don't steal from the elderly (though wrong change we consider a "gift").
But how many acts of goodness do we do simply to honor God. Do we praise him for a beautiful day. When breaks seem to fall our way to we congratulate ourselves for our good fortune?
The lesson from the Scriptures is that humans are supposed to praise God not just when the mood strikes, or when we need something, but because from deep down in our hearts praises seem to well up, almost without conscious thought. Until we reach that place--where the love of God is something we feel without any special prompt or reason, we may find ourselves in Nebuchadnezzar's shoes. God's favor is not something we earn. It's not something we can manipulate. God's favor comes when our spirit finds union with the Creator. And sometimes achieving that union, if it comes at all, requires a long sojourn in the wilderness.
May we all find that place of union and harmony with God, without encountering too much pain and suffering first!
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