by Max Lucado
“You were right,” they said. “You proved you were right. The dozen horses were not a blessing. They were a curse. Your only son has broken his legs, and now in your old age you have no one to help you. Now you are poorer than ever.”
The old man spoke again. “You people are obsessed with judging. Don’t go so far. Say only that my son broke his legs. Who knows if it is a blessing or a curse? No one knows. We only have a fragment. Life comes in fragments.”
It so happened that a few weeks later the country engaged in war against a neighboring country. All the young men of the village were required to join the army. Only the son of the old man was excluded, because he was injured. Once again the people gathered around the old man, crying and screaming because their sons had been taken. There was little chance that they would return. The enemy was strong, and the war would be a losing struggle. They would never see their sons again.
“You were right, old man,” they wept. “God knows you were right. This proves it. Your son’s accident was a blessing. His legs may be broken, but at least he is with you. Our sons are gone forever.”
The old man spoke again. “It is impossible to talk with you. You always draw conclusions. No one knows. Say only this: your sons had to go to war, and mine did not. No one knows if it is a blessing or a curse. No one is wise enough to know. Only God knows.”
The old man was right. We only have a fragment. Life’s mishaps and horrors are only a page out of a grand book. We must be slow about drawing conclusions. We must reserve judgment on life’s storms until we know the whole story.
I don’t know where the woodcutter learned his patience. Perhaps from another woodcutter in Galilee. For it was the Carpenter who said it best: “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.”3
He should know. He is the Guide on our journey and the Author of our story. And he has already charted the course and written the final chapter.
chapter nineteen
Chronicle What Christ Has Done
And we all . . . are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory.
—2 CORINTHIANS 3:18
Welcome to the “Begin Again Museum of Art.” A gallery of people who found a fresh start. A ward of restored hope. A forest of renewed dreams.
An exhibition of second chances.
Wouldn’t it be incredible to visit a real one? Wouldn’t it be great to walk through such a collection? What if you could see portrayal after portrayal of God meeting people at their greatest points of need and helping them begin again? Not just biblical characters, but contemporary folks just like you? People from your generation and your world!
And what if this gallery contained not only their stories but yours and mine as well? What if there was a place where we could display our “before the beginning” and “after the beginning” experiences? Well, there might be one. I have an idea for such a gallery. It may sound far-fetched, but it’s worth sharing.
Before I do, we need to discuss one final question. A crucial question. The Bible contains one story after another of God leading people out of their desperate situations. Tell me, why are these stories in the Bible? Why are the Gospels full of such people? Such hopeless people? Though their situations vary, their conditions don’t. They are trapped. Estranged. Rejected. They have nowhere to turn. On their lips a desperate prayer. In their hearts desolate dreams. Before their eyes a dead end.
Again I ask. Why are these portraits in the Bible? Why does this gallery exist? Why did God leave us one tale after another of hopes restored and dreams renewed? So we could be grateful for the past? So we could look back with amazement at what Jesus did?
No. No. No. A thousand times no. The purpose of these stories is not to tell us what Jesus did. Their purpose is to tell us what Jesus does.
“Everything that was written in the past was written to teach us,” Paul penned. “The Scriptures give us patience and encouragement so that we can have hope” (Rom. 15:4 NCV).
These are not just Sunday school stories. Not romantic fables. Not somewhere-over-the-rainbow illusions. They are historic moments in which a real God met real pain so we could answer the question, “Where is God when I hurt?”
How does God react to dashed hopes? Read the story of Jairus. How does the Father feel about those who are ill? Stand with him at the pool of Bethesda. Do you long for God to speak to your shattered dreams? Then listen as he speaks to the Emmaus-bound disciples. What is God’s word for the shameful? Watch as his finger draws in the dirt of the Jerusalem courtyard.
He’s not doing it just for them. He’s doing it for me. He’s doing it for you.
Which takes us to an empty wall in the gallery—a place reserved for your portraits. One day you will have finished your journey. Now imagine you pick up the brush. Stand in front of the canvases that bear your name and draw your portraits.
It doesn’t have to be on a canvas with paint. It could be on paper with a pencil, on a computer with words, in a sculpture with clay, in a song with lyrics. It doesn’t matter how you do it, but I urge you to do it. Record your drama. Retell your saga. Revisit your journey.
Begin with “before” your new beginning. What was it like then? Do you remember? Could be decades ago. Perhaps it was yesterday. Maybe you knew Jesus then. Maybe you’d never met him. Again, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you never forget what life was like before you began again.
Remembering can hurt. Parts of our past are not pleasant to revisit. But the recollection is necessary. “Look at what you were when God called you,” Paul instructed (1 Cor. 1:26 NCV). We, the adopted, can’t forget what life was like as orphans. We, the liberated, should revisit the prison. We, the found, can’t forget the despair of being lost.
Amnesia fosters arrogance. We can’t afford to forget. We need to remember.
And we need to share our story. Not with everyone but with someone. There is someone who is like you were. And he or she needs to know that God can help him begin again and meet her needs along the journey. Your honest portrayal of your past may inspire the courage for another’s future.
But don’t just portray the past; depict the present. Describe his touch. Display the difference he has made in your life. This task has its challenges too. Whereas painting the “before” can be painful, painting the “present” can be unclear. He’s not finished with you yet!
So chronicle what Christ has done. If he has brought peace, sketch a dove. If joy, splash a rainbow on a wall. If courage, sing a song about mountain movers. And when you’re finished, don’t hide it. Put it where you can see it. Put it where you can be reminded daily of the Father’s tender power.
And when we all get home, we’ll make a gallery.
That’s my idea. I know it’s crazy, but what if when we all get home, we make a gallery? I don’t know if they allow this kind of stuff in heaven. But something tells me the Father won’t mind. After all, there’s plenty of space and lots of time.
And what an icebreaker! What a way to make friends! Can you envision it? There’s Jonah with a life-size whale. Moses is standing in front of a blazing bush. David is giving slingshot lessons. Gideon is letting people touch the fleece—the fleece, and Abraham is describing a painting entitled The Night with a Thousand Stars.
You can sit with Zacchaeus in his tree. A young boy shows you a basket of five loaves and two fishes. Martha welcomes you into her kitchen. The centurion invites you to touch the cross.
Martin Luther is there with the book of Romans. Susanna Wesley tells how she prayed for her sons—Charles and John. Dwight Moody tells of the day he left the shoe store to preach. And John Newton volunteers to sing “Amazing Grace” with an angelic backup.
Some are famous, most are not . . . but all are heroes. A soldier lets you sit in a foxhole modeled after the one he was in when he met Christ. A housewife shows you her tear-stained New Testament. Beside a Nigerian is the missionary who taught him. And behind a Brazilian is a drawing of the river in w
hich he was baptized.
And somewhere in the midst of this arena of hope is a narrative of your journey. Person after person comes. They listen as if they have all the time in the world. (And they do!) They treat you as if you are royalty. (For you are!) Solomon asks you questions. Job compliments your stamina. Joshua lauds your courage. And when they all applaud, you applaud too. For in heaven everyone knows that all praise goes to one Source.
Please remember, the goal of these stories is not to help us look back with amazement but forward with faith. The God who spoke still speaks. The God who forgave still forgives. The God who came still comes. He comes into our world. He comes into your world. He comes to do what you can’t. He comes to help you begin again—to have a second chance in becoming more and more like him as you are changed into his glorious image.
chapter twenty
Listen for the Song of the Whip-poor-will
No one has ever imagined what God has prepared for those who love him.
—1 CORINTHIANS 2:9 NCV
There dwells inside you, deep within, a tiny whip-poor-will. Listen. You will hear him sing. His aria mourns the dusk. His solo signals the dawn.
It is the song of the whip-poor-will.
He will not be silent until the sun is seen.
We forget he is there, so easy is he to ignore. Other animals of the heart are larger, noisier, more demanding, more imposing.
But none is so constant.
Other creatures of the soul are more quickly fed. More simply satisfied. We feed the lion that growls for power. We stroke the tiger that demands affection. We bridle the stallion that bucks control.
But what do we do with the whip-poor-will that yearns for eternity?
For that is his song. That is his task. Out of the gray he sings a golden song. Perched in time he chirps a timeless verse. Peering through pain’s shroud, he sees a painless place. Of that place he sings.
And though we try to ignore him, we cannot. His song is ours. Our heart song won’t be silenced until we see the dawn.
“God has planted eternity in the hearts of men” (Eccl. 3:11 TLB), says the wise man. But it doesn’t take a wise person to know that people long for more than earth. When we see pain, we yearn. When we see hunger, we question why. Senseless deaths. Endless tears. Needless loss. Where do they come from? Where will they lead?
Isn’t there more to life than death?
And so sings the whip-poor-will.
We try to quiet this terrible, tiny voice. Like a parent hushing a child, we place a finger over puckered lips and request silence. I’m too busy now to talk. I’m too busy to think. I’m too busy to question.
And so we busy ourselves with the task of staying busy.
But occasionally we hear his song. And occasionally we let the song whisper to us that there is something more. There must be something more.
And as long as we hear the song, we are comforted. As long as we are discontent, we will search. As long as we know there is a far-off country, we will have hope.
The only ultimate disaster that can befall us, I have come to realize, is to feel ourselves to be at home on earth. As long as we are aliens, we cannot forget our true homeland.1
Unhappiness on earth cultivates a hunger for heaven. By gracing us with a deep dissatisfaction, God holds our attention. The only tragedy, then, is to be satisfied prematurely. To settle for earth. To be content in a strange land. To intermarry with the Babylonians and forget Jerusalem.
We are not happy here because we are not at home here because we are “like foreigners and strangers in this world” (1 Peter 2:11 NCV).
Take a fish and place him on the beach.2 Watch his gills gasp and scales dry. Is he happy? No! How do you make him happy? Do you cover him with a mountain of cash? Do you get him a beach chair and sunglasses? Do you bring him a Playfish magazine and martini? Do you wardrobe him in double-breasted fins and people-skinned shoes?
Of course not. Then how do you make him happy? You put him back in his element. You put him back in the water. He will never be happy on the beach, simply because he was not made for the beach.
And you will never be completely happy on earth, simply because you were not made for earth. Oh, you will have moments of joy. You will catch glimpses of light. You will know moments or even days of peace. But they simply do not compare with the happiness that lies ahead.
Thou hast made us for thyself and our hearts are restless until they rest in thee.3
Rest on this earth is a false rest. Beware of those who urge you to find happiness here; you won’t find it. Guard against the false physicians who promise that joy is only a diet away, a marriage away, a job away, or a transfer away. The prophet denounced people like this: “They tried to heal my people’s serious injuries as if they were small wounds. They said, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’ But really, it is not all right” (Jer. 6:14 NCV).
And it won’t be all right until we get home.
Again, we have our moments. The newborn on our breast, the bride on our arm, the sunshine on our back. But even those moments are simply slivers of light breaking through heaven’s window. God flirts with us. He tantalizes us. He romances us. Those moments are appetizers for the dish that is to come.
“No one has ever imagined what God has prepared for those who love him” (1 Cor. 2:9 NCV).
What a breathtaking verse! Do you see what it says? Heaven is beyond our imagination. We cannot envision it. At our most creative moment, at our deepest thought, at our highest level, we still cannot fathom eternity.
Try this. Imagine a perfect world. Whatever that means to you, imagine it. Does that mean peace? Then envision absolute tranquility. Does a perfect world imply joy? Then create your highest happiness. Will a perfect world have love? If so, ponder a place where love has no bounds. Whatever heaven means to you, imagine it. Get it firmly fixed in your mind. Delight in it. Dream about it. Long for it.
And then smile as the Father reminds you, No one has ever imagined what God has prepared for those who love him.
Anything you imagine is inadequate. Anything anyone imagines is inadequate. No one has come close. No one. Think of all the songs about heaven. All the artists’ portrayals. All the lessons preached, poems written, and chapters drafted.
When it comes to describing heaven, we are all happy failures.
It’s beyond us.
But it’s also within us. The song of the whip-poor-will. Let her sing. Let her sing in the dark. Let her sing at the dawn. Let her song remind you that you were not made for this place and that there is a place made just for you.
But until then be realistic. Lower your expectations of earth. This is not heaven, so don’t expect it to be. There will never be a newscast with no bad news. There will never be a church with no gossip or competition. There will never be a new car, new wife, or new baby who can give you the joy your heart craves. Only God can.
And God will. Be patient. And be listening. Listening for the song of the whip-poor-will.
A Final Word
I sincerely hope this book has been an inspiration to you. I pray that the pages have worked together to bring this assuring message: God loves you. He is ever available to help you begin again. Before we part company, might I have just another few minutes to discuss God’s grand plan for you?
He tailored you for more than a grave, fitted you for a grander destiny than a casket. You are an eternal being equipped with an eternal soul.
What God gave Adam and Eve, he gave to you and me. A soul. “The LORD God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being” (Gen. 2:7).
You are more than a bipedal ape, a chemical fluke, or an atomic surprise. You bear the very breath of God. “[God] breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being” (Gen. 2:7).
Our souls distinguish us among God’s creation. God did not breathe his breath into the giraffe or the beluga whale. He gave a
hump to the camel, but he gave his breath, or a soul, to humanity.
Without a soul Adam was without life. His body was complete yet lifeless until God breathed into it. The soul enabled him to breathe, to move, to think . . . indeed, to live.
Humanism may see you as a coincidence of chromosomes, but God sees you as a steward of his essence. You bear the stamp of God. You think. You love. You create. Like Adam, you have a soul.
And, like Adam, you’ve used your soul to disobey God.
God gave the charter couple one command: “You must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat from it you will certainly die” (Gen. 2:17).
Disregard God and pay a fatal price. Disobedience, God warned, leads to death. Not just eventual death, mind you, but immediate death. “When you eat from it you will certainly die” (emphasis mine).
Wait a second. Did Adam and Eve die? We know they failed the test. Eve ate the fruit and gave some to Adam, who did the same. They hid from God and were banished from the garden. They lived many more years. How do we explain their longevity? Did God change his mind? Or do we misunderstand the definition of death? The culprit is the latter. We assume that death means cessation of life. It does, eventually. But the first death means separation from God.
Before Adam and Eve lost the ability to breathe, they forfeited their community with God. They hid from him. His presence stirred panic, not peace. Adam heard God’s voice and reacted like a kid caught raiding the pantry: “I was afraid” (3:10). Intimacy with God ceased; separation from God began. The guilty pair was “banished . . . from the Garden of Eden” (v. 23). We’ve loitered outside the garden ever since.
Sin spawns two fatalities: spiritual and physical. Spiritual death separates our souls from God. Physical death separates the soul from the body. Adam and Eve experienced the first death when they bit the fruit and the second when they bit the dust. “Dust you are and to dust you will return” (Gen. 3:19).