It’s times like this I’m grateful for a poor sense of smell.

There it was, sitting in the middle of the grass, an armadillo carcass interrupting the serenity of my morning walk.  I didn’t know what killed it, how long it had been there or how long it would be before someone or something removed the remains.  I was, however, pretty sure of one thing.

The armadillo never expected its armor to fail.

I’m sure it thought (however armadillos actually “think”) that it would be protected inside its little shell.  I’m sure it thought that whatever crisis came its way, it could retreat into the safety of the solution that had protected it so many times before.  I’m sure it thought, “it could never happen to me.”

But it did happen.

One way or another, something always does.

I wish I could say I have nothing in common with the armadillo, but I do.  The truth is that there are things in my own life that I expect to protect me, to insulate me from trouble, to keep me from harm, and I often put more trust in those earthly things than I should.

Maybe it’s the same for you.

Maybe you feel secure because of the size of your bank account or the state of your retirement plan.  Maybe you feel protected because of the accomplishments of your past or your careful planning for the future.  Maybe you tell yourself, “My spouse would never do that” or “my kids will always know better” or “I’m too strong to let that happen to me.”

But something will happen.

Maybe it won’t be the specific thing you expect, but the reality of living in a broken world is this.  For most of us, one way or another something will eventually happen that breaks through our defenses and shakes us to the core.

So, what then?  What will you do, not if, but when your armor fails?

—

There’s a story in the Bible about a man named Job who lives a righteous life and is richly blessed.  Then one day it all collapses around him.  His wealth and his children, his health and his friends, all of it is broken and taken and Job finds himself with nothing… except this one thing.

Sitting in an ash heap and covered in sores, this is what Job says in the midst of his calamity.  “Though He slay me, I will hope in Him.”  (Job 13:15a)

How can he say such a thing?  How can he claim hope in the midst of such devastation, when the things in which he trusted have betrayed him and when all that brought him happiness has been taken?

The secret is in one specific thing that Job understands.

The reason for Job’s hope and the way he can survive in the midst of tragedy is found in this conviction.  “For I know that my Redeemer lives, and at the last He will stand upon the earth.”  (Job 19:25)

Job knows that the story is not over yet, and that when it finally is, he will be redeemed.  He knows that the game hasn’t finished yet, but when it finally does, his victory has been secured by someone more able than himself.

Job survives because though his armor has failed him, his Savior still has the last word.

If you want to have hope that is secure in the midst of tragedy, this is the answer.  If you want to have strength that will survive after losses you never thought you could handle, this is the way.

Put your complete trust in Jesus as your Redeemer!  Then remember that He alone has the final word, and if you’re in Christ, that word has already been spoken over you.

Victory!

-Pastor Phillip

(p.s. If you were blessed by this post, please share it with a friend!)

I’ve never seen this grill before.

I’m sitting on the worn striped seat cushion of an old metal chair.  Along with its three blue wire-frame counterparts and matching table, this chair has kept watch over my grandparents’ patio for years.  In front of me sits a new shiny new grill with a dozen settings and easy-turning knobs and the kind of clean appearance that comes from not being used nearly enough.

My family made the trek from Fort Myers to Austin to join our relatives in commemorating my grandfather’s passing from time into eternity.  He is with Jesus today, and we are with each other, preparing fresh homemade fajitas for our first all-family meal without him.

My uncle was out here tending the grill by himself, so rather than sit on the couch and watch the cousins tumble on each other, I decided to come out and keep him company in the Texas heat of a spring afternoon.

We don’t say much.

I can smell the southwest-seasoned chicken as it simmers on the bottom rack of the metal machine.  The patio door creaks and swings open as a cousin bursts out with a plate of freshly prepared buttered garlic bread—Texas toast as we call it.  Each slice is carefully placed on the top rack where it will warm and brown, getting just toasty enough to crisp but not enough to crunch.

I look around at the hand-crafted stone of the house wall in front of me and the pebble-and-concrete floor of the deck beneath.  I turn in my seat to gaze at the long wooden fence and the scrub grass yard that looks a lot smaller than it used to.  My grandfather built this place, and from the shed in the corner of the back yard to the pecan trees in the opposite corner of the front, it will always bear his memory.

We still haven’t said much.

I remember my grandfather’s laugh, loud and hearty, and how his head would go back and his eyes would sparkle when he was amused.  I remember his arms, strong burly arms that had hoisted elevators in the old days, built two houses with the help of his family and lovingly toiled for years on various woodworking projects in the garage.  I remember how he loved his old green truck with no air conditioning, how he enjoyed recordings of the mariachi music of his youth, and how he cherished my grandmother until the day he died.  They made it 62 years together.

My uncle and I still haven’t spoken beyond a little bit of catching up, and suddenly I realize something.

That’s just fine with me.

There is a tradition in Jewish life called “sitting shiva.”  It’s a multi-faceted mourning ritual with many beautiful parts to it, but the one that stands out the most to me is the silence.  In the tradition of the visiting friends of the Biblical Job, those who would comfort the grieving will come to the family home and just sit together.  While talking is not prohibited per se, it’s understood that this is not the time to offer hollow sentiments or even well-meaning condolences.  It’s not the time to try and make sense of the why’s or try and remember the good ole’ days.

This is a time for silence.

It makes me wonder if maybe what we all need in times of grief really isn’t a trite phrase or even a tender word, but just to have someone sit with us in silence so we know we’re not alone.  It makes me think that if my grandfather were here, he’d probably be just fine with the silence, too.

It’s still quiet, with only an occasional insect chirp to disturb the soft sizzling of the new grill.  As my uncle and I sit in silence, I smile, thinking of my grandfather as fajita-scented smoke collects briefly in his rafters before wafting out into the bright blue Texas sky.

-Pastor Phillip

—

In loving memory of my grandfather, Papa Marcelo Gonzalez

The backwater lake shimmered in the light of the mid-morning sun.

Ripples danced through the water like figure skaters on ice, making chaotic patterns interspersed with brief moments of circular perfection where the fish poked up for a bite to eat.

Across the water was a stand of cypress trees, their ghost-white forms stretching high into a cobalt and cotton-ball sky, with only their thick layers of spanish moss weighing them down.

It was a place of peace.

As I sat there in the quiet, a thought occurred to me.  Looking at the rippling lake, it was very easy to distinguish between the reality of the trees and their reflection in the water.  While the water echoed the image, it was imperfect, incomplete and unstable.  To see what the trees were really like, I would have to stop looking down at the reflection and look up at the reality.

The same is true about the way we see our lives.

The Apostle Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 13 that “we see through a glass darkly,” and that as much as we’d like to, we can never truly see things with total clarity on this side of heaven.  As much as we would like to look up and see the world as it really is, we can’t.

So what can we do?

Looking back at the lake it occurred to me how much more clearly I would be able to see the reflection of the trees if the water were still.  Without the restless surface activity, it would be simply to see with greater clarity.

So it is with life.

There will likely never be a time when there isn’t a ready supply of responsibilities and diversions to keep us occupied.  Our whole culture is built on the idea that busyness is a good thing, and that the more you DO the more successful you ARE.  Yet, without regular moments to rest and reflect, it’s doubtful we’ll ever be able to see as clearly as we would if we made the time to simply stop and be still.

As you look at your life, take the time to plan in moments of quiet.

Have the courage to get off the treadmill of life and just sit for a while.

When you do, you may find that whole new worlds open up to you, because stillness brings you clarity.

-Pastor Phillip