INTRODUCTION
Every day you have an opportunity to feel God’s presence in
your life. These daily devotions—each with a Bible verse,
inspiring personal story and prayer—help deepen your
relationship with God. They give you quiet time for reflection,
and remind you of the importance of faith, hope and love in your
life.
Whether you want to start your day with a spiritual focus or
enjoy a sense of peace and calm before bedtime, these readings
will help you develop a practice of connecting your faith and
values with your everyday life.
CONTENTS
SPREADING THE LOVE
- THE STUFF OF LIFE
- OUR WIRELESS CONNECTION
- WINGED BEAUTY
- NO PAIN, NO GAIN
- JUDGE NOT
- GOD’S LITTLE SURPRISE
SPREADING THE LOVE
By Pam Kidd, Nashville, Tennessee
This woman was abounding with deeds of
kindness and charity which she continually did.
—Acts 9:36 (NAS)
Someone left this on my desk,” my husband David said as
he walked through the kitchen and tossed a gold box on the
counter. My name was written on the tag, but I couldn’t identify
the handwriting. I untied the ribbon; inside was a colorful array of
candy-coated almonds.
Smiling to myself, I popped one into my mouth and thought:
Someone is having a “Deanna Day.”
Candy-coated almonds have been my favorite treat since
childhood. I don’t remember how our friend Deanna discovered
my preference, but candy-coated almonds began appearing on my
birthday, Christmas, Easter. Always packaged in some clever way,
the candy told me I was special, cared about, loved.
After Deanna died in a terrible car wreck, our church family
began sharing stories of her thoughtfulness. Deanna had regularly
put envelopes of clipped cartoons and jokes on David’s desk to
help with his sermons. For Gloria, it was licorice. There were
well-timed phone calls to shut-ins and holiday open houses for the
lonely. Deanna’s kindness was endless, and her passing left a
gaping hole that I thought would never be filled.
Then I received the letter: “Dear Pam, I want you to know that
God speaks to us through your photographs…. Today is my
Deanna day. Remembering how Deanna used to write thoughtful
notes to people and how she always had a way of making others
feel good about themselves made some of us decide to take one
day a month to do something Deanna would have done. The
fifth day of every month is my Deanna Day and that’s why I’m
writing this note to you. Love, Mary Ev.”
My almonds had come mid-month, so they weren’t from Mary
Ev. There was really no way to know whom they were from,
because the ripples of Deanna’s kindness were spreading through
our entire church congregation and beyond.
Father, the world is waiting for me to act on Your teachings. Let
me make today my Deanna Day.
THE STUFF OF LIFE
By Rick Hamlin, New York, New York
God setteth the solitary in families....
—Psalm 68:6
Socks, shorts, T-shirts, jeans, khakis.
A lot of T-shirts in Tim’s pile. Twice as many as usual. I
guess that means soccer season has started. All those practices
after school mean one more dirty shirt a day. He loves soccer, but
he’s been worried about doing well on the team. The stakes are
getting higher now that he’s in high school. I want him still to
enjoy playing. I pray that competitiveness doesn’t get rid of the
fun.
Will’s socks. I can never match the socks right. Will’s grown so
tall and his feet are so long they look like flippers. He used to be
able to wear my shoes, but he’s outgrown my size. So why can’t I
tell his socks apart from mine? I have a pile of socks, and I’m just
going to have to put them in pairs and hope they find the right
drawers. He’s almost an adult, but when I look at his socks I
remember the tiny booties he once wore. God willing, he won’t
lose his childlike wonder as he grows into manhood.
Carol’s bandanas. I think my wife uses them at the gym. Funny,
I’ve never asked. I usually fold them into quarters so they can fit
into a pocket like a handkerchief. They come in beautiful colors:
turquoise, lemon, raspberry. And there’s the one that has the map
of nearby hiking trails on it. Reminds me of the spring day that
we took one of those trails and hiked to the top of a mountain. We
need to do that again.
Eventually everything’s sorted and folded. Laundry is done.
Sure, it’s a chore, but when I do it, I’m reminded of what I love
about the ones I love.
Lord, within this chore there’s something to be thankful for.
OUR WIRELESS CONNECTION
By Mary Lou Carney, Chesterton, Indiana
Hear my voice when I call, O Lord....
—Psalm 27:7 (NIV)
Sunday morning found me in the Seattle, Washington, airport,
waiting to catch a plane back to Chicago. I moved through the
crowded boarding area, too restless just to sit and wait. Other
travelers checked their watches, read their books or worked on
their laptops. But mostly, they talked on their cell phones.
I caught snatches of conversations as husbands phoned wives,
sons checked in with their mothers, sisters caught up on all the
news. It seemed as though everyone was talking to his or her
family!
Everyone except me. I looked at my new cell phone, cute and
snug in the side of my purse. Problem was, I’d forgotten to charge
it the night before, and my battery was too low to make any calls.
How could I have been so forgetful?
I was working myself into a bad mood when I happened to
glance out the window. The sky seemed to go on forever, a pale
blue broken by patches of angel-hair clouds. On the horizon,
stately pine trees poked their heads toward the arching expanse. A
wide-winged bird came briefly into view before veering off and
soaring out of sight. And like that bird, my spirit began to rise, too.
I don’t need a cell phone to communicate, I thought. So there in
the midst of the hubbub of Gate C7, I closed my eyes and began a
silent conversation. Hello, father. I just thought I’d check in with
you….
A few minutes later, as I boarded the plane, I watched the other
passengers stow their cell phones. Smiling, I patted the side of my
purse, grateful for the low battery that led to my leisurely preflight
conversation with my heavenly father.
How good it is, God, to know that I can always “phone home” and
find you waiting for my call!
WINGED BEAUTY
By Fred Bauer, State College, Pennsylvania
The birds of the air nest by the waters;
they sing among the branches.
—Psalm 104:12 (NIV)
While volcano-watching in Costa Rica, we stayed at the
Arenal Observatory Lodge, which originally was a private
gathering place for vulcanologists from all over the world. I was
captivated by the lodge’s grounds, with its beautiful trees and
flowers and birds—especially the birds. I’ve been an avid
birdwatcher ever since college.
Just outside our picture-windowed room, dozens of iridescent
hummingbirds sopped breakfast nectar from nearby blooms. And
the fiery flash of scarlet-rumped tanagers gave us all a thrill. But
there were many species I didn’t recognize.
One morning we heard a strange, metallic, eardrum-rattling cry
from a nearby tree, and we all raised our binoculars, searching the
branches for the culprit. At first our only clue was a huge nest that
hung down like an oriole’s cradle, but this one was huge, maybe a
yard long. When the creature bellowed again, someone spotted it,
and we all focused on the enormous black and chestnut bird with
a distinctive yellow tail. It also had a bluish cheek patch and an
orange beak.
Later, a naturalist on the grounds identified it as a Montezuma
oropendola. “Oro,” he explained, “is Spanish for gold, and
pendola, like a clock’s pendulum. If you watch, you’ll see the bird
swing its yellow tail like a pendulum.” The bird got its first name,
he explained, from the Aztec emperor who fed them on the palace
grounds.
All of which necessitated a history lesson on Mexico, the
Aztecs and Cortez, but what pleased me most was seeing my
kids’ and grandkids’ fascination with birds. Their enthusiasm
reminded me of a comment made almost 50 years ago by my
college ornithology professor Dr. Everett Myers: “If you study
them for only a season, you’ll be enraptured, and birds will give
you a lifetime of enjoyment.”
Thank You, God for teachers who open our eyes
To the beauty at our feet and the glory in the skies
NO PAIN, NO GAIN
By Edward Grinnan, New York, New York
Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you
should follow in his steps.
—I Peter 2:21 (RSV)
Marla was one of the kindest, gentlest, most compassionate
people I’d ever met, which made it all the more dismaying
that she was so intent on causing me pain. Marla was my physical
therapist after I broke my arm last year playing softball. Her office
was across the street from mine, so I made my thrice-weekly
appointments for early in the morning before work.
The first couple weren’t so bad. She kneaded my arm and
stretched it a bit while we chatted amiably. This person wouldn’t
hurt a fly, I reassured myself. Then, the second week, we got down
to business. Marla would slowly twist my arm in one direction and
murmur, “Tell me when it hurts.”
“Yow!” I’d yelp. But rather than stopping, she would twist it
further. “Yow!”
Then she would hold it there.
“Count to three,” she’d say in her soft, soothing voice. I’d make
it to three in record time. “What you are feeling,” Marla explained,
“is good pain. Healing pain. You get better by going through it,
not around it. It’s the only way.” Still, as the weeks passed, more
and more I found myself playing hooky from PT.
It was during this time that I lost my mother after a long battle
with Alzheimer’s. When all the postmortem rituals were done, I
was left in a kind of emotional fogbank, trying not to dwell on the
darkening pain. I put in longer hours at the office
and pushed
myself harder at the gym. Then Marla called. “I haven’t seen
you for a while,” she said. “Don’t you want to get better?”
Her question was still running through my thoughts as I lay on
the therapy table the next morning. Marla carefully manipulated
my arm, tugging it in a direction I swore it would not go. When
she said to count to three, I did—slowly. It was the only way.
Lord, teach me to trust you to be my Guide from the darkness to
your eternal light, step by sometimes painful step.
JUDGE NOT
By Scott Walker, Waco, Texas
He shall not judge after the sight of his eyes...
—Isaiah 11:3
When I walked into my office this morning, there was a crisp
$20 bill on my desk. Puzzled, I asked my assistant Carol if
she knew where the money had come from.
Carol smiled and said, “That’s an interesting story, Scott. This
morning when I arrived at the office, there was a nice-looking
young man in the reception area. He asked if you were here. When
I told him it would be an hour or so before you arrived, he reached
into his pocket, pulled out a $20 bill and handed it to me. He said
that you had given him some money several years ago, and that he
promised he would repay you. He said to tell you he had a great
job now and to thank you. Then he left.”
As Carol talked, I suddenly recalled meeting that young man.
Late one Saturday night, I had been leaving the church office after
putting the finishing touches on a sermon. As I turned out the
lights and walked toward the door, I saw the silhouette of a man
standing on the steps.
I opened the door cautiously, and the man turned to meet me.
For a moment our eyes met, and I heard him say, “Pastor, I need
some help. My car is nearly out of gas, and I’ve got to get to
Austin tonight. Could you lend me some money? I promise I’ll
pay you back.”
How many times have I heard that line? I thought, and I
mentally formulated my reply: “The office is closed. There’s
nothing I can do.” At the same time, I felt my hand reach for my
billfold. Pulling out what I thought was a $5 bill, I realized too late
that I was handing him a twenty. I wished him luck, we parted
and the man melted into the night.
While I had quickly forgotten that moment long ago, he had
remembered. And now I could only be thankful that God’s spirit
had shut my mouth and guided my hand to my pocket.
God, may I always err on the side of grace as I give your love to
others. Amen.
GOD’S LITTLE SURPRISE
By Julia Attaway, New York, New York
I desire to do your will, O my God; your law is within my heart.
—Psalm 40:8 (NIV)
Mom, make my hair extra neat today. François is teaching,
and he doesn’t like messy buns.”
I dutifully sprayed on a little more water and twisted Mary’s
hair a bit tighter. I find it funny that Mary is aware of the
preferences of her various ballet teachers. Then again, it’s funny
that I know anything at all about putting up hair.
Before I had a daughter in ballet I knew nothing about buns.
Hair wasn’t on my radar; I would have happily gone through life
clueless about the subtle distinctions in using bobby pins and
elastics. But life with children takes funny turns, and I find myself
at middle age with a remarkable amount of knowledge about
things I never imagined I’d know.
I know about learning disabilities and cleaning snake cages and
organizing reenactments of the Revolutionary War. I can test for a
broken bone and distract a nap-deprived toddler during rush hour.
I know (sort of) what a vector is, and I’ve learned an astonishing
and heartbreaking amount about anxiety disorders. None of these
things were on my list of hoped-for accomplishments in life.
Yet somehow this pile of oddities has a lot to do with who I am
today. I’ve grown more from doing what’s been plopped in my
path than I have from pursuing my own interests. In a way, that’s
as it should be. I see what I want, but God sees beyond that to
what I need. There’s a lot that goes into learning how to twist a
bun into place.
Lord, whatever I want for myself, help me want what you want for
me more.
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