A peek into the next room in our house reveals that it’s a letter-writing room of some kind.
There’s a writing desk, with a beautiful quill pen and a bottle of golden ink. Holy Moley, it’s real gold, this ink. I think this is a room where God hears and answers prayers.
There’s a letter, lying on the desk. Shall we read God’s mail?
Dear God,
Nothing ever goes right for me. My dreams are all broken or lost.
I’m a victim of circumstance, and frankly, I just don’t know how I’m going to go on. The kids make me tired. My husband makes me tired. I’m just plain…
Pooped in Paduca
And the response:
Dear Pooped,
I gave you the privilege of life, along with all the tools you need to live it well. You’re tired because that’s your favorite word–it’s a litany with you. “I’m tired.” That’s all you ever say. How about, “I’m grateful”? Try that one on for size.
Okay, sometimes the game gets pretty rough.
Put on your big girl panties and get off the sidelines. Don’t wait for Me to wave some magic wand and make everything all right in an instant. That wouldn’t be good for you, and I never do anything that isn’t good for you.
Love,
God
