I find it hard to believe what I'm about to say, but I'm about to say it, and therefore I must attempt to believe what I'm about to say, if you can believe I'm about to say it.
Do you believe that? Nah. Didn't think so.
It was cool this morning, heck, it was cold. It was as if God was playing the part of Rocky Balboa, breathing through cold air while cow carcasses were swinging left and right. And the amazingly difficult thing to believe is I love it. Love it. Relish it. Love it some more.
I woke up, or at least my eyes opened quite intentionally, between 5:30 and 6 a.m. Dark time. Cold air.Something out of a Thor movie.
Oh, my eyelids were creaking, much like my knees, and my back was, much like my feet were, much like -- well, you get the idea. This morning, in a very thin fog bank, I could see air, see it like it was a lightly parting the darkness, if you know what I mean.
Cool and wispy it was as the sun fought its way to the top of the horizon. That was this morning. Nothing given, everything taken, that was the dawn this morning.
This evening will be different, however. This evening, our youth will hear me tell them about how people are drawn to people who can keep their heads when everyone else is losing theirs. I see those types of people on occasion. I hear about those types of people on occasion. I know some of those types on occasion.
But they are indeed rare. As anyone who reads these things I ponder and write know, lately the things I've been going through have taken on the weight of a new car on my shoulders. While others can lift that weight with ease, me, I'm more of the put the weight on Fannie kind of guy -- if you know what I mean.
I was reading about those types recently. James Merritt writes, "The only place you will ever find peace in the midst of the storm is down deep in a walk with God. People are drawn to those who can keep their head when everyone else is losing theirs."
In other words, people sensing difficulty about to come, gravitate to those types of people who can successfully navigate the emotional tsunami.
Jesus was certainly one of those persons. Strength was his companion. In the midst of our weaknesses, he was clearly strong. That's just who he was. Heck, that's just who he is.
At the end, Jesus was beginning. Miserable, wracked with pain, Jesus walked that lonely, desperately cruel mile to the cross.
I'm quite the fan of one of the Bible's translations that turns the word patience into the word long-suffering. I think long-suffering is quite the appropriate word for the Christ.
Blood from wounds stitched into his head began to seep into his hair, surf down his shoulders, swim onto his chest, soak portions of his skin like some kind of Palestinian familial Map quest.
Wounds appeared from being beaten like the common criminal he never was, scourging imprints that would have been too much for most of us to even contemplate grew larger by the second, and as the old hymn says, he never said a mumbling word.
Pain like we will never know or understand became his companion in the last hours of his life. Yet, yet, yet, he allowed it all because, well, because he did this for us.
So on a cold morning in central Louisiana I was again reminded that I am second in all things. I am reminded that He did this for me, for us, for us all. I'm reminded that all the very difficult things that are going on in our lives are nothing compared to having all the sins of all the people of all time suddenly placed on us. And I'm reminded again and again that He did this for us all.
One brilliantly cold morning was simply enough to remind me.
So, I will never forget that. I must never forget that. I can never forget that.
Oh, the breath of air, of heaven and hell in a slice of life, oh I saw that today.
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