My friend’s mother died the day before Thanksgiving. And I wonder what he could possibly have been thankful for this day.

On the same day, my sibling criticized me for being unwise financially and being a burden to my family. I wish God had gone over His plans for my life with my sister before sending me on my way.

Who knows the mind of God? Who is wiser than He? Blind council tempts me to deviate from His path. For God’s sake, I am foolish. In Him I will trust. Not in money. Not in wisdom. Not in family.

“If anyone comes to Me and does not hate his father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and his own life also, he cannot be My disciple.”

Two days before Thanksgiving—one day before my friend’s mother died—I formed an alliance with this friend. He is a new partner of mine—a collaborator. He is a talented artist, whose ambitions match my own. He is a former co-worker of the company I have just left. All this time working under the same roof, and we have just now found each other. Our goals are the same—we will be comic creators. He is the artist; I am the writer. And our task begins soon.

What are these things that beg to hinder us? Death. Criticism. Self-doubt. With so much resistance, I know we’re on the right track.

Thank you, Lord, for this heavy task you have given us. Though the road is difficult, I am grateful to be going somewhere. Clear us a path, Lord, and give strength to my friend in this great time of need.

I finally had some fun at work this week. Look what I got away with… (Click on the “Robots” ad spot in the e-mail.)

This weekend, I went outside. I got on my hands and knees on the cool, soft earth and crawled on the lawn all Saturday and Sunday. Johnny Cash was there, and so was God. And the neighbors saw me and laughed. “It’s too late in the year,” they thought, “to be gathering fall leaves.” And yet I gathered and bagged, and lifted and hauled. And, in the end, thirty-six of the biggest Hefty lawn bags I could find lined the street in front of my temporary home—each filled to the brim with brittle, decayed leaves. As I worked, I would look down at my wounded, scratched hands and believe that my work was good.

On my belt was my Walkman, feeding a collection of slow Johnny Cash songs into my ears, as I swept up piles of leaves and sticks and loose garbage into each bag with my bare hands. A neighbor appeared with his child, disappointed that there would soon be no mountain of leaves for his child to play in. The harvest of leaves was great, but the workers were only one. I cut my forearm in several places, but the most severe wound came on two of my fingers. Blood was shed on my jeans and on the handle of the rake. The dirt and dust mixed with the blood, and I pressed on with my work. I knew the task was great—the amount of leaves was overwhelming. They littered the lawn like grains of sand—like the stars of heaven. But I pressed on. Little-by-little, bag-by-bag. They would all be accounted for. Every leaf, every hair, every lamb.

I touched the ground, and collected the leaves. I toiled with the ground that is cursed because of me. And in the end, all I did was move dirt from one place to another. My toil is meaningless. My work is futile. Vanity—all is vanity. But I press on. I obey. It’s the only thing to do. Who am I to know God’s plan? Who am I to know the fate of my work? When God says go, I go. When He says do, I do. What else can I do?

I touched the ground—my future home. The dirt of my life. The dirt of my legacy. Everything inside the house will one day be dirt. And I will have nothing to bring with me—but dirt.

I touch the ground,
Pure creation,
Undiluted, genuine and real,
I touch the ground,
And gather it together,
To bring inside,
I touch the tree branch,
The porch step,
The old wooden chair,
I turn the corner,
And there He sits,
Welcoming me home.

I made a point of “running into” a girl at work that I’ve had a little crush on for a long time. She’s in another section of Marketing, so I never work with her at all. Anyway, when I saw her head to the kitchen, I got up and went there (by another way). When I entered the kitchen, she was doing something with the microwave. I said hello, then took a half-hearted gander at the soda machine. I popped in a dollar and selected a Dr. Pepper. I retrieved my drink, then opened it. Immediately, the soda shot out of the bottle and all over the floor. She turned around to see the soda drizzling from my frozen hand. She just smiled in unbelief at my misfortune and returned to what she was doing. I used up the remaining paper towels above the sink to soak up my lost beverage. As I was finishing, she opened the microwave and whimpered in sad surprise. I looked over, and her oatmeal had exploded all over the interior of the microwave. I laughed quietly to myself and retrieved another package of paper towels from the top cabinet for her.