The son who demanded his inheritance before his father had even died basically slapped his dad in the face with his demands. In essence, he said something akin to, “I wish you were dead. All I want is your money.” I’m sure every parent with a teenager has felt this way at one point or another. I’m still apologizing to my mother and father for how wretched I was between the ages of zero and five minutes ago. Oh well. But the young man took a bunch of money and Jesus tells us that he spent it all on “wild living” (Luke 15:13 NIV). I’m curious to know what wild was back then- it’s a completely relative term. I can guarantee that my wild is outrageous to some of you and at the same time, it’s tame to others.

Anyway, the idiot discovers what so many young adults do- that living with the parents wasn’t so bad. So he runs home and plans on kissing up to his dad like many have had to when they needed forgiveness but didn’t want a lecture to accompany it. Sometimes, those are almost bad enough to make one want to leave again. But, this father didn’t do that. He got all sorts of excited and threw a party, upset the other kid and had to deal with that. We can talk about God taking us back even when we’re dumb and selfish, Rob Bell discussed the other son and how he did not want to party but I’m stuck on why the younger son had to leave in the first place. Was it that bad, or did he need some bad experiences in order to better appreciate his father?

I think the son knew how good he had it- but at the same time, I believe he felt like he had to go. The older brother claims that he worked hard for his father, who never threw him parties. That obviously applies to both children, otherwise, the conversation between the old man and his first son would have happened long before then. One can’t give one child something without taking care of the other- it’s the curse that terrorizes couples who choose to have multiple kids.

Let’s put this in context of our relationship with God. I’ve seen so many people run away from Jesus after numerous wonderful years with Him. He never changed. He didn’t start beating them. Maybe the Lord never threw any parties with those humans, but perhaps they never asked. The young man
probably never thought his dad would give him what he wanted- and I genuinely believe many of us look at God the same way- that He won’t give us what we want.

I’m completely against “name it and claim it” theology, but I ask God for stupid, vain, ridiculous and probably in one fashion or another, occasionally sinful things. I can’t say that I always expect them, but on the other hand, I won’t say that God doesn’t deliver, either. It’s interesting, because I don’t always know what to expect after expressing supplications before the Lord. I don’t think He only gives me what I need, sometimes I get what I want, too- and maybe it’s like the journey that the awful boy of Luke 15 wherein I discover at the end, that I never needed any of it at all. On the other hand, who says that all of my desires are bad?

What has your experience been when you ask God for something a little crazy?

I shook my fist and lowered my voice as I read from Deuteronomy. My friend looked up when I was done, stared at me blankly, “Are you writing another one of your little devotions?”

I scowled, but didn’t say anything. Inside, I was crushed. “Little devotions? Are you freaking kidding me? I don’t write devotions, do I?”

Fortunately, this didn’t kill the spirit and I continued to write, but little devotions crept around in the back of my mind. Is that what people think I do?

Numerous times now, I’ve had to ask myself, “Jake, why the hell do you write?” This question comes about more frequently than I’d like to admit. When it attacks, I run through the options:

1- Because I’m skinny, have thick, black glasses, like to read and it fits my persona?

2- Because I’m incredibly opinionated and think everyone should hear what I have to say?

3- Because I want to be influential?

4- Because I’m sexy and I know it? (wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle)

No, no, no, no, no…. I can change my “persona” anytime I wish. This whole, “I read books and think I’m smart or something” act could end any day. I think I might go for bro, next. I really am opinionated, but sometimes, that’s actually embarrassing. Influence? I think that’s an idol that rampages through today’s church. I have yet to meet a youth pastor, young leader or anyone else who’s incredibly involved in the church who doesn’t want to change the world- only they all want to do it from the pulpit, instead of getting down in the mud and trenches with the rest of humanity (that’s a rant all to itself).

★                    ★                    ★

Jeremiah was pissed at God. He accused the Almighty of deceiving him. Then again, the prophet was having a terrible day. He’d been beaten and put in the stocks outside the temple- all for speaking God’s word (Jer. 20:1-2). Jeremiah was upset, but really couldn’t do much about it. He said,

But if I say, “I will not mention his word
or speak anymore in his name,”
his word is in my heart like a fire,
a fire shut up in my bones.
I am weary of holding it in;
indeed, I cannot.

(Jeremiah 20:9 NIV)

Fire in his bones? I don’t think penicillin can fix that kind of burn. I wonder, if he kept quiet long enough, if he’d combust. Burnt hair is a terrible smell. Jeremiah grew tired of speaking God’s word because it frequently turned out so poorly for him. I think I would too. It almost sounds like torture on God’s part, but then again, God made the man with the exact purpose of using him to speak, so occasional goading is justifiable.

Am I comparing myself to Jeremiah or claiming to be prophetic? Heck no. I’m not nearly spiritual enough to experience fire in my bones and I’m convinced that if God wanted a mouthpiece, He’d find a nicer, taller person. But I read. I study and try to understand, and the dissonance between the Bible and my experience, the community and the stories of those around me freaks me out. Sometimes, it even makes me mad, then I want to start fires. So I write, hoping to fix perceptions in myself and others, if they choose to read. Occasionally, I like to be funny, too.

Sometimes, I worry that I’m beating a dead horse. But I don’t feel like I can stop. I’ll probably scream and howl “repent, reform and fix it, you idiots or I’ll stab you” until I die. In other words, the world might have to deal with this pain in the rear for a while longer. Maybe that’s it- I like being annoying, so I write.

What’s your motivation?

“No one ever made a monument to a critic.”

Roger Ebert may never have a statue dedicated to him. Gene Siskel probably won’t either. But they watched movies and talked crap about them- that’s basically meaningless. Even if either of these men actually did have some sort of artistic representation dedicated to them, what would it look like? Would they have statues of them sitting back in recliners watching a television? That would be stupid. That said, other critics have changed history. An easy example is Martin Luther.

A man has to be drunk or compelled by an overwhelming sense of justice in order to nail notes to a church door talking crap about one of the most powerful entities in the world. First, the man probably had to wade through some level of personal conviction about damaging ecclesiastical property, hoping that God understood his heart in the matter. Second, Martin Luther had to deal with all the men who were in power, whose decisions and system he was challenging.

Plenty other people who saw the wrongness of indulgences and questioned the Pope’s power, among other things, brought the written complaints to local printers- yes, Martin Luther owes a lot of his success to the printing press and its impact on distribution. Regardless, what else was the man of God, other than a critic? He was a man of action. He didn’t just complain about a problem, he did something to try to fix it. Ultimately, there were a few changes in how things were accomplished in the Roman Catholic church, but the protestant movement was bolstered by the man’s actions (Martin Luther is not solely responsible for the breed of Christians who like to call themselves protestants).

Anyway, he’s only one example- of many. Here’s the other deal though- who said we were to live in such a way that people would build monuments in our honor? Was it Jesus? Oh yeah, it was somewhere near the end of the list of beattitudes in Matthew 5, right? Clearly, Jesus wanted us to follow in His steps as much as possible, and anyone who doesn’t have a 130-foot tall statue of themselves erected in South America has obviously deviated from the course.

There will always be Christ-followers out there who truly do change the world in one way or another and we will create memorials, name our gymnasiums and parks after them and do other inane things to honor them, but I can almost guarantee they didn’t set out to be a famous Jesus-person as their goal. Most of them will want to change something. Whether the impact is a refinement or a revolution, it will be the result of a motivated, possibly even inspired response to a problem or injustice in the world. This brings us all the way back to the beginning- what do genuine critics do? They notice problems. The really good ones will talk the right amount of crap to successfully make whatever the issue may be change.

I feel like the man who tweeted about monuments might have the wrong motivation, if he wants a memorial. Then again, he was probably just talking crap about somebody who doesn’t like his approach to ministry and ultimately wanted to demean the critical spirit that condemned him. That’s how we work, isn’t it?

“You didn’t? Why did you send him out there to fight?”

“Because I hoped he’d freaking die! Everybody likes him more than me, it’s depressing. He writes poetry, plays the lyre and kills people. It’s like a bad joke.”

“Well, you’re king Saul, so don’t worry about him and his man-harp. Are you really going to let Michal marry him?”

“I have to. You know David wouldn’t let me back out on a deal like this. Besides, she goes weak in the knees every time she sees him. She’d kill me if I didn’t let them get married. Not only that, but I bet God would be super pissed, too.”

“Makes sense. What do you want me to do with 200 foreskins? He literally just dumped them on the floor- it emptied this place out pretty quickly.”

“Let me think on that for a while. Just put them in a box or something, and leave them in my room. That way nobody else gets freaked out.”

(Based on 1 Samuel 18:24-27)

 ★                    ★                    ★

Some time later, God told David that he could not the be one to construct the temple. Yahweh said to him, “You are not to build a house for my Name, because you are a warrior and have shed blood.” (1 Chron. 28:3 NIV)

I think God probably also said, “And you circumcised 200 Philistines after killing them. That might have crossed the line. It’s weird. Not just kind of weird, but really freakish. And you know it means something when I’m creeped out. Not only that, but you did it for Saul’s daughter? I know, I did a good job making that one, but looks aren’t everything. You know he was playing you when he asked you to be his son-in-law, right?”

David’s face dropped into the palm of his hand and he groaned, “I know. And she’s mean, too. Did you hear her get on my case when we were taking the ark home? She knew what she was getting into when she married me.” (2 Samuel 6:16-23)

The almighty chuckled, “Yeah, there’s a reason she hasn’t gotten pregnant. I decided to take those genes out of the pool.”

David looked puzzled at this statement. “What?”

God didn’t respond. He needed some quiet time and was satisfied with confusing David.

 ★                    ★                    ★

I once read somewhere that having a sense of humor about one’s religion is a genuine sign of faith. I can’t agree more and I’m pretty sure God shouted ‘amen’ to that statement as well. There are so many strange stories in the Bible, like David killing and circumcising 200 Philistines. It’s ridiculous and it shows how much of a freak his father-in-law was. If I ever ask a man for his daughter’s hand in marriage and I get a request for another man’s body part, I’ll peace-out. She might be a freak too, and nobody wants that. Also, I figured that in the spirit of fun, I could connect verses that shouldn’t have been because psuedo-theologians and others do it all the time, but they’re actually trying to accomplish something when they do it. This kind of behavior puts me in a stabby mood.

What are your favorite weird stories from the Bible?

If people didn’t believe that money could solve their problems or that they didn’t have anything to worry about at all, the lottery would fall to pieces. But Life isn’t always easy, Americans have way too much debt and we want magical fixes to everything. I’m just as guilty of this as the next person. It seems to be the same in casinos and other places that any good Christian should condemn to hell- people aren’t necessarily there to get money, but what it represents: change and hope. Of course, we can’t discount the free drinks and the good time either, right?

Unfortunately, hope sells.

I could be wrong, but I think hope sells better than sex ever could. First of all, hope can’t give you chlamydia or herpes. Secondly, hope lasts longer and means more. It isn’t only employed by lottery marketers, either. Think about self help books, gym memberships, Jenny Craig, eHarmony, pyramid schemes and every other get rich quick contrivance that we’ve seen. We all want to figure out why we’re depressed, lose the love handles and not have to work as much, as hard, or at some job that we genuinely despise.

I think this has made its way into the church, too. We’re all familiar with the bad stereotype involving Christian television and men who claim that God can heal or help whomever if, if viewers simply support the ministry that shouldn’t really exist at all, let alone be on the air preying on susceptible old ladies for the only two mites they have left to their name. Not all Christian television is like this, is it? I actually can’t speak to this point, I try not to watch much of it!

But then there are the people in churches who teach and preach the prosperity gospel. They’re the ones that make me nervous, more than gambling and any other marketing program living on the hope of the people who are gullible enough to fall for it. God is a giver, He’s the literal epitome of generosity and truly desires that we be hospitable with our resources too- but doesn’t it make sense that He’d want us to consider where our money is going? I believe so… But to have people throwing their money at ministries with the expectation that God is going to return their investment scares me. If a man gives one hundred dollars and hopes to get a thousand back, does he blame his lack of faith if it doesn’t happen? Does he understand that his motive was wrong but ultimately, that misperception was implanted by a person who wanted his money? It seems that the ministries that live off this kind of doctrine are really just irresponsible with their finances anyway, and probably don’t deserve what they’re asking for.

God isn’t a high-interest investment banker.

That said, He’s worthy of all our hopes, just maybe not the misguided ones.

“Yep. Am I too early? She wanted some photos of all of you getting ready.”

“Umm, we’re all dressed for the most part, let me see.” The door closed. He listened as she asked the bride and other girls if a man could come into the room.

They were ready- at this point, it was all makeup, hair and shoes. He came in, explained the normal pictures he liked to take in these situations, and then asked them to act as if he wasn’t there, to get some candid shots. He walked around the room, trying not to be invasive, and snapped photos of their preparation. As he came around to the right of the bride, he noticed a giant brown spot on her dress. “Hey, did you spill something on your dress?”

The bride contorted her face into an ugly sneer and snapped, “You don’t see anything at all!”

“Isn’t there something you could use to take it out? It’s going to be in all your photos.”

“Just take pictures from the other side.”

He bit his tongue and wondered what the story was. He moved in closer to get some pictures of her face in the mirror, but stopped because she had what looked like corn stuck in her teeth. “Do you have a toothbrush? You don’t want that in your pictures and I’m sure your fiancee won’t…”

Another glare told him to leave it alone. He was beginning to feel annoyed, mostly because he was expecting all sorts of complaints when she actually saw the pictures. He was hoping that by saying something now, they wouldn’t demand discounts on their prints and accuse him of being a cruddy photographer.

He nearly lost it when she bumped her head and messed up part of her hair. A chunk of it was sticking out at an awkward angle. This brunette mess would definitely stand out against the white of her dress. Instead of asking the bride directly, he asked the maid of honor to fix it. She looked at him questioningly before stealthily sneaking up behind the bride in a covert attempt to fix her hair. “Don’t freaking touch me!” was the outraged response. He tried to protest, but she interrupted: “Should I have my fiancee talk to you about this? He’d be incredibly upset knowing that you’re harassing his bride. No husband lets another man get away with this kind of behavior!”

By this point, everyone was annoyed. Great job, photographer, you showed up and killed the party. He thought about the groom- the poor man was going to marry this woman? He wondered if she couldn’t take any suggestion as anything but criticism. He’d been in this business for a long time and couldn’t remember any woman being like this before. All of the others cringed at the thought of having food in their teeth, a crazy strand of hair or worse, a giant brown stain on their dresses. He’d given up on expecting to be paid for this job- He knew that as soon as they were back from their honeymoon and met with him to pick pictures for printing, she’d freak out that he couldn’t hide these things and there was no way he was going to “photoshop them out.”

He left that day knowing that he’d done his job. He’d captured scenes of the event. It was the snarky woman and her husband who’d have to deal with her ugliness later.

Ephesians 5:25-27

His leg twitched and his eyes popped open to darkness. Are you freaking kidding me?  He asked, wishing the dream hadn’t ended like that. They always did though. He sighed and rolled over to look at his alarm clock, but saw nothing. It wasn’t even flashing some random time at him. He didn’t hear the fan on his computer, either. There were no little lights on his speakers.

Crap. The power must be out. He had to work at six that morning and worried that he’d be late if he didn’t find another way to wake up. He’d been written up three times for his tardiness. The coffee place was supposed to fire him at that point, but his manager decided to give him a last chance. He kicked the covers off and crawled out of bed. He lived in the basement. He was pretty sure the space he occupied wasn’t supposed to be a bedroom: it had neither a closet nor windows, but he was grateful to have it to himself. His seven other siblings all shared rooms.

He took two steps away from his bed then stubbed his toe. Son of a… was all that he let loose. He didn’t want to wake anyone up. He favored his right foot for another few steps because it ached from whatever had attempted to impede his progress. When he thought he was close to the wall, he put his hands out to feel for it and search for the light switch. He flicked it upon discovering it, but nothing happened. He followed the wall over to his door from there. He twisted the knob, slowly opened the door and panicked at the feeling that came upon him. There was a large space in front of him and he couldn’t see anything.

He didn’t know if a sibling was asleep on the floor in the hall, or what toys or murderers or monsters waited for him in the darkness. He wanted to close the door. He hated making coffee for people anyway- especially so early in the morning, because people were jerks and never tipped. Yes, he’d blame what appeared to be a power outage on his tardiness and hunt for a new job if he had to.

Anxiousness had him stepping back into his room and slowly closing the door when he saw a small, bluish light. He couldn’t figure out what it came from. It had to be through the entryway from the living room into the hallway that he didn’t want to step out into. He figured he’d better check it out. Maybe the circuit breaker for his room had tripped and that was it.

He cautiously walked down the hall. He dragged one had along the wall and kept the other in front of him, just in case anything happened to be there. He felt moldings and light switches as he progressed in the direction of the light. He made it to the living room without incident. The light wasn’t in here though. It seemed to be reflecting from something up stairs. He continued walking through the powerless, silent room, in the direction of the light. This little illumination seemed to be the only thing he had and he felt the need to get to it, regardless of stubbed toes or whatever else he’d encounter along the way.

I signed for the package, took it from the man, and was shocked at how heavy it was! I stepped back into the house, left it on the kitchen table and resumed drying off and getting dressed. My curiosity was piqued, but I was basically half naked and was still dripping wet. Once I was appropriately clothed, I returned to the kitchen, pulled a knife from one of the drawers, and cut the clear plastic tape on top of the box. I pulled cardboard flaps back to reveal an envelope on top of wads of newspaper.

I opened the envelope to find a document indicating that somebody had died and it was in their will to leave this to me. I didn’t recognize the first name, but the last was Lee, so they had to be related to me because there aren’t millions of us around the world or anything like that at all. Typically when relatives died, my mom or grandmother called and told me about it, regardless of my relationship with them. This was strange.

I’d never been in anybody’s will before, but had always hoped and dreamed that some wealthy, mysophobic shut-in would leave me millions. But, that only happens in Charles Dickens’ books, so I never put much into it. Truly, as of late, I hadn’t put much stock into anything other than the basics: God is good, people are sinful, and someday you will die. It’d been a rough year.

I pulled some wadded brown packing paper out of the box only to reveal dirt and gravel. Was this some stupid joke? Probably. I didn’t have time to deal with this, I had dinner with friends in thirty minutes and wasn’t about to dirty myself up before that. Fearful that the box might leak or that something might crawl out of it while I was gone, I lifted it from the table and set it out on the back patio before running out the door.

Dinner was a blast. But it’s not pertinent to this story.

I got home near midnight and threw myself onto the couch. I was exhausted, but can never go right to bed, I need to unwind first. I opened a book, got two paragraphs down, then remembered the box outside. I dropped The Half-blood Prince, brought the package inside and began pulling clods of soil and rocks out. I threw them in the trash. I was waiting for an animal’s head and a death threat to appear. After several handfuls of dirt, I encountered something wooden. I scraped away some more loose dirt. It looked like a box. So, it was a box with bodiless  feline and an intimidating note in it. Oh well, I probably deserved it. I continued to dig.

It was odd. I pulled the box out only to find that it was locked. I pulled the rest of the dirt out, but found nothing, so I went back to the envelope I’d opened and in the bottom, found a small brass key. I was actually nervous. Even if this exploded and I died, this was like something found only in outlandish stories! I inserted the key into the hole, held my breath and turned. I jerked the lid open and found exactly what I’d hoped for…

★                    ★                    ★

I like cynics. They make me laugh. So-called realists do too. Though they’re funny, I feel bad for them. I think that if a man talks to one of these kinds of people long enough, they’ll find they’re conversing with an idealist who’s been tarnished. They’re covered in mud from disappointments, knives in the back, flakes, and people who can’t drive very well. We just have to remember, that under all that crap and crud, there’s someone secretly waiting for their own dramatically blissful event to come.

I know that our calendar is based on seasons, equinoxes, the planet’s rotation and all that, but I still think we could live without it. But it’s fascinating and exciting to see the hope that accompanies January. People run around and flap their gums, making claims…

I’m going to quit smoking this year

I’m going to drink less this year

I’m going to drink more this year

I’m going to lose weight and get me some abs

I’m want to to cuss less

This year, I’m going to be funnier, even if I have to swear more

I’m going back to church

I’m going to be less stabby

I’m going to spend less money

I’m going to learn ________ and then ________ with it

I’m not a resolution kind of person, which makes me wonder if I’m missing out on the hope that everyone else carries into January. Then again, maybe the expectation that accompanies a new year comes from flushing the old one down the crapper. I’m just not sure. Regardless, I love hope. Expecting something better and shinier is wonderful. When I was young, I’d always get the mail for my parents because I just knew that eventually, there’d be a check or package in there for me and it was going to be awesome. I always had a high level of expectation when I was little.

I still think that way… it’s just a little more realistic, based on past experiences.

I wish we could all get excited for new weeks like we do for new years, but then again, a lot of people would be hung over every Monday and they’d regret kissing random strangers more often, too. Maybe we could just party once a month and get energized about that.

What are you hoping for in 2012?

       This creature is reaction. It’s the evil twin of response. Even if you don’t believe the Bible, you can’t argue that the tongue truly is set on fire by hell itself (James 3:6). As long as we are trapped in this physical body, we are susceptible to an outbreak of this disease. True, Jesus does give us the power to respond in a healthy manner but we have a choice to pick up our rights with vengeance or lay them down in humility.

His caustic humor grates on my nerves. Workday after workday, week after week, month after month, and several years later…it’s still the same. Apparently it’s my fault that I didn’t know something that wasn’t communicated. Apparently I’m not worth getting to know because I’m just going to leave anyway. Apparently I’m going to be one of those picky wives that will make her husband move the furniture around every fifteen days. Really? It’s not funny but hurtful.

And suddenly I become a witch and the other word that rhymes with it. My reaction is uglier than the words said to me. I didn’t dig to find out why he said what he said. I snapped faster than a dried twig on an apple tree. Pop! For some reason, the words stab deep, to a personal level. Why should I care what he thinks as long as I do the job well that God has placed me in? After the hate, the rage, the bitterness, the reaction has simmered, I reflect. Realization dawns that I seek his approval, people-pleasing. I ache to hear the “well done” that never comes, or if it does, it is quickly negated by the next raw comment. And something else manifests and it horrifies me. I am capable of great evil.

The call is not a one time deal. Unfortunately, it is minute by minute and second by second. Take up my cross, follow Him. But it’s so heavy sometimes. My burden is light. Then what am I carrying?  But then I understand – it is fortunate to have to rely on Him for every breath. Otherwise, I could do this life on my own. I wouldn’t have need of grace. Neither would you.

The cliché is true. I’m living proof. If you don’t learn a lesson the first, second or fifty-seventh time, God will orchestrate another setting to try and get through to you. Why am I so stubborn? Why do I react with anger so often? I’d like to blame the Hibernian blood in my veins but I can’t. I have a choice to step back and respond to conflict as the Lord would ask me to – seeing it as a chance to learn about myself and the other person. Just like a toddler throwing a tantrum, I’ve gotten comfortable in my dysfunction. It may create hell…but at least I know the streets there. It’s time to move out and navigate in calmer seas. Lord, be my Compass.

 ★                    ★                    ★

       Here she was again, tapping on the door for a complain fest. I’d heard it before, over and over again. Why did the Thai workers get paid more?  She felt discriminated against because she was from Burma. Another gal felt the same and she would hint at it at random times. The immediate offense clouded the other reasons behind the discrepancy – length of service, experience, skills, language ability, legal status and the list could go on.

Her disgruntled stance was justified and I took up the cross to fight with her. In this culture, you are never to go directly to the person you have an issue with. It’s just not done. This would cause you to lose face and would bring shame to the “offender”. In a society where harmony is the number one goal, no one wants to be responsible for rocking the community boat. Some Asian Christian believers struggle with that Bible passage that calls you to go directly to the person you have trouble with (Mt. 18:15). It’s easier to label it as a cultural clause and not a biblical mandate.

And so I was dubbed the mediator, or so I thought.  The focus quickly changed. For the bulk of my time on the border, I woke with a sense of purpose – feed street kids, tutor English to eager refugee and migrant munchkins, clean the Safe House, study Burmese, pray for peace, and embrace all through the lens of the Lord. But now I took on the cause of equality. This was unjust. How dare these Westerners start a compassion NGO to be the hands of Christ and pay some workers less?! I skipped that one parable where Jesus says it’s none of my business how much the boss pays because the worker agreed to it (Mt 20:1-16). Hum…

Never mind. This had to be dealt with. I think the horns where starting to form. Several other workers tried to gently point it out but I was set on “saving” face for my gals. After all, they trusted me to make a change for them. Pride rose and grace fell and learning took a backseat.

After going to several leaders with the issue, the director finally got wind of it. I was in trouble. The pointy ears were visible now. I hadn’t taken the time to encourage my sisters to go to the leadership themselves. I justified my meddling as “honoring the culture,” never realizing how much dishonor I was bringing to all involved.

I found myself with a required sabbatical six hours north to Chiang Mai in a lone hotel room. Several days later, the meeting occurred. Thankfully, the director and the accountant had taken up the godly cross of grace and not the one I had recently chosen. They asked me questions, got perspective of the situation first and we dialogued. We learned together. I grew. We put on the glasses of each side. I could see now. They stressed the importance of response over reaction. I found peace.

Some places would just dismiss such a devil but I was blessed to find correction combined with reinstatement.

How do you deal with conflict?