Before every baseball game in high school, we did the same thing.

After we finished warming up, we gathered at the end of the dugout, formed a circle, and knelt with our heads bowed and our hats in our hands. I usually led the prayer. I was the guy who went to church, so apparently that made me the team chaplain.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done…”

I knew the words. I had said them plenty of times before, and even then I was thinking about what they meant, at least a little.

Part of the reason I remember it so clearly is what happened immediately afterward. We would stand up and launch into a team war chant that included a word I refused to say. I would say everything else and conveniently leave that particular word out.

Even as a teenager, the contradiction bothered me. We had just knelt together and prayed to God, and now we were yelling something that didn’t exactly sound like it belonged in the same conversation.

The prayer was rehearsed and monotone. The war chant was yelled with energy and raised voices. I remember thinking that God wasn’t going to bless our baseball game just because we had said the Lord’s Prayer before the first pitch.

Odds are, for some of us in that circle, that was the only prayer said all week. Sobering thinking about that now.

This week at church, we began a series on the Lord’s Prayer, starting with the first words Jesus taught His disciples to pray.

Matthew 6:9–10: “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be Your name. Your kingdom come. Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

During our Life Group discussion, a gentleman in our group named Rusty shared a simple way he had been taught to think about prayer:

I like that. Especially where it starts and where it ends.

Prayer begins by turning our attention toward God, and it ends with surrendering ourselves to Him.

We also talked about how easy it is to treat prayer like 911. Something goes wrong, life gets scary, the diagnosis comes, the money isn’t there, one of the kids gets hurt, and suddenly we remember that we should probably pray. But prayer was never meant to be an emergency number we keep around just in case everything else fails. It should be our first response.

I learned something about that pretty early in adulthood.

I bought my first house in October 2000. A few months later, I opened the mail and found a tax bill I wasn’t expecting. When I bought the house, I had specifically asked for the taxes to be included in my mortgage payment. I was young, living in my first house, and I certainly hadn’t been putting money aside for a tax bill I thought I was already paying.

It was an emergency to me, and I needed help. So before I picked up the phone, I prayed.

Then I called the mortgage company. They admitted they had made a mistake, and, like God has done more than once in my life, He didn’t simply provide a way through the problem. I ended up in a better situation on the other side of it. I was able to refinance the house for the same term at a lower interest rate and take care of the bill.

God is so good.

But there’s something I understand now that I probably didn’t understand nearly as well in my twenties: God would have still been good if His answer had looked different.

That’s where prayer gets harder.

When the disciples asked Jesus to teach them to pray, He didn’t begin with a list of everything they needed. He began with God: “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be Your name.”

Before Jesus gets to “give us,” He teaches us to praise. Before the needs, worries, problems, decisions, and things keeping us awake at night, He points our attention toward the Father.

That changes our perspective. Prayer stops beginning with everything that is wrong with my life and starts with what is true about God. He is good, faithful, present, and worthy of praise even when there are things happening around me that I desperately want Him to change.

That doesn’t mean we pretend everything is fine. It means we refuse to let everything that isn’t fine become bigger in our minds than the God we’re talking to.

God isn’t a genie waiting for us to say the right words so He can grant our wish. I think I understood a little bit of that kneeling next to a dugout all those years ago. Saying the Lord’s Prayer before a baseball game didn’t obligate God to help us win. The other team was probably asking God the very same thing.

Prayer isn’t about convincing God to get behind my plans. It’s about getting my heart aligned with His.

And that brings us to the part I’m still learning how to pray.

“Your kingdom come. Your will be done.”

There is something incredibly freeing about saying, “Thy will be done,” and there is something incredibly scary about it at the same time. Both feelings come from the same truth: I am not ultimately in control.

Marriage began teaching me that. Fatherhood really drove the lesson home.

When you’re only responsible for yourself, it’s easier to maintain the illusion that you have everything under control. Then you get married. Then children come along. Suddenly there are people walking around outside your house carrying enormous pieces of your heart with them, and you discover pretty quickly how little you actually control. Your needs also take a backseat to theirs a lot of times.

Let one of my kids get sick or hurt and my brain can come up with every possible outcome in about three seconds. That’s when “Thy will be done” becomes more than something I recited with my baseball team.

I know God is in control, and there is tremendous peace in that. What I don’t know is His plan, and that’s the scary part. Is He going to answer the way I’m hoping? Is He going to fix this the way I would fix it? Or is there another way I can’t see yet?

Surrender means trusting God before I know the answers to those questions.

Earlier this year, I wrote an article called Two Gardens. I wrote about Eden, where Adam and Eve hid when God came calling, and the garden outside the empty tomb, where Mary heard Jesus call her name and stepped toward Him.

But as we talked Sunday about the words “Your will be done,” my mind went to another garden.

Gethsemane.

Jesus didn’t just teach His disciples to surrender to the Father’s will. When the time came, He did it Himself.

He knew what was coming. He knew the suffering ahead of Him, and in that garden Jesus prayed that if there were another way, the cup might pass from Him. Yet He surrendered to the Father’s will.

Jesus lived the prayer He had taught.

There is a world of difference between saying “Thy will be done” when everything is going the way we hoped and saying it when we desperately want God to choose another way. Surrender doesn’t mean we stop asking God for what we want. Jesus didn’t. It means we trust our Father enough to tell Him what we want and then yield the outcome to Him.

That brings me back to P.R.A.Y.—Praise, Repentance, Ask, Yield.

Maybe there is more packed into that little reminder than I first realized. We begin by remembering who God is, and we finish by remembering that He is God and we are not. Somewhere between those two things, we bring Him everything: the unexpected bills, the sick kids, the decisions we don’t know how to make, the fears we don’t like admitting, the things we desperately want Him to fix, and even the things we’re afraid He might ask us to walk through.

Maybe that’s where prayer really begins.

“Our Father…”

Not with an emergency number or a wish list, but with a relationship. And because we know the Father we’re talking to, we can learn to say the words that can be both freeing and frightening:

“Thy will be done.”

Live It

Before you ask God for anything today, stop and praise Him. Name something about who He is that you are grateful for.

Then think about the thing you’ve been asking Him to change. Ask for what you need. Be honest about what you hope happens. There’s nothing wrong with telling your Father what you want.

Then try adding four words: Thy will be done.

Not because you don’t care about the outcome, but because you trust the One who holds it.

Go Deeper

When something goes wrong, is prayer usually my first response or something I turn to after I’ve tried everything else?

What do I have to praise God for right now before I ask Him for anything?

Is there something I’m asking God to bless when I really need to surrender it?

Why does “Thy will be done” feel freeing in some situations and frightening in others?

Do I trust God’s character even when I don’t understand His plan?

Dinner Table Devotional

Read: Matthew 6:9–10

Talk About It:

Why do you think Jesus taught us to begin prayer by praising God instead of immediately asking for things?

What’s something our family can praise God for today?

What do you think it means when we pray, “Your will be done”?

Why can trusting God’s plan sometimes be difficult?

Pray Together:

Father, thank You for who You are and for the ways You care for us. Help us come to You first instead of only when we don’t know what else to do. Teach us to trust You enough to ask honestly for what we need and still say, “Your will be done.” Amen.

One more thing before I go. This happens to be the 100th Grit & Wit article I’ve published.

I thought about doing something special for number 100. I could have looked back, counted milestones, or written about what I’ve learned along the way. But that didn’t feel right.

Maybe the best way to mark one hundred is simply to write another article.

That’s what I’ve tried to do here. Tuesday after Tuesday, I tell a story, share what God is teaching me, hit publish, and then come back the next week and do it again.

After one hundred of these, I’m still learning. And this week, I’m still learning to mean four words I’ve been saying since I was a teenager kneeling at the end of a dugout:

Thy will be done.

See you next Tuesday. Have a blessed week!

A few years ago, we took the family to Disney World. We had a great time, but if you’ve ever tried to do Disney with a family, you know there is a certain amount of strategy involved. We’d get off one ride and immediately start thinking about the next one. We had reservations, ride times, places we needed to be, and windows we couldn’t miss. There were things happening all around us, but sometimes they became little more than scenery on the way to wherever we were supposed to be next.

A couple of years later, Karen and I went to Ireland, and that trip felt completely different. We landed around 11 in the morning and pretty much immediately started driving around and sightseeing. At one point, Karen noticed the top of a cathedral a few streets away and wondered what it was. I suggested we drive over and take a look.

“Really?” she asked.

“We’ve got plenty of time.”

So we went, and we did that a lot on that trip. We had plans, but they weren’t set in concrete. We’d see something interesting and go look at it. We’d take our time. There wasn’t always another reservation or ride time pulling us away from wherever we happened to be, and I enjoyed that trip differently because of it.

Maybe part of the reason was that I wasn’t constantly asking, What are we doing next?

Week Seven: What Are We Doing Next?

This past Sunday, Sam started his sermon on Philippians 4 by talking about spending a weekend alone with his young son. They did a lot together and had a good time, but his son kept asking some version of the same question: “What are we doing next?” They’d be doing one thing, and he was already thinking about the next thing.

I laughed because that’s what kids do. Then I realized that’s what I do.

I stay in a nearly constant state of planning. There is always another project somewhere in my head. With Grit & Wit, I’ll finish one article and start thinking about the next one. I’ve got Waiting for the King coming out in November, and even though the manuscript is essentially finished, I still open it about every other day looking for a mistake or something I could make better. Apparently former English teachers aren’t supposed to publish books because we are psychologically incapable of declaring anything finished.

It’s not just writing, either. With four kids, somebody is always going somewhere. Karen puts everything on the calendar, and then I become the oracle of family logistics. What time do we need to leave? How long will it take to get there? Who needs a ride? Who has practice? Who has a game? Karen worries more about the finances because she worked in finance for years. She sees numbers everywhere. I worry about everything else—the house, the cars, the schedule, or the HVAC unit that suddenly makes a noise I don’t remember it making yesterday. Both of us play the role of the gas and the brake at different times and in different areas.

There isn’t anything inherently wrong with planning. In our house, it’s necessary. But sometimes I wonder if we do the same thing with God that Sam’s son was doing with him. We’re standing in the middle of something He has given us, and instead of being there, we’re already asking Him, What are we doing next?

Pray About Everything

Paul writes in Philippians 4 not to be anxious about anything, but instead to pray about everything. That’s one of those verses that’s a lot easier to underline than it is to live. Sam pointed out Sunday that we tend to reverse it. We worry about everything and pray about some things.

I can do that. Usually, the things that get me are the things I can’t control, especially when they have the potential to disrupt our family. A few months ago, we had to replace one of our HVAC units. Then about a month ago, the smaller unit started acting strange. Thankfully, it only needed refrigerant, but my brain was already preparing for HVAC Armageddon. Unexpected home repairs, car repairs, expenses we didn’t plan for, or things happening to my kids that Daddy can’t fix—those are the places my mind tends to go.

The funny thing is, I’ve never thought prayer had to be reserved for the big stuff. I was blessed to learn from a young age that God is Someone I can talk to anytime and anywhere. I’m the guy who will pray for a cloud while I’m mowing the yard in the heat. I’m serious. Lord, You see me out here. A little cloud would be fantastic right about now. Sometimes He is gracious and gives me one.

This past week, though, the prayers were considerably bigger than clouds. My Mama had a pacemaker put in, and I prayed hard leading up to it. I knew the procedure was common. I knew the doctors knew what they were doing. I also knew where Mama was going if God chose for things to go differently than we wanted, and I told Him that.

But I was also honest with Him.

“I still need my Mama, and my kids still need their Mee Mee.”

The procedure was over in about an hour, and when they brought her back, she recognized me immediately. Even better, she felt better almost immediately. I was elated, and I thanked God for it.

Prayer isn’t pretending that we aren’t scared. It isn’t finding the correct combination of Christian words that guarantees the outcome we want. Sometimes prayer is simply telling God the truth about where we are and admitting that He is God and we aren’t.

Just the other night, I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I started praying. I have no idea when the prayer ended because I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of it. When that happens, I usually just tell God the next morning, “Thank You, Lord, for letting me fall asleep.” I figure there are worse ways to fall asleep than talking to your Father.

That’s really what “pray about everything” looks like for me. Sometimes it’s Mama getting a pacemaker. Sometimes it’s a child whose feelings have been hurt and I can’t do anything to fix it. Sometimes it’s money, the house, the schedule, or whatever problem has decided to show up that week. And sometimes it’s asking God for a cloud while I’m mowing.

He gets all of it.

I think most of my worry comes from trying to do God’s job. I want to protect my family. When we’re out together, my head is usually on a swivel. I’m watching where everybody is and paying attention to what’s happening around us. Karen can tell when I’m doing it and will sometimes say, “Everything’s fine.” It helps a little, but I’m still Dad. I’m never going to stop being the protector.

There are things, though, that I cannot protect my family from. I can’t stop someone from hurting one of my children’s feelings. I can’t make sure they get every position they want, every recognition they deserve, or every opportunity they work for. When one of those things doesn’t happen, I get frustrated because, of course, I’m biased. I want all the good stuff to happen to my kids.

But I can’t control other people or every outcome, and I can’t remove every bump from the road in front of them. Tony Evans once used the illustration of Plinko from The Price Is Right. Everybody drops that chip hoping it lands in the big-money slot, but there are all those pegs along the way. The chip gets bumped one direction and then another. Life does that. Plans change, but God doesn’t.

I tell my kids that even though I know it’s usually the last thing somebody wants to hear when they’re disappointed: God has a plan. Apparently I need to hear myself say it sometimes, too.

When I worry, I’m usually trying to do God’s job. When I pray, I’m finally admitting that God is ultimately in control.

What’s Taking Up Space in My Head?

Paul doesn’t stop with prayer. In Philippians 4:8, he tells us what deserves space in our minds: things that are true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, commendable, excellent, and worthy of praise.

That matters because my brain can come up with plenty of alternatives. Depending on the day, the questions sound different. At work, it’s Am I stuck? Am I going anywhere? Am I actually making a difference? At home, it’s Am I doing enough for my family? Am I the best husband and father I can be? Have any of my decisions messed something up? Should I be doing more? Then there’s writing: Does anybody care? How many people actually read this stuff? Do these books even matter?

I don’t live in those thoughts like I might have when I was younger, but they still show up. When I wonder whether I’m doing enough for my family, the people in my family tell me I am. That doesn’t necessarily make the question disappear forever, but it helps. Their answer is enough.

I’ve gotten better about the numbers with writing, too. I’ll watch how something performs the first day because I’m interested in what connects with readers. After that, I’m usually working on the next thing. I remind myself that the people God wanted to see or read it will get it, and everyone else is a bonus.

Social media has made all of us more exposed to what everybody else is doing and what everybody else thinks. We waited until Brighton was 18 before allowing him on social media, and even then we had a long conversation about it. Our value doesn’t come from any of that. It doesn’t come from likes, followers, subscribers, recognition, awards, jobs, or whether everybody approves of us. I am not a mistake.

God doesn’t make mistakes. I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

It took me a while to really believe that. I didn’t have a lot of confidence growing up, and younger Maury spent entirely too much time worrying about what other people thought. Karen helped change some of that, along with other people God placed in my life. Eventually, I stopped spending quite so much energy trying to please everybody else and became more concerned with pleasing God.

I’m still working on it.

We’ve all heard the saying that idle hands are the devil’s playground, and there’s probably some truth in that. My mind can wander when it isn’t occupied. But I think Satan likes busyness, too. Work is work. Tasks are tasks. Even good things can consume so much of our attention that we stop paying attention to the things that matter most.

Church can do it. Work can do it. Writing can do it. Family schedules can do it. Even ministry can do it. You can be incredibly busy doing good things and still realize you’ve barely thought about God all day.

That’s why I have to intentionally redirect myself. Sometimes that means turning on Christian music and working in the garage or messing with the Jeep. Sometimes it’s Scripture. Sometimes it’s prayer. Sometimes it’s simply stopping long enough to notice what’s happening around me.

Paul doesn’t tell us simply to stop thinking. He tells us where to put our thoughts.

Lord knows I try.

Make Sure They See You Watching

One place I’ve gotten pretty good about being present is when one of my kids is playing a sport. If I’m sitting at Chloe’s tennis match or Grayson’s flag football games, I don’t spend the whole time looking at my phone. There’s a reason for that: I never know when they might look over at me, and if they do, I want them to see me watching them, not my screen.

Grayson is notorious for being on the field and looking dead at me. He’ll point at me, and I’ll point back at him.

The other day, Chloe was having a rough tennis match. At one point she looked over, and we locked eyes. I mouthed a really exaggerated, “It’s OK,” then pushed my hands downward while mouthing, “Calm down. Take a breath.”

That was all I could do. I couldn’t play the point for her or fix whatever was frustrating her. I couldn’t walk onto the court and make it easier. But when she looked for me, I was there.

I’ve thought about that moment several times since. Attention is a funny thing. We give it away all day without thinking much about it, but giving someone our full attention may be one of the simplest ways to tell them they matter. That’s part of why Paul’s words about our thoughts hit me. Where we put our minds matters. Where we put our eyes matters. What gets our attention matters.

And right now, there are some things I really don’t want to miss.

Brighton is a senior in high school. Next year he’ll be in college. That’s a weird sentence to type.

One of the things I’m already thinking about is supper. We eat together as a family every night, and we all have our seats. It’s ordinary enough that I don’t think much about it most nights. Next year, one of those chairs will be empty during the week.

Hopefully Brighton will come home on weekends. We’ll still eat together, and he’ll sit back down in his spot. But it won’t be every night anymore, and I already know I’m going to miss that.

I sometimes wonder what older Maury would tell current Maury to quit worrying about. I doubt he’ll care how many people opened this issue of Grit & Wit. He probably won’t remember whether I caught every typo in Waiting for the King. I doubt he’ll remember the HVAC repair, the schedule we were trying to coordinate, or whatever thing at work had me worried that particular week.

But I bet he’d give quite a bit to sit at that table again with all four kids in their seats.

That’s the stuff I don’t want to miss while I’m asking what we’re doing next.

Don’t Miss This

I keep going back to Ireland. Karen saw the top of a cathedral a few streets away and wondered what it was. I said we should go see it. She was a little surprised because it wasn’t part of the plan, but that didn’t matter. “We’ve got plenty of time,” I told her.

I like that version of me. Not because we actually have plenty of time. The older I get, the more I realize just how quickly time moves. I like that version of me because, for once, I wasn’t worried about what came next. There was something worth seeing right in front of us, and we went to see it.

That’s what I don’t want to miss now.

Brighton is a senior. Next year one of the chairs at our supper table will be empty during the week. Chloe is playing tennis, and every once in a while she’s going to look into the stands to see if Daddy is watching. There are flag football games, movie nights, rides in the Jeep, conversations in the kitchen and a thousand other ordinary things happening in our house that don’t seem particularly important until you realize they won’t happen quite this way forever.

There will always be something next. Another article. Another project. Another bill. Another repair. Another place somebody needs to be. Some of those things need my attention, and planning is part of taking care of the people God has given me.

I just don’t want tomorrow to take so much of my attention that I miss today.

When I worry, I’m usually trying to do God’s job. When I pray, I’m finally admitting that God is ultimately in control. And when I’m present, I notice the people around me are present a little more, too.

Maybe that’s part of what I’m learning from Philippians 4. Pray about everything. Think about the things that are true and good and worthy of my attention. Trust God with what I cannot control. And then actually be where He has put me.

I don’t know what we’re doing next.

For once, maybe I don’t need to.

I don’t want to miss this.

Live It

This week, pay attention to where your mind goes when it has room to wander. What are you worrying about that you haven’t really given to God? What situation are you trying to control that was never yours to control in the first place?

Then pay attention to the people God has placed right in front of you. Put the phone down when you can. Let the next task wait a few minutes. Pray about the thing that’s bothering you, even if it seems as insignificant as wanting a cloud while you mow the yard. Paul tells us to pray about everything and then to be intentional about what fills our minds. Maybe we need to practice both.

Don’t become so consumed with what’s next that you miss what God is doing now.

Dinner Table Devotional

Read: Philippians 4:4–9

Talk About It:

1. What is something you worry about even though you know you can’t control it?

2. Paul says to pray about everything. Are there things that seem too small to pray about? Why?

3. What are some thoughts that can take your attention away from what God says is true?

4. What is one good thing happening in your life right now that you don’t want to rush past?

5. How can we help each other be more present with God and with one another this week?

Pray:

Lord, thank You for caring about everything that matters to us, from the things that frighten us to the ordinary details of our days. Forgive us when we worry instead of praying and when we become so focused on what’s next that we miss what You’ve given us now. Help us fill our minds with what is true, keep our attention on You, and be fully present with the people You’ve placed around us. Remind us that You are in control, so we don’t have to be. In the great, big name of Jesus. Amen.

A Brief Disclaimer Before the Pickleball People Come for Me

The following article was written a long time ago and has been sitting quietly in my drafts ever since. Every few months, I open it, read it again, wonder if I should publish it, and then laugh just enough to keep it around.

In the time since I wrote it, my own brother has taken up pickleball. Through him, I have learned that some of what follows may not actually qualify as satire. He has encountered some very nice people.

He has also encountered some... intense people.

So, before we continue, the management of Grit & Wit would like to make the following statement:

No pickleball players were harmed in the writing of this article. Grit & Wit does not recommend approaching an agitated pickleball player, questioning a line call, entering the kitchen without proper authorization, touching another person’s paddle, or suggesting that pickleball is simply oversized ping pong.

The author assumes no responsibility for angry emails, aggressive fist pumps, unsolicited explanations of DUPR ratings, or invitations to “just come play one time and you’ll understand.”

This article is intended for entertainment purposes only. If you recognize yourself in any of the following paragraphs, please consult your spouse, your doubles partner, or the group text you absolutely have for pickleball.

And if you’re offended, please remember: I wrote this before my brother started playing.

So technically, this is his fault.

Now then...

Do you want to know if someone plays pickleball?

Don’t worry—they’ll tell you.

Usually within the first 90 seconds of a conversation. It’s like CrossFit, but with more wristbands and fewer injuries that need ice packs.

Pickleball is the epidemic sweeping the nation, one repurposed tennis court at a time. It’s the sport for people who want to play tennis, but not all that tennis-y stuff like running, sweating, or covering ground larger than a modest living room rug. If you enjoy destroying relationships but don’t enjoy cardio, pickleball might be for you.

Want to passive-aggressively scream at your spouse in public under the guise of "doubles strategy"? Welcome to the kitchen. (That’s what they call the no-volley zone. Because of course they do.)

I wonder if they call it the kitchen because that’s where the most fights happen.

I haven’t seen a "0.0 I Don’t Run" bumper sticker with a pickleball paddle yet, but we all know it’s coming. There’s a disturbing inevitability to the way pickleball players evangelize. It’s less a sport and more of a paddle-wielding pyramid scheme. They get you to play, and then you have to get two friends to play, and suddenly there are eight people standing in line at 6 a.m. arguing over paddle rotation rules like it’s Olympic qualifying.

The outfits are their own saga. You can spot a true pickleball disciple by their moisture-wicking gear, custom paddle bag, and the steely-eyed focus of someone who once played high school sports and still hasn’t let it go. These are former athletes who need an outlet, but aren’t ready to take up running because...knees. And yet after a win, they react like they just hit a walk-off homer in Game 7 of the World Series. The high-fives are aggressive. The trash talk is oddly intense. There's usually a fist pump involved.

And the conversations? My goodness. Pickleball players work their sport into any conversation with the same energy as someone trying to sell essential oils.

“Oh you’re tired? You should try pickleball.”

“You’re going through a breakup? Honestly, pickleball got me through a hard time.”

“You’re hungry?” “Do you know where I grabbed a snack after pickleball yesterday?”

Deep down, I think they know. They know it’s weird. They know it’s basically ping pong, tennis, and cage fighting had a baby raised by suburban dads with joint pain. But they can’t stop. Because pickleball doesn’t just fill your schedule, and then…it takes over your soul. It's the opposite of Highlander: there cannot be only one. Once one couple plays, every other couple in the friend group gets sucked in or ostracized for not playing. And just like that, couples who used to argue over where to eat are now arguing over line calls and foot faults. Is it love? Or is it a paddle-related rage spiral?

I don’t hate pickleball. I just fear its power.

Which is also why I have never played.

People keep telling me I need to try it. Absolutely not. I know myself too well. From everything I’ve heard, pickleball has been specifically engineered to bring out the worst parts of my competitive personality.

There would be no casual Saturday morning game. I wouldn’t be out there “just having fun.” Within two weeks, I’d own three paddles, have strong opinions about footwear, and be researching leagues within a 30-mile radius. Karen would ask what we’re doing Friday night, and I’d have to explain that we can’t go anywhere because I’ve got a grudge match against a 62-year-old accountant named Gary who questioned one of my line calls.

And I would need to destroy Gary and make him sell every paddle he has. In typical Ivan Drago fashion, I would break him.

So I stay away.

Not because I think I’m better than pickleball players.

Because deep down, I know I might be one of them.

Because one day, you’re mocking it from the sidelines. And the next day, you’ve got a paddle named “Big Dink Energy” and a group text called “Smash Bros.” And you can’t stop talking about how “surprisingly intense” it is. Because it is. And because it’s too late.

Just like a cucumber in a jar with the lid tightly closed…you’ve been pickled.

I’ve watched Alabama beat Georgia for the 2017 national championship more than once. I’ve actually watched a lot of replays of Alabama championships. I know. I know. Shocking.

If you’re an Alabama fan, you probably remember that game pretty well. Things were not looking good at halftime. Alabama was down, the offense was struggling, and freshman quarterback Tua Tagovailoa came into the game in the second half. I remember my son and I standing up in our bonus room with our arms folded, hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. When Bama scored that touchdown, we woke everyone up with our cheers.

Of course, I know what happens now. I know Alabama comes back. I know the game goes to overtime. I know Georgia scores first. I even know Tua takes a terrible sack on Alabama’s first play of its possession and suddenly it’s 2nd-and-26.

I also know what happens next.

That’s what makes watching the replay completely different from watching it live. The mistakes are still there. The missed opportunities still happen. The interceptions and bad plays haven’t magically disappeared because I’ve seen the game before. They just don’t make me panic anymore because I’m waiting for the ending. I already know the final score.

Turns out, that has a little more to do with following Jesus than I realized.

Week Six - Keep Running

We’ve made it to Week Six of our journey through Philippians at Thompson Station Church, and this week we moved into Philippians 3:12–21, where Paul describes the Christian life like a runner pressing toward a finish line.

It was also Tailgate Sunday at church, so everybody was wearing their favorite team’s jersey. There was Gatorade, grilling between services, and plenty of evidence that Christians can disagree strongly about important theological issues like which college football team God prefers.

David Nasser preached and joked that pastors tend to have their “jams.” He’d probably use tennis illustrations. Pastor Sam Landrith might bring up football or basketball. Another pastor friend of his talks about baseball all the time. David’s theory is that running must have been Paul’s thing because Paul sure used running and racing illustrations enough.

In Philippians 3, Paul says he hasn’t reached the goal yet. He hasn’t arrived. Instead, he keeps pressing forward toward the prize. Our Life Group guide describes Paul’s life as one focused on moving toward Jesus rather than wandering around the track, getting distracted, or constantly looking behind him.

David gave us three sightlines for that race: refined by the past, not defined by it; resilient in the present; and resting in our future. That last one really got my attention because David kept coming back to a phrase he had the entire church repeat:

There will be battles I lose. There will be days I don’t run particularly well. But because of Jesus, I already know how the war ends.

Remembering Isn’t the Same as Rehearsing

David made a distinction Sunday that I really liked. He said it’s okay to remember the past, but there’s a difference between remembering something and rehearsing it.

He used the example of the guy in his thirties who still shows up to every Friday night football game wearing his high school letterman jacket and class ring. There’s nothing wrong with being proud of what happened in high school, but at some point you’re supposed to take the jacket off and keep living. The past can refine us without defining us.

I’ve had to learn that when it comes to people’s opinions of me. I still want people to think I’m a kind person. I certainly hope people can look at my life and recognize that I’m an active follower of Jesus. But whether somebody particularly likes my personality doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it once did.

Apparently, I have more aura now. That’s what the kids would say, anyway.

Brighton wants me to help build his Homecoming float this year. He was talking to me about it and was a little concerned that the whole thing might become disorganized. Too many cooks in the kitchen and all that.

I told him, “You know I can’t turn me off.”

He said, “That’s why I want you there. I want you there, and I need you to be you.”

That made this Daddy pretty proud. He’s not asking me to walk in and take over. That’s not what I mean by leadership. I just tend to do what needs to be done, and sometimes that means speaking up when nobody else will.

I tell Brighton all the time that a lack of leadership creates a vacuum, and that vacuum will eventually be filled. It might be filled by a good leader or a bad one. If God has put leadership on your heart and given you the ability to help, I think there are times when it’s your responsibility to step into that void.

Younger Maury would have quietly offered a suggestion and hoped somebody liked it. Older Maury is more likely to offer the suggestion, and if everybody decides it’s a terrible idea, no skin off my nose. Of course, Older Maury may occasionally have a little too much confidence. Jesus is still working on me.

What meant the most about Brighton’s comment wasn’t simply that he thinks I’m a good leader. I hope he’s watched me do it enough that when he’s a husband and father someday, he’ll step up when his family needs him to lead. That’s the part of the past I want to carry forward.

The Unsubscribe Email

I’ve found another place where I’m getting better at not rehearsing things.

Every once in a while, I’ll open my email and see a notification from Substack telling me somebody has unsubscribed from Grit & Wit. I don’t like those emails. Who would?

When I first started writing, they bothered me quite a bit. I’d immediately wonder what I’d done wrong, and then I’d go back to my most recent article and start dissecting it. Was it something I said? Did I offend them? Was that article not very good? Should I have written something differently?

I could spend a while thinking about one person who decided they didn’t want another email from me.

It still bothers me a little. I don’t know that I’ll ever get to the point where I see an unsubscribe notification and celebrate. I know what it’s like to look at numbers and be discouraged, which is one reason I try to read and support other writers whenever I can.

The difference is that now the disappointment lasts a couple of minutes instead of a couple of hours. There are plenty of writers for everybody on Substack, and I trust that God will put the right people in touch with my writing. Also, I know some people don’t like their inbox full, so they just follow. It’s all good.

It’s really no different from someone visiting our Life Group and deciding another class is a better fit for them. It would be easy for me to take that personally, but if they feel like God is leading them somewhere else, who am I to get in the way of God moving in somebody’s life because I wanted another person in our class?

That’s something Younger Maury probably wouldn’t have understood. I’m learning I don’t have to win the battle of everybody liking me. I can remember the unsubscribe without rehearsing it, and then I keep running.

In the Pursuit of Perfection

Paul says something in Philippians 3 that I appreciate more the older I get. He openly admits he hasn’t arrived.

This is Paul we’re talking about. If anybody could have looked around the early church and thought, I’m doing pretty well at this Christian thing, you’d think Paul would have qualified. Instead, he says he hasn’t reached the goal or become perfect. He’s still pressing forward.

I understand that better now than I did when I was younger because the more you get to know Jesus, the more you get to know yourself. By that I mean you begin to realize just how different you are from Him.

I struggle with Bible reading. I struggle with prayer time. I struggle with rejection. I lose my temper. I get frustrated. I have days when I know exactly what Jesus would want me to do and still find Maury wanting to do something else. Daily.

Every time you start thinking you’ve got this Christian-life thing figured out, you probably need to look at Jesus again.

When I was teaching, I had a motto hanging above my classroom door: “In the pursuit of perfection, we find excellence.” I wanted my students to understand that none of them were going to be perfect. Neither was their teacher. But knowing perfection was impossible didn’t mean we stopped trying to do things well.

I think there’s something similar happening in Philippians 3. I’m never going to be Jesus. The more I know Him, the more clearly I can see the distance between His perfection and mine. But I don’t look at that distance and say, “Well, I’m never going to measure up, so why bother?” That’s insane.

Maybe tomorrow I look a little more like Jesus than I did today. Maybe I handle something differently. Maybe I’m more patient. Maybe I pray first instead of after I’ve exhausted every other option.

I’m not chasing perfection because I think I can earn my way to Jesus. I’m chasing Jesus because He’s already made me His, and I want to keep growing.

Break Glass in Case of Emergency

David’s second sightline was being resilient in the present.

He told a story about a church in Cuba that didn’t have reliable electricity, so they had a generator for backup power. Then he flipped the illustration around. In the upside-down Kingdom of God, God isn’t supposed to be our backup generator. He’s the source.

I think younger Christians sometimes treat God like He’s trapped behind a piece of glass with a little sign that says BREAK GLASS IN CASE OF EMERGENCY. I know I did. I’d handle it. I’d figure it out. I’d try another option, call somebody, come up with another plan, and only when none of that worked would I remember, Oh yeah. Maybe I should pray.

The older I’ve gotten and the more mature I’ve become in my faith, the more I’ve realized how much easier it is to go to Him from the beginning. He’s the first Person I talk to in the morning and the last Person I talk to at night, with plenty of conversations in between.

That doesn’t mean I spend the entire day walking around with my eyes closed in prayer. Life in the Wood house doesn’t really allow for that.

Right now, Karen and I have two elementary-school students, one middle-schooler, and one senior in high school. While thinking about this article, I realized that this time next year we’ll have a college student, a high schooler, a middle schooler, and an elementary student.

Good grief. Or as my youngest would say, “Bruh…”

Add my work, Karen’s work, Brighton’s new job, church, tennis, flag football practices and games, club meetings, household chores, extended family events, and everything else that gets thrown at a family of six, and our calendar gets interesting.

Currently, as I am writing this, I am sitting next to a hospital bed as my Mama just got a pacemaker. She is doing great, and I appreciate all the prayers for her. God is good. He is so good.

We have a calendar on the coffee bar that holds everything. Whenever one of the kids announces something happening in their life, the immediate response from Mama or Daddy is usually, “Did you put it on the calendar?” If it’s not on the calendar, we cannot be held responsible for missed appointments.

Apparently, the Oracle of the House is still employed.

People with fewer children sometimes see our schedule and look at us like we’ve lost our minds. To us, it’s just life. We’ve learned we can’t say yes to everything, and that’s okay. It’s busy and sometimes stressful, but there’s also a lot of peace in the middle of it because when we look around, we see the blessings.

David said Sunday that what’s inside is bigger than what’s outside. The external things can oppress us, but they don’t have to possess us. I like that because the calendar can be full without my soul being full of chaos.

God isn’t the emergency generator we fire up when the Wood family calendar finally breaks us. He’s where the power comes from in the first place.

Follow Me

Later in Philippians 3, Paul says something I’m not sure many Christians would be comfortable saying: follow my example.

Our Life Group guide asks how comfortable we would be telling a new believer to imitate the way we follow Jesus. That’s an uncomfortable question if you think Paul means, “Look at me because I do everything right.”

I don’t think that’s what he’s saying at all.

Could I tell my kids to follow my example of following Jesus? I think I could, but not because I always get it right. They know better than that. My kids have seen me lose my temper. They’ve heard me raise my voice. They’ve seen me take shots I shouldn’t have taken. They’ve also heard me apologize a lot, and I hope that’s part of what they imitate.

I want them to see a Daddy who loves Jesus, but I also want them to see what happens when Daddy doesn’t act much like Jesus. He admits it. He asks forgiveness. He gets back up and keeps running.

If Brighton sat beside me and said, “Dad, I keep messing up at the same thing. Maybe I’m just bad at following Jesus,” I know exactly what I’d tell him.

“So am I. So am I.”

Then I’d remind him that just as I could never stop loving him because he messed up, Jesus doesn’t stop loving His children when we stumble.

That’s the race I want my kids to watch me run. Not a perfect one, but a faithful one.

Battery Rechargers

Parenting can wear you out.

I love being a father. It’s one of the greatest blessings God has ever given me, but anybody who tells you raising children isn’t exhausting either doesn’t have children or has forgotten.

There are days when you’re correcting the same behavior again, driving somebody somewhere, trying to remember which child needs to be at which place at which time, or looking at that coffee-bar calendar wondering if there are actually enough hours in Saturday.

Then one of the younger kids gets scared during a storm and comes close because Daddy makes them feel safe. Or one of the kids lays their head on my shoulder. Or we’re walking through a store and one of them reaches over and grabs my hand.

Those are battery rechargers for me.

Every once in a while, they’ll tell me thank you for being a good Daddy or tell me that I make them feel safe and loved. Those moments don’t make the hard parts of parenting disappear. They remind me why I keep going through them.

Before David even preached Sunday, I mentioned in our Life Group the stories we’ve all seen of runners who collapse near the finish line. They’re exhausted and can’t go any farther, and somebody comes alongside them, puts an arm around them, and helps them across.

I think God gives us little moments like that. Sometimes He even uses the people we’re trying to help to give us enough encouragement to keep going ourselves.

I Know What Happens Next

David’s third sightline was resting in our future.

Paul ends this section of Philippians by reminding believers that our citizenship is in heaven. That’s where we’re headed. Our Life Group guide makes the point that this isn’t simply about where Christians go when they die. Knowing our destination is supposed to change the way we live right now.

The older I get, the more I long for heaven. Not necessarily the dying part. I’m good waiting on that. God and I have had several conversations on the subject.

But this world gets taxing. The injustice gets tiring. The ungodliness gets tiring. One of the hardest parts is knowing the Savior people need and watching them reject Him.

When I think about heaven, the first thing I usually think about is family members completely healthy and whole. Then I think about the people I’d love to talk to. David. The disciples. Billy Graham. People I’ve read about and studied for years. In my head, it’s a giant homecoming get-together, and Jesus is there.

Knowing that’s where I’m headed changes some things about what seems important here. I don’t need everybody to like me. I don’t need to keep up with the Joneses. I don’t need to win every disagreement or fight every battle. At this point in my life, I can probably count on one hand the hills I’m willing to die on.

Maybe that’s because I’m finally learning something I tell my family all the time: I can only control myself. And maybe it’s also because I’m beginning to understand what David meant when he had us repeat, “I am a war already won.”

The Final Score

David used a football game to illustrate that idea Sunday. Texas had been losing, and someone he knew had gotten discouraged and stopped watching. Later, after finding out Texas came back and won, he watched the replay. Watching the replay was completely different because he knew the final score.

I immediately thought about all those Alabama games I’ve rewatched, especially that national championship against Georgia. Tua can take the sack. It’s fine. I’m waiting for 2nd-and-26.

The mistakes haven’t disappeared. They just don’t make me panic because I know what’s coming.

That’s what I think we sometimes forget about the Christian life. There are going to be battles we lose. There are going to be mistakes. There will be things that hurt, prayers whose answers we don’t understand, and seasons when the scoreboard doesn’t look anything like we hoped it would.

But we know how the story ends.

David pointed out that someone can win all kinds of battles in this world. They can win the financial battle. They can win the popularity battle. They can have everything this world says matters. But none of those victories compare with knowing the Savior who has already declared the final victory.

Jesus is the prize. Because of Him, I don’t have to spend the entire game panicking over every third-quarter interception.

It Could Happen

While working through this week’s message, I wondered what 78-year-old Maury would probably laugh at 48-year-old Maury for worrying about so much.

One answer came pretty quickly: Grit & Wit.

I love this little corner of the internet God has allowed me to build. I love writing. I love hearing that something I’ve written helped somebody. I love watching the subscriber number grow. I also have to remind myself occasionally that the number is not the mission.

Today, Brighton joked that Grayson is going to be the one who really benefits if my writing career takes off because by then I’ll be able to buy his little brother anything he wants.

I laughed, but somewhere in the back of my head I thought, What if?

Brighton smiled and said, “It could happen.”

It could. Maybe Grit & Wit grows into something far bigger than I ever imagined. Maybe the books take off. Maybe I write a bunch more of them. Maybe opportunities come that I can’t even see right now.

I hope so, and I’m going to keep working at it.

But I don’t know that final score. I don’t know how many people will eventually subscribe to Grit & Wit, how many books I’ll write or sell, or where this whole writing thing will lead.

I’m learning that I don’t need to know.

There are a thousand little scores in this life God hasn’t shown me. The one that matters, He has.

So I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep being Karen’s husband and Daddy to these four kids. I’ll keep stepping into leadership when God puts an opening in front of me. I’ll keep apologizing when I mess up. I’ll keep trying to pray first instead of breaking the glass when everything else fails.

And I’ll keep running, not because I’m winning every battle or because I’ve arrived, but because I know Who is waiting at the finish line. I know the final score.

Because of Jesus, I am a war already won.

Live It

Paul doesn’t tell us to forget our past or pretend our present struggles don’t matter. He tells us to keep pressing forward.

Maybe this week, pay attention to where your eyes are. Are you rehearsing something from the past that God wants to use to refine you rather than define you? Are you so consumed by what’s happening around you right now that you’ve forgotten where your strength actually comes from? Or are you fighting a battle that seems enormous today but may not matter nearly as much when viewed through the lens of eternity?

You don’t have to pretend the bad play didn’t happen, and you don’t have to pretend the race isn’t tiring. Christians just aren’t running toward an unknown finish line.

Our citizenship is in heaven. Jesus has already secured our future. We know the final score, so let’s keep running.

Dinner Table Devotional

Read: Philippians 3:12–21

Paul openly admitted that he hadn’t arrived yet. He wasn’t perfect, and there was still growing to do. Instead of allowing that to discourage him, Paul kept pressing toward Jesus.

He also reminded the Philippians that their citizenship was in heaven. Knowing where they were going was supposed to change the way they lived while they were here.

That’s true for us, too. Following Jesus doesn’t mean we’ll win every little battle or never make another mistake. It means we know Who we’re following and where He’s taking us.

Talk About It

1. What’s something from your past that has helped shape you but doesn’t need to define you?

2. Why do you think Paul admitted that he still hadn’t reached the goal?

3. Would you be comfortable telling someone else to imitate the way you follow Jesus? Why or why not?

4. What’s a battle you’re spending a lot of energy fighting right now? Will it still matter five or ten years from now?

5. How should knowing that our citizenship is in heaven change the way we live this week?

Pray

Jesus, thank You that we don’t have to run this race alone. Help us learn from our past without living in it, depend on You in the present, and trust You with our future. When we stumble, help us get back up. When we’re tired, give us strength to keep going. Keep our eyes on You instead of all the little battles around us, and remind us that because of what You’ve already done, we know how the story ends. Amen.

High school was not my favorite season of life. I never really felt like I fit in. I wasn’t invited to many parties, partly because I was working and partly because I didn’t do many of the things that were happening at those parties. The few I did attend didn’t exactly leave me wishing I’d gone to more.

I had friends. I had church. I had my family. But school itself could be tough, and there were plenty of times during those four years when I felt like I was on the outside looking in.

Then came senior awards night.

They started calling names for different subject awards, civic awards, and other recognitions, and for one evening, my name kept getting called. Eventually some of my friends started joking, “Let somebody else get one.”

I probably should have felt a little embarrassed, but I didn’t. For the first time in four years, I felt vindicated. All the work I’d put in was being recognized. People saw what I had accomplished, and at 18 years old, that meant a lot to me.

I don’t look back at that kid and think there was anything wrong with enjoying the moment. He had worked hard. He’d earned those awards. I understand why he needed that night because, at that point in my life, being recognized mattered to me more than I’d probably have admitted.

I wish I could sit beside that 18-year-old kid for a minute, though. I’d tell him to enjoy the night. Take the awards. Smile for the pictures. You’ve earned them.

But one day, you’re going to figure out that you don’t need a room full of people calling your name to know who you are.

Week Five: An Impressive Resume

We’ve made it to Week Five of our journey through Philippians at Thompson Station Church, and this week we moved into Philippians 3:1–11.

Paul does something interesting in this passage. He essentially gives us his resume. If anyone had reason to brag about religious credentials, Paul did. He could point to his heritage, his obedience to the law, his zeal, and his reputation. By the standards of the religious world around him, Paul had put together a pretty impressive list. The speaker at our church Sunday went as far as to call Paul “the GOAT” by today’s standards.

Then Paul basically says none of it is worth comparing to knowing Jesus.

Our Life Group study this week makes an important distinction. Accomplishments, careers, possessions, and relationships aren’t bad things. Many of them are blessings from God. The problem comes when we start expecting those good things to tell us who we are.

Paul had plenty he could brag about. He just refused to build his identity on any of it.

Jeff Lovingood preached Sunday and used a phrase that stuck with me: “My being comes before doing.”

That one will preach to a guy like me because I like doing. I work. I write. I lead. I fix things around the house. I find projects for the Jeep. I think about the next article while I’m writing the current one, and I’m usually thinking about the next book before the current book is finished.

I’m not particularly good at sitting around doing absolutely nothing for long. Give me enough time and I’ll find something that needs to be done.

But none of those things really answer the most important question about me.

Who am I?

What Happens When Nobody Calls Your Name?

I think I spent more of my younger years than I realized looking for validation. That’s probably part of why senior awards night felt so good. After several years of not feeling like I fit in, suddenly there was tangible proof that I’d done something worthwhile.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that accomplishments are funny things. They can mean a lot to us in the moment, and then life keeps moving.

I’ve earned degrees. I’ve had different jobs and titles. I’ve written things with my name on them. I’ve published books. Those are all things I’m proud of, and I’m grateful God has allowed me to do them. I’m not going to pretend they don’t matter to me because they do.

They’re just not who I am.

As I was working through my thoughts for this article, my 18-year-old son, Brighton, was sitting beside me on the couch. We were watching The Mandalorian and Grogu together while I worked. He was less than a foot away from me because we were sharing the footrest.

Good times.

There was plenty I could have been doing. There is always something around the house that needs attention. I could have been working on another writing project. I’m fairly certain I could find something on the Jeep to take apart if I looked hard enough.

Instead, my 18-year-old son wanted to sit beside me and watch a movie.

At 48, I appreciate that a lot more than I would have when I was younger. I don’t need every hour of the day to produce something. My kids are growing up, and the number of nights when all six of us are under the same roof isn’t going to increase from here.

Sometimes sitting on the couch with one of them is the thing I need to be doing.

I’m still a doer. I don’t think that’s ever going away. But I’m beginning to understand what Jeff meant when he said my being comes before my doing. Before I’m a writer, manager, author, teacher, leader, or anything else I could put on a resume, I belong to Jesus. I’m Karen’s husband. I’m the father of four kids God entrusted to us.

Take away the titles and accomplishments, and I still have my family. They don’t care how many books I’ve written or what my job title is.

And I still have Jesus.

I Might Be the Other Brother

Growing up in church can create an interesting problem. I knew the Bible stories. I knew the answers. I went to church. I tried to do what I was supposed to do. As I got older, I served and taught and went on mission trips.

For years, when I heard the story of the Prodigal Son, I knew exactly which character I wasn’t.

I wasn’t the kid who left home. Thank goodness I had more sense than that guy. What in the world was he thinking?

Then somewhere along the way, I started realizing something uncomfortable.

I just might be the other brother.

The older brother stayed. He worked. He obeyed. He did what his father expected of him. Then his younger brother came home after blowing everything, Dad threw a party, and the older brother essentially said, “Wait a minute. I’ve been here busting my tail doing what I was supposed to do. Where’s my party?”

I understand that guy more than I’d like to admit.

There have been times when I’ve looked at my own life and wondered where my reward was. I’ve been faithful. I’ve served. I’ve tried to do what God wanted me to do. So, if I’m doing everything I’m supposed to be doing, why does somebody else seem to be getting the party?

That’s a dangerous place to get because suddenly I’m not serving God out of love anymore. I’m keeping score.

Paul knew something about that. He had done all the right religious things, too. Yet in Philippians 3, he refuses to stand before God holding up his resume and pointing out everything he’d done right.

I’ve come to realize we’re all level at the foot of the cross. I don’t get to point toward somebody else’s sin and say, “At least I didn’t leave home.”

I need Jesus just as much as the prodigal does. Maybe that’s what the older-brother version of me took so long to understand.

Empty Me of Me

Toward the end of Sunday’s message, Jeff gave us four simple prayers: Cleanse me today. Empty me of me today. Fill me afresh today. Empower me.

That second one may be the hardest for me because there is entirely too much Maury in Maury sometimes.

One of the things I struggle with is control. My friends know this. If we’re carpooling somewhere, there’s a pretty good chance I’m driving. I like knowing where we’re going. I like deciding when we leave. I like being in control of the vehicle.

Apparently, this has spiritual implications I hadn’t considered.

Following Jesus requires me to admit that I’m not actually driving. I can make plans. I can work hard. I can use whatever wisdom God has given me. I can even have a pretty good idea of how I think things ought to turn out.

God still gets to be God.

Jonah learned that one the hard way. God told him to go to Nineveh. Jonah decided he had a better travel itinerary. After one fairly unpleasant detour involving a fish, guess where Jonah eventually ended up?

Nineveh.

I’ve discovered it’s generally easier to do what God asks the first time.

I don’t always know where God is taking me, and I’m a lot more comfortable admitting that than I used to be. There are things I simply don’t understand and probably won’t on this side of heaven. I’m learning that’s okay. I don’t have to understand everything God is doing to trust that He knows what He’s doing.

That’s a little harder for the guy who always wants to drive, but I’m working on it.

When There’s Nothing You Can Do

Being a problem solver makes dependence difficult sometimes. I like to look at a problem, break it into pieces, and figure out what I can do next. Years in management reinforced that, and marriage and raising four kids reinforced it even more.

Most of the time, I want to do something.

But there are moments when there isn’t anything to do.

I remember Mama calling and telling me she had cancer. There wasn’t a template in my mind for that phone call. I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t give her an answer. There wasn’t a series of steps I could work through that would make the diagnosis disappear.

We prayed.

That’s what we could do.

Moments like that remind me how little control I actually have. Intelligence is useful. Experience is useful. Knowing how to solve problems is useful. But eventually something comes along that is bigger than you are, and none of the things you’re normally good at are going to fix it.

You need Jesus.

Maybe that’s part of what Paul had learned by the time he wrote Philippians. He had an impressive resume, but when everything else was stripped away, none of those credentials could do what Jesus had done for him.

Knowing About Him and Knowing Him

Our Life Group guide asks an interesting question this week: What is the difference between knowing about someone and actually knowing them?

I grew up knowing a lot about Jesus, and I don’t mean that negatively. Biblical knowledge matters. I think knowing Scripture is one of the ways our relationship with Jesus grows stronger. I can look at the Bible and see how God was faithful to people thousands of years ago, and that reminds me that He’s going to be faithful to me, too.

But somewhere in adulthood, my understanding of my relationship with Jesus changed.

I started talking to Him more.

I don’t just mean formal prayers at church, before meals, or before going to sleep. I mean conversations throughout the day. I bring Him my frustrations. I ask for wisdom. I thank Him when something good happens. I tell Him when I’m worried.

Sometimes I feel like His answer is, “Just be quiet, Maury.”

Fair enough.

One thing I didn’t expect when I started Grit & Wit was how much writing would deepen that relationship.

When I decided in April 2025 that I was going to write at least once a week, I had no idea where it would lead. I just wanted to write. What I discovered was that writing about my faith made me pay closer attention to it.

Now I’m constantly looking for how Jesus is working in my life. I study more. I reflect more. I find myself thinking about conversations differently. I’ll remember something that happened years ago and suddenly see God’s hand in it in a way I didn’t notice when it happened.

Writing has also made me more mindful of my actions because my faith is more on display now. If I’m going to write about following Jesus every week, I’d better make a pretty serious effort to follow Him the other six days.

What started as a decision to write once a week has turned into something I never expected. I’ve published two books. Another is coming in November. I’m already working on another one for 2027. Some of the stories I wasn’t sure anyone would care about have connected with people in ways I couldn’t have predicted.

Sure, sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d started sooner.

But maybe I wasn’t supposed to start sooner.

Maybe April 2025 was exactly when I was supposed to start.

I don’t know. What I do know is that God has done far more with that little decision to start writing than I ever expected Him to do.

Batman Is in My Closet

Paul says he considers everything a loss compared with the surpassing value of knowing Christ.

I have a much less spiritual illustration.

I have a full Batman suit hanging in my closet.

For years I wanted a really good Batman suit. Not the cheap Halloween version. I wanted a legitimate, cosplay-level Batman suit. Eventually I got one, and it’s awesome. I’ve worn it and had a lot of fun with it.

Right now, though, it’s hanging in my closet, and I haven’t worn it since last Halloween. That’s almost a year.

Meanwhile, I’ve been looking at radios for the Jeep, and occasionally I think about what I spent on that Batman suit and realize Batman is currently hanging in my closet wearing approximately one really nice Jeep radio.

I’m not selling the Batman suit, so don’t get any ideas. I still love it. I’ll probably suit up pretty soon.

But I do find it funny that something I wanted for years is now mostly hanging in a closet while I’ve moved on to wanting something else. That’s pretty much how stuff works, isn’t it? We finally get the thing we wanted, enjoy it, and before long there’s another thing on the list.

There’s nothing wrong with that within reason. Paul isn’t telling us we can’t enjoy the things God has given us. I think the danger is expecting any of those things to make us complete.

They can’t.

I’ve become more content as I’ve gotten older. Whatever the opposite of contentment is, I had more of that when I was younger. I don’t feel the same need to have the newest thing or prove something to somebody. I’m pretty happy with the life God has given me.

Although I would still like a better radio in the Jeep that picks up more than two stations.

I’m content, not dead.

What I Would Tell an 18-Year-Old

Maybe that’s why I’ve been thinking about 18-year-old Maury while my own 18-year-old has been sitting beside me. At 18, I didn’t have some grand vision of what my life would become. I was pretty clueless. Mostly, I just wanted to be happy.

If I could somehow take that kid from senior awards night and let him look at my life at 48, I don’t think he’d believe me. My life has turned out so much better than I could have hoped or imagined. God has been very good to me.

In our house, I know where I rank. I’m sixth. There’s Karen, four kids, and then me, and I’m pretty good with that. I have more appreciation now for sitting with the people I love. I can enjoy the house God has given us.

None of those things have to prove that my life matters.

So if Brighton asked me what he needs to accomplish in order to have a successful life, I don’t think I’d talk much about accomplishments at all. Sure, I’d tell him to work hard. Use the gifts God gave him. Be responsible. Take care of his family someday if God gives him one.

But if I only got to tell him one thing, it would be this:

Run after Jesus and never stop. No matter what happens, don’t stop chasing after Jesus.

That’s it.

I’ve lived long enough now to know that jobs change. The stuff you desperately wanted eventually becomes the stuff sitting in your house. Awards from high school end up somewhere in a box in the attic. Even the things we do for God can become dangerous if we start believing they’re the reason God should be impressed with us.

Paul had one heck of a resume.

And after everything he’d accomplished, his desire in Philippians 3:10 was still simply to know Jesus.

That’s what I want, too.

Maybe Jeff’s four prayers are a pretty good place to start each morning: Cleanse me today. Empty me of me today. Fill me afresh today. Empower me.

Because if you took away everything I’ve accomplished, everything I own, every title I’ve ever held, and everything that has ever had Maury D. Wood II printed on it, I know what I’d still have.

I’d have Jesus, and I’d have an eternity with Him waiting for me.

That would be enough.

Live It

Take a few minutes this week and think about how you answer the question, “Who am I?”

Your career can be a blessing. Your family is certainly a blessing. Accomplishments are worth celebrating, and there’s nothing wrong with being proud of something you’ve worked hard to accomplish. I don’t regret enjoying senior awards night, and I’m not throwing away my books or Batman suit.

But none of those things can carry the weight of telling us who we are.

Paul had an impressive resume, but he eventually understood that knowing Jesus was worth infinitely more than anything he could put on it. Maybe that’s worth thinking about this week. What are the things you lean on to tell you that you’re successful, valuable, or important? And what happens when those things aren’t there anymore?

Maybe start tomorrow with Jeff’s prayer: Cleanse me today. Empty me of me today. Fill me afresh today. Empower me.

Then see where God takes you.

Dinner Table Devotional

Read: Philippians 3:7–11

Paul had plenty of accomplishments he could have bragged about, but he realized none of them compared with knowing Jesus. That doesn’t mean everything else in our lives is worthless. It means none of those things can take Jesus’ place.

There’s also a difference between knowing facts about Jesus and actually knowing Him. Paul had followed Christ for years, yet he still wanted to know Him more. That’s a relationship we never finish growing into.

Talk About It

1. What is something you’ve accomplished that you’re proud of? Why does it matter to you?

2. What’s the difference between enjoying an accomplishment and allowing it to define who you are?

3. How is knowing about Jesus different from actually knowing Him?

4. What is something in your life that makes it difficult to let God be in control?

5. If someone asked you what makes a life successful, what would you tell them?

Pray

Jesus, thank You for loving us before we accomplish anything for You. Help us enjoy the blessings You’ve given us without allowing them to become our identity. Cleanse us today, empty us of ourselves, fill us afresh with Your Spirit, and empower us to live for You. More than anything we can earn, own, achieve, or become, help us desire to know You more. Amen.

I was probably in my early twenties when I first started thinking about leveling mountains.

We were sitting around a campfire at Camp Agape near Ducktown, Tennessee. I had been on quite a few mission trips by then, and I loved them. There was something about getting away from normal life for a few days and being surrounded by people who were all focused on the same thing. We were there to serve, share Jesus, and work for the Kingdom together. But, eventually, you had to go home.

That was always the part I hated.

You’d spend a week serving God, come home spiritually fired up, and pretty quickly find yourself right back in the rat race. I wasn’t necessarily falling into some deep spiritual valley, but I missed the environment of the mission trip. Before long, I’d find myself looking forward to the next trip, church fellowship, youth event, or whatever the next big thing happened to be.

That night around the campfire, my friend and youth minister, Kevin McGehee, started talking about the mountaintops and valleys of the Christian life. I don’t remember everything Kevin said that night, but I remember exactly what happened in my head while he was saying it.

What if I could take the tops off the mountains and use them to fill in the valleys? Then it would all be level ground. Consistent.

That idea has stuck with me for more than twenty years. And Kevin, if you’re reading this, I’m not sure I’ve ever told you that.

Until now, I guess.

Growing Older Isn’t the Same as Growing Up

This week at Thompson Station Church, Pastor Sam continued our study of Philippians with Philippians 2:12–30. Paul tells the Philippians to “work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.”

Sam made an important distinction Sunday. Paul doesn’t tell us to work for our salvation. We can’t earn it. Jesus has already done the work necessary for our salvation. Paul tells us to work it out.

Our Life Group guide describes this as sanctification. God saves us by grace, His Spirit works in us, and we’re called to cooperate with that work through daily obedience. What God is doing on the inside should eventually become visible on the outside.

Sam compared it to all those New Year’s resolutions that come with brand-new gym memberships. You can buy the membership, maybe even buy some new workout clothes, but at some point you have to actually work out. Some don't get that far.

He also said something that stuck with me: Christians grow older, but they don’t always grow up.

I’ve been in church essentially my entire life. I was blessed with parents who made sure we were there. I’ve been on mission trips, taught Sunday School and Life Groups, served in ministry, and now I’ve written Bible studies and devotionals. None of those things automatically means I’m growing.

I can know more Bible verses and still lose my temper. I can teach about humility and still want everybody to know when I was right. I can write an entire devotional about Jesus and still hear Him occasionally say, Just be quiet, Maury.

Actually, I hear that last one more than occasionally.

Sometimes Working It Out Means Shutting Up

I don’t like unfairness. One thing that really gets under my skin is when someone comes to me with a problem like everything is on fire. They need help immediately. It’s urgent. So I help.

Then I reach back out because I need some information or an answer to continue helping them, and suddenly I get nothing. Apparently the five-alarm fire has extinguished itself.

There are times I really want to respond, I thought this was important? I can see the words in my head. They’re good words, too. Concise. Accurate. Possibly even deserved.

But I’ve gotten better with age at asking myself whether saying what I want to say is actually going to help anything. If the answer is no, and especially if I know it’s probably going to make things a little worse, I’ve learned that sometimes the most Christlike thing I can contribute to the conversation is absolutely nothing.

That may not sound particularly spiritual, but I think it’s exactly the kind of thing Paul is talking about. In our Life Group this morning, we moved directly from working out our salvation to Paul’s very practical instruction to “do everything without grumbling and arguing.” He tells us that we’re supposed to live differently in a crooked and twisted generation, shining like stars in the world.

Sometimes shining looks like sharing the Gospel or serving somebody in need. Sometimes it looks a whole lot less impressive.

Sometimes it looks like not sending the email or sending that text message.

They Know Who You Are

People I work with have told me they appreciate that I stay calm when situations get stressful. I don’t walk around the office yelling, “Jesus help us!” every time something goes wrong. That would probably create a few additional problems. But He really is the reason for my calm.

I’ve learned to look at a problem and ask what I can do, what I can’t do, and what the next step should be. Instead of staring at the entire thing and becoming overwhelmed, let’s break it down and start working through it. Some of that came from my years in management. People depended on me, so I learned to look at the bigger picture and handle the things I could handle. Some probably came from being the oldest brother, too. Now Karen and the kids look to me that way, and that encourages me to be a calming presence for them.

Age has helped, but Jesus is my calm. Scripture tells us to cast our cares on Him because He cares for us. I can take the stuff that’s worrying me and give it to Him. I’ve also learned through experience that freaking out does not, in fact, solve anything.

A while back, a coworker stopped me and said, “Hey Maury, can I talk to you for a second? Non-work related.”

She told me her nephew was very sick. Faith wasn’t something we talked about much at work, so what she said next surprised me a little. She asked me to pray for him because she knew I was a praying person.

I told Karen about it as soon as I got home. She looked at me and said, “They know who you are and what kind of man you are.”

I’ve never forgotten that.

Being kind to people doesn’t make us Christians. Plenty of people who don’t follow Jesus are kind, generous, wonderful people. But I do think there should be something different about us, and when opportunities come, I don’t want to hide why I live the way I do. I’ll mention church. I’ll talk about what we did Sunday. I’ll talk about Jesus when the door opens naturally.

The thing is, once you tell people who you are, you have to back it up. That’s where the working out happens.

Don’t Forget You’ve Been Saved

Sam told a story Sunday about a man who had walked with a limp for most of his life. Eventually, the man had surgery, but afterward he continued to limp. Someone who knew him commented to the doctor that it was a shame the surgery hadn’t worked.

The doctor told him the surgery had worked perfectly. The man had simply spent so much of his life walking with a limp that he continued walking the same way even after he’d been healed.

I wonder how often we do that as Christians. We’ve been saved, but sometimes we continue walking as though nothing happened.

Sam talked about having a healthy fear and respect for God and never losing our hunger for His Word.

Jesus said in Matthew 5:6, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”

Our salvation isn’t simply something that happened once and then got filed away. It changes the way we live because we remember what we’ve been saved from and Who saved us.

Sam also said the Christian life should be a life of gratitude. He told the story of Richard Williams, who survived the sinking of the Titanic. Doctors wanted to amputate his legs after the disaster, but Williams refused because he believed he would need them. He recovered, went on to become an accomplished tennis player and Olympian, and lived with a deep awareness that his life had been spared.

Sam’s point was simple: Don’t forget you’ve been saved. Then act like it.

He also said, “An ungrateful Christian is an unconvincing Christian.”

That made me think about my own life, particularly my marriage.

Karen and I sometimes joke about our “boring” marriage, and I mean that as one of the greatest compliments I can give it. There isn’t a lot of drama. Nothing major is happening all the time. We’re just here loving each other, raising kids, going to church, and chasing Jesus together.

It’s normal. It’s our normal. And we love it.

Every once in a while, though, I stop and realize how incredibly blessed that normal is. If I could sit down with 25-year-old Maury and show him his future, I’d probably tell him, “Dude, you are sooooooo blessed. More blessed than you could ever imagine right now. You have a beautiful wife and four awesome kids who all follow Jesus. It’s a blessed life. Did I mention the beautiful wife?”

Do I get frustrated? Absolutely. I asked my kids what I complain about, and apparently their answer is “people who don’t use their brains.” Mistreating people gets under my skin, too, and I’m certainly not always successful at keeping my frustration to myself.

But miserable? No. I’m never miserable.

Like Sam said Sunday, I’ve got Jesus. He put it another way that I really liked:

“Because of the Good News on Sunday, I can get through the bad news on Monday.”

That doesn’t mean Monday won’t stink sometimes. It means Monday doesn’t get the final word.

The People Who Showed Me

Toward the end of Philippians 2, Paul gives the church two examples of men whose faith had become visible: Timothy and Epaphroditus. Epaphroditus had served alongside Paul and had nearly died in the process. Paul wanted the Philippians to understand that his service mattered. Our study guide makes the point that there really aren’t insignificant jobs in God’s Kingdom. Faithful service matters whether everybody sees it or not.

That brought me back to Kevin again.

There was another mission trip during those years, this one to Iowa. I’d been working at a newspaper when layoffs came, and I was one of them. I went about six months without a full-time job. I wasn’t embarrassed as much as I was discouraged because I looked and looked for work and nothing seemed to happen.

I was still delivering medicine for H&S Pharmacy on Saturdays, and Bob, Bill, and Mike took care of me. They’d find odd jobs for me to do so I could make a little extra money here and there. Looking back, that entire season was such a God thing. I never missed a house payment. I never missed a bill. God provided, many times through people who simply saw a need and did what they could to help meet it.

When the Iowa mission trip came around, I told Kevin I couldn’t go because it cost too much. He told me that if I wanted to go, not to worry about it. It was taken care of.

Then he handed me an envelope with spending money.

That trip ended up being exactly what I needed. For a little while I could stop thinking about applications and interviews and wondering when I was finally going to find a job. I could focus on God’s work instead.

We served at a huge truck stop where we did a Vacation Bible School-type ministry with Bible crafts, face painting, and opportunities to share the Gospel. I was doing the face painting and drew a hummingbird on a woman’s arm with Sharpies. It turned out pretty good, and she commented that it looked like a tattoo. Other people saw it, and before long nobody wanted face painting anymore. Apparently I had opened an unauthorized Sharpie tattoo parlor at an Iowa truck stop. I spent the day drawing everything under the sun while we talked to people and shared Jesus.

I also had my own hotel room, which was pretty cool. It was one of the first times I remember being by myself as an adult in what felt like a real grown-up hotel room.

One day when we had some free time, we needed something to do, and I suggested driving to Dyersville to see the Field of Dreams. Everybody thought that sounded fun, so we stopped at Walmart and bought a foam bat and ball so we could actually play when we got there.

It was a good day.

Looking back, though, what Kevin did for me lasted much longer than that trip. His helping me when I didn’t have much made me more aware of other people’s needs. I know what it feels like to have someone see that you need help and quietly take care of it, and I’ve always enjoyed being able to do that for someone else when I can.

Years later, when I was teaching, I noticed one of my students had a pair of shoes with the sole separating from them. They were being held together with tape. I quietly found out what size he wore and bought him a brand-new pair of shoes.

I didn’t tell anybody.

I don’t know that I consciously thought about Kevin when I bought those shoes, but I do think there’s a connection. Somebody had once looked at me during a difficult season and essentially said, It’s taken care of. Experiencing that kind of generosity makes you want to be that person for somebody else.

That’s what influence does. Kevin was a signpost pointing me toward Jesus, and hopefully I’ve been able to point a few people in the same direction.

Level Ground

I still think about that campfire.

In my early twenties, I thought the goal was somehow to eliminate the spiritual highs and lows. Take the tops off the mountains, fill the valleys, and make everything level. I understand it a little differently now. The mountains are still going to come, and so are the valleys. Following Jesus doesn’t mean our circumstances suddenly flatten out and everything becomes easy. What I’ve learned is that my relationship with Him doesn’t have to follow the same ups and downs as everything happening around me.

Maybe marriage is the best way I know to explain it.

Karen and I see each other every day. Some days are great. Some days are exciting. Some days are frustrating, and some days are just boring. A boring Wednesday doesn’t mean I love Karen less, and a great Saturday doesn’t mean we’re somehow more married than we were on Wednesday. The relationship is bigger than the circumstances of the day.

My relationship with Jesus is the same way.

I don’t need a mission trip to feel close to Him anymore. I don’t need the next church event or some spiritual mountaintop. Following Jesus is woven into ordinary life now. It’s reading my Bible. It’s writing Grit & Wit and seeking other opportunities to write about Him. It’s thinking about the next book. It’s talking with my brothers and texting back and forth with Mama. It’s trying to be a godly husband to Karen and a godly father to our kids.

It’s helping at church when I can while also being okay with saying no when my schedule doesn’t allow it. I’ve learned that I don’t think God wants us to burn ourselves out trying to prove how committed we are to Him. Sometimes faithfulness means serving, and sometimes wisdom means recognizing that you can’t do everything.

It’s also going to work and trying to be the calm when everybody else thinks the building is on fire. Sometimes it’s recognizing an opportunity to talk about Jesus. Other times it’s realizing that the most Christlike thing I can do at that particular moment is keep my two cents in my pocket.

That’s closer to what I meant all those years ago when I imagined taking the tops off the mountains and filling the valleys.

Jesus is the same on a bad day as He is on a good day. Karen and I don’t have less of a marriage on the boring days, and I don’t have less of Jesus when nothing particularly spiritual or exciting is happening.

I’m just happy in the life God has given me.

I also don’t want to become a fun sponge who walks into a room and sucks all the joy out of it because I’m trying so hard to look spiritual. Quite the opposite. I want to be so full of God that the excess pours out on the people around me.

Maybe that’s what working out our salvation looks like. God keeps working in us, and over time the people around us begin to see the evidence.

Not just on the mountaintops. Not just in the valleys.

But in all that ordinary level ground in between.

Live It

Paul’s command to “work out your salvation” isn’t an invitation to earn what Jesus has already given you. It’s an invitation to let what God is doing inside you show up in the way you actually live.

This week, pay attention to the ordinary moments. Notice how you respond when you’re frustrated, whether gratitude or complaining comes more naturally, how you treat the person who needs something from you, and whether you’re willing to listen when God tells you that the best response might be no response at all.

Then ask yourself a difficult question:

If the people around me didn’t know I was a Christian, would the way I live make them curious? Another way to put it, if you were put on trial for being a Christian, would they have enough evidence to find you guilty?

You don’t have to yell about Jesus. But when somebody needs Him, it would be pretty great if they knew you were a praying person.

Dinner Table Devotional

Read: Philippians 2:12–18

Paul tells Christians to “work out” their salvation and then immediately gets practical about what that means. Our faith isn’t supposed to stay hidden inside us. God changes our hearts, and over time that change should affect our words, attitudes, choices, and the way we treat people.

Paul says believers should shine like stars in a dark world. We don’t necessarily shine by being louder than everybody else. We shine by living differently because Jesus has changed us.

Talk About It

1. What do you think it means to “work out” what God is working in you?

2. Why do you think Paul specifically tells Christians not to complain or argue?

3. What is one way someone could recognize that you follow Jesus without you telling them?

4. Who is someone whose life has shown you what following Jesus looks like?

5. What’s one ordinary situation this week where you can be a light to someone else?

Pray

Jesus, thank You for saving us and for continuing to work in us. Help us not to simply grow older in our faith but to grow closer to You and become more like You. Teach us to be grateful, to obey when no one is watching, and to live in a way that points other people toward You. Give us a steady faith on the mountaintops, in the valleys, and everywhere in between. Amen.

A Late-Night Deposit Into the DadCloud

At 11:30 last night, Brighton came downstairs and walked into our bedroom. Karen and I are night owls. Well, not really. We just have so much going on that it can be hard to actually go to bed. We were settling down for the night and talking, and I had just finished reading my Bible when Brighton appeared.

“Hey, I need you to remind me to throw away those bedsheets I have. They are too hard to put on the bed. Thanks. Good night. Love you.”

And then he turned around and went back upstairs. That was it. No explanation for why this thought had suddenly become important at 11:30 at night. No reminder set on his phone. No note to himself. He just deposited the information into DadCloud and went to bed.

For the record, there’s nothing particularly wrong with the sheets other than they’re old and his mattress is a little too thick for them. They needed to be replaced. Apparently, at 11:30 p.m., Brighton decided this was now my problem to remember.

I looked over at Karen and said, “It’s like I’m the Oracle of the house. Y’all just tell me things to remember. I know what has been and what will be...evidently.”

She laughed because she knows it’s true. We both have jobs in this house, and remembering things is mine.

Welcome to the Mind Palace

I’ve always had a good memory. I don’t really know how else to explain it except that my brain feels organized. I call it my Mind Palace. Everything has a place, and I can usually recall things pretty well, especially visually. It’s almost like there’s a movie screen in my head. I can close my eyes and see memories, places and where things were.

A few days ago, Karen couldn’t find a book she needed for work. When she asked me about it, I told her, “I remember seeing that.” It had been days since I’d noticed it, but I could picture where I’d seen it. I went to that spot and found the book. Karen looked at me and said, “I don’t know how you do that.” I told her, “I don’t either.” That’s the truth.

I can also give my brain instructions before I go to sleep. If there’s something I need to remember the next morning, I’ll actually say it out loud. “Remember to do that tomorrow.” “Remember to call them.” “Remember Brighton’s sheets.” Most of the time, when I wake up, it’s one of the first things that comes to mind. Karen doesn’t even suggest that I make a note anymore. She has faith in the process.

It gets a little weirder. I’ve been known to tell myself what time I need to wake up. I’ll go to bed thinking, “Wake up at 6:30,” and somehow I’ll wake up pretty dang close to 6:30. I have no idea how that works either, and I’m not confident enough in the Mind Palace to throw away the alarm clock. I’m just saying it happens.

Apparently, the internal hard drive also has a clock.

The Family Hard Drive

There are limits to this superpower. Don’t give me twelve things to remember. That’s not happening. If we’re going on a trip, I can’t memorize a long list of things we need to take. I can, however, put all twelve things into a bag and tell myself to remember the bag. One file? Good. Twelve files? We’re going to need a folder.

I also rewrite the hard drive occasionally. If something doesn’t seem important anymore, I let it go. It doesn’t need to take up space. But my family has figured out what the hard drive is good at. Directions are stored there. So are travel times, practice locations, important dates, calendar events, things that happened years ago and where somebody left something three days ago.

Karen sometimes uses me like a stack of Post-it notes. She’ll tell me something she needs to remember, and apparently that’s enough. The kids do it too. They’ll ask, “Daddy, do you remember...?” Usually, I do.

And I love it. I’ve told Karen before that if my memory ever goes, I’m going to hate it. Remembering isn’t a burden to me. It’s part of how my brain works, but I’ve also realized it’s part of how I take care of my family.

Love Remembers the Little Things

The things I remember aren’t usually earth-shattering. Most mornings when Karen has somewhere to be, I remember to make her coffee. On cold mornings, I’ll go outside and start her car so it’s warm and make sure the windshield is clear.

Actually, here’s a free Maury cheat code: If you know there’s going to be frost, put a towel over your windshield the night before. Pull it off in the morning and you’ve got a clear windshield. You’re welcome.

I remember practices. I remember appointments. I remember how long it’ll take us to get somewhere. I remember family stories and traditions. None of those things are particularly impressive. They’re just little pieces of the lives of people I love, and I think that’s why I like remembering them.

My family trusts me. Karen has told me one of the reasons is because I’m consistent. If I say I’ll remember something, there’s a pretty good chance I will. I consider taking care of my family part of my responsibility as a husband and dad. Sometimes taking care of them means providing. Sometimes it means fixing something or listening. And apparently, sometimes it means remembering at 11:30 at night that my 18-year-old son has declared war on a set of fitted sheets.

Just Hand It Over

The more I thought about Brighton’s late-night visit, though, the more I realized there was something else about it that I liked. He wasn’t worried about remembering. He handed it to me. “Hey, I need you to remind me…” And then he went to bed. There was complete trust in that transaction. Dad has it. I’m going to sleep.

Sitting there after reading my Bible, it occurred to me that maybe Brighton understands something that I still struggle with when it comes to God. I give things to God all the time. Sometimes when I’m praying, I’ll physically hold out my hands. There’s nothing actually in them, of course. I do it because I need the visual reminder that I’m handing something over.

Maybe it’s a worry. Maybe it’s a problem, someone I love or something I can’t fix. Whatever it is, opening my hands is my way of saying, “Here, God. You carry this.”

Peter writes, “Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.” I love the reason we’re given. It’s not simply that God can handle what we can’t. It’s that He cares for us. God already knows what I’m carrying. Jesus said that God even knows the number of hairs on our heads. There isn’t a detail of my life that escapes Him, yet He still invites me to hand things over.

The problem is that I’m not always as good at the next part as Brighton was.

Go to Bed

Brighton gave me his problem and walked away. He didn’t come back five minutes later and ask, “Hey, Dad, you still remember the sheets?” He didn’t text me from upstairs to check on the sheet situation. He didn’t lie in bed wondering whether I could handle this enormous responsibility that had been entrusted to me. He handed it to Dad and went to sleep.

Maybe there’s something I need to learn from that. I spend a lot of my life carrying things for the people I love, and I’m glad to do it. It’s part of my job. But I don’t have to carry everything. There are things I can place into hands much stronger than mine and trust that He hasn’t forgotten.

I can tell God what’s on my heart. I can open my hands and give it to Him. Then, instead of picking it right back up again to make sure He’s handling it the way I think He should, maybe I need to do what Brighton did.

Go to bed.

For the record, I remembered the sheets. They’re gone, and new ones have already replaced them.

The Oracle remains undefeated.

I have a saying that my family has heard so many times they can finish it before I do.

“I can only control myself.”

Apparently, my family isn’t the only group that has heard it a few times.

Sunday morning, Pastor Sam was preaching from Philippians 2:1–11 and talking about unity and how we respond when there is conflict. He referenced Romans 12:18, which tells us, “If possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”

In other words, you can’t control what everyone else does. You can only control yourself.

My friend John and his wife Leslie were sitting in front of me. I leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder and said, “That’s a very good point.” They know me.

I had friends at church looking my direction and others texting me because they have heard me say that countless times. Apparently, I have repeated it enough that I now have a catchphrase.

I would love to tell you everything Pastor Sam said after that, but I can’t. Somewhere right before point two of the sermon, my youngest son managed to break a tooth in half, and our Sunday morning took a pretty significant detour. Life happens. Tooth is glued back and good as new.

Thankfully, my daughters stayed in the service and finished taking notes, so this week’s Grit & Wit comes with research assistance from my daughters. They will be paid, don’t worry.

The more I thought about Philippians 2 afterward, though, the more I realized that my little saying fits Paul’s message pretty well.

I just wish living it were as easy as saying it.

Fewer Hills to Die On

I don’t really remember when I started saying, “I can only control myself.”

I think it came with age.

When you’re younger, you spend a lot of energy worrying about what other people think. You want to keep up. You want people to like you. You want people to recognize what you’re doing. And if someone disagrees with you, there is a pretty good chance you’re going to spend some time trying to convince them why they’re wrong.

At least I did.

I think wisdom teaches you to avoid some of that stress. As I’ve gotten older, the number of hills I’m willing to die on has dwindled to the point that I can probably count them on one hand.

Working with the public probably helped teach me that. I couldn’t control how someone treated me, but I could control how I responded. I’ve also had people close to me behave in ways I didn’t particularly like or understand. I couldn’t control that either. All I could do was try to act the way God wanted me to act.

That’s not always easy.

It’s especially hard when I don’t feel like I’m receiving the same respect I’m giving. I tend to think the best of people and assume goodwill. Sometimes people don’t return the favor. Sometimes people disappoint you. Sometimes you discover someone is really friendly when they need something and not nearly as interested when they don’t.

That bothers me. Still does.

But here’s the freeing part: God knows my heart. He knows my actions. I don’t have to control someone else’s opinion, motives, or behavior.

I only have to answer for mine.

Paul writes in Philippians 2:3–4:

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility consider others as more important than yourselves. Everyone should look not to his own interests, but rather to the interests of others.”

Notice Paul doesn’t tell me to make sure everyone else does that.

He’s talking to me.

Arguing About a Car for a Kid Who Didn’t Exist

Karen and I have been together for 26 years, so we’ve had a few disagreements. We’ve also had some really dumb ones.

When we were dating, we somehow got into an argument about whether we would buy our future 16-year-old child a car.

There were a couple of problems with this argument.

One. We weren’t married.

Two. We didn’t have children.

The hypothetical child whose automotive future we were passionately debating wouldn’t be old enough to drive for nearly two decades.

I thought our future child should work for a car. Karen thought we should get the kid a beater so they wouldn’t have to work quite as hard for it as I had. Both of us apparently considered this an urgent matter.

The argument went on much longer than it should have until I finally stopped and said something like, “What are we doing?”

We both laughed.

The joke really ended up being on us.

My oldest wasn’t particularly interested in getting his license when he turned 16. He didn’t start driving much until he was 17, and he just recently got carte blanche on the Altima now that I have the Jeep.

We had an argument about nothing.

Twenty-something-year-old Maury wanted to win those arguments.

Forty-eight-year-old Maury wants a peaceful home.

Karen and I still don’t agree about everything. That would be weird. But we’ve learned something over the years that has helped us tremendously.

We assume goodwill.

I know Karen loves me. She knows I love her. I know she isn’t intentionally trying to hurt me, and she knows the same about me. So when one of us says something wrong or we disagree, we try to begin from there.

We’ve also learned the importance of saying, “I’m sorry.”

Funny enough, we were talking about this with the kids on the way to church Sunday morning. Karen mentioned that there have been times when I’ve apologized even though I still thought I was right.

She’s right.

That doesn’t mean apologizing for something I didn’t do. Sometimes I can be right about the issue and wrong about how I handled it. Sometimes I can decide that continuing an argument isn’t going to accomplish anything.

Peace matters more to me than winning.

I want my kids to grow up and be able to say without hesitation that Mama and Daddy loved each other. But I also want them to say Mama and Daddy liked each other.

Our youngest occasionally reacts when Karen and I kiss like Bluey and Bingo when Bandit and Chilli get all “smoochy kiss.”

That’s fine.

We assure him - and the rest of the kids - they want Mama and Daddy to like each other.

They’ll understand one day.

Humility Is Hard When You Have an Ego

Paul doesn’t stop at getting along with people. He goes after our pride too.

That’s where things get a little uncomfortable for me.

Writing comes naturally to me. So does storytelling. I’m also a pretty smart guy. Smarter than the average bear.

I know those things about myself. When I was younger, I really wanted other people to know them too. I wanted recognition. I wanted attention. I wanted somebody to notice when I did something well.

If I’m being completely transparent, that part of me hasn’t disappeared.

I was in a meeting at church once when someone talked about sharing one of my devotionals with somebody at a hotel who really needed it. They talked about how great it was to have those devotionals available to share with people. They did not know they were talking to the author of those devotionals.

There was a little voice inside my head saying:

I wrote that.

I wanted to say it.

I didn’t.

Nobody needed to know.

God knew I wrote it, and that was enough.

I’d love to tell you I always get that right. I don’t. I can still get irritated when somebody receives recognition for something I did most of the work on. Sometimes I think I could have done something better if someone had just asked me.

It’s hard to be humble when you have an ego.

And I have one.

Karen is good at keeping me grounded while also keeping me confident. I think we all need somebody like that in our lives, someone who believes in us but isn’t overly impressed with us.

Philippians 2 doesn’t tell us that humility means pretending we don’t have gifts. God gave us those gifts.

The question is what we’re going to do with them and who gets the glory.

I’m getting better at being okay when the answer isn’t me.

Love Doesn’t Keep Score

I’ve also learned something about putting other people first from being a husband and father.

Parents give things up all the time.

My phone isn’t the newest phone in our house. Brighton’s is newer than mine. Karen’s clothes aren’t always as new as our daughters’ clothes. There are things Karen and I could buy for ourselves that we don’t because somebody else needs something.

We’ve both given up things for each other over the years too.

But I don’t know that it feels much like sacrifice when love is involved.

You don’t keep a running tally. At least you shouldn’t.

You aren’t standing in the checkout line thinking, “That’s another $75 I’ve sacrificed for this child. I’ll add it to the spreadsheet when I get home.”

You do it because you love them.

That thought makes what Paul says next in Philippians almost overwhelming.

“Adopt the same attitude as that of Christ Jesus.”

Paul explains that Jesus humbled Himself, took the form of a servant, and became obedient to the point of death on a cross.

Jesus lowered Himself for us.

And then Paul tells us to think like Him.

That’s a much higher standard than simply being nice.

Why I Follow Him

Pastor Sam shared a quote from Lee Strobel about why he became a Christian. Strobel’s point was that he didn’t become a Christian because God promised he’d be happier than he had been as an atheist. God never made that promise. He became a Christian because he became convinced the evidence showed that Jesus really is the Son of God.

That got me thinking about why I follow Jesus.

I follow Jesus because without Him I could do nothing. Without Him I’d surely fail, to borrow from an old hymn.

I follow Him because I don’t like to imagine what my life would look like without Him.

I could write a thousand Grit & Wit articles about the blessings He’s given me and the trials He’s walked through with me.

But ultimately, I follow Jesus because I believe He is who He says He is.

If Jesus willingly allowed Himself to be crucified and suffered all He did for me, how much more do I owe Him?

I’ll never pay Him back.

That’s not why I follow Him.

I follow Him because if He loved me enough to do that, then I want to spend my life following Him and someday see Him face to face and simply say:

Thank You.

The Hardest Person I’ll Ever Have to Control

Good leadership has changed for me as I’ve gotten older too.

I used to think leadership had a lot more to do with being out front. Being recognized. Being the person with the answers. Now I think good leadership looks a whole lot more like serving.

Jesus washed His disciples’ feet.

Nobody washed His.

There wasn’t a spotlight. There wasn’t applause. He saw something that needed to be done and showed His disciples what leadership in His kingdom looks like.

That’s the kind of man I want my children to see.

I hope they see a dad who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty when nobody is watching. I hope they see somebody willing to serve when nobody is thanking him.

Well, almost nobody.

Jesus sees.

And maybe that’s enough.

Twenty-five-year-old Maury needed to be right because winning seemed important.

Forty-eight-year-old Maury can let more things go because life isn’t just about me anymore. I have a wife and four kids to think about. I have people who look to me for leadership. I’ve learned there are very few arguments worth damaging a relationship over.

And after all these years of telling my family that they can only control themselves, I’ve figured out something else.

The hardest person I’ll ever have to control is me.

I can’t control whether someone gives me credit. I can work on whether I need it.

I can’t control whether someone apologizes. I can make sure I’m willing to.

I can’t control whether someone assumes the best about me. I can choose to assume goodwill toward them.

I can’t control whether someone treats me with humility.

I can get down and wash feet anyway.

That’s the part of Philippians 2 that’s mine to obey.

Maybe everyone who’s heard me say it a thousand times was right to look at me Sunday morning.

I can only control myself.

Turns out Jesus has plenty of work for me to do right there.

Live It

Think about the conflicts in your life right now. Maybe it’s with your spouse, one of your children, somebody at work, a friend, or even another believer.

Before thinking about what that person needs to change, ask yourself a harder question:

What part of this belongs to me?

Maybe you need to apologize. Maybe you need to listen instead of preparing your next argument. Maybe you need to assume goodwill. Maybe you need to let something go.

Then think about recognition.

Is there something you’re doing right now that you’d still be willing to do if nobody ever knew you did it?

Humility doesn’t mean pretending God hasn’t given you gifts. It means being willing to use those gifts without needing the spotlight every time.

Finally, look for one opportunity this week to serve somebody when there is absolutely nothing in it for you.

No credit.

No applause.

No thank-you necessary.

Jesus will know.

Dinner Table Devotional

Read: Philippians 2:3–8

Talk About It:

1. Why is it sometimes so important to us to be right or win an argument?

2. What does our family mean when we say, “I can only control myself”?

3. How can saying “I’m sorry” help bring peace even when two people still don’t completely agree?

4. What is one way you can put someone else’s interests ahead of your own this week?

5. Jesus served others even though He was Lord. What does His example teach us about what real leadership looks like?

Pray:

Thank Jesus for humbling Himself and giving His life for us. Ask God to help each person in your family recognize selfishness and pride in their own lives before looking for it in someone else. Pray for the humility to apologize when needed, the wisdom to know which battles aren’t worth fighting, and opportunities to serve others without needing recognition.

Everything stays free. Paid subscriptions simply help support the work.

I’ve been toying with the idea of turning on paid subscriptions for Grit & Wit for a while now.

Every time I thought seriously about it, though, I ended up in basically the same place. I didn’t want to do it. I’ve actually turned it on and off again twice in the little over a year I have been on Substack.

It wasn’t because I have anything against paid subscriptions. I write books and sell them, so obviously I’m not opposed to getting paid for something I create. I also wouldn’t complain if more of you bought those books. Just throwing that out there.

Grit & Wit started because I wanted a place to write about faith, family, fatherhood, and all the things that happen somewhere in between. Over time, it has grown into much more than I expected. There are books now. There are podcast appearances. There are Bible studies and other opportunities that I never could have planned when I started writing all of this. I have a YouVersion Bible plan with Manhood Journey coming very soon, which is such a huge answered prayer. Two articles with Focus on the Family are also releasing this fall and winter.

And now there are more than 360 of you here.

I love that.

But I also have a job. I have a wife and four kids. I teach at church. There are flag football games and tennis matches and school events and a Jeep in my driveway that seems fairly committed to making sure I never run out of projects.

I could picture turning on paid subscriptions and immediately feeling like I needed to give those people something extra. Maybe they needed another article every week. Maybe I needed a paid-subscriber Bible study or an extra video or some exclusive content.

There was another part that bothered me even more.

I didn’t want to start deciding which things were good enough to put behind a paywall.

If I write something about being a husband that might encourage somebody who’s struggling, I want him to be able to read it. If I write something about raising kids that reminds a dad or mom that they’re doing better than they think, I want them to have it. And if I write something about Jesus that reaches somebody at exactly the right moment, the last thing I want standing between that person and those words is a little box asking for a credit card number.

So I had pretty much decided paid subscriptions weren’t for me.

Then my new Substack connection Dr. Adrian Warnock wrote about the way he approaches them, and it made me look at the whole thing differently.

What if the people who choose to pay aren’t paying to get more? What if they’re helping me continue giving it away? That made sense to me.

It reminded me a little of the model behind The Chosen when it first started. People can watch without paying, while those who believe in what they’re doing can financially support the work and help make it possible for other people to experience it too.

That’s a version of paid subscriptions I can feel good about.

So, I’m turning them on.

But I want to be very clear about what that means, because for most of you it means absolutely nothing is changing.

Grit & Wit is staying free.

I’m not moving my Tuesday articles behind a paywall. I’m not going to write the first half of something and then make you pay five bucks to find out how the story ends. I’m not keeping the best Bible studies for people who subscribe.

You’ll still get what you’ve been getting.

The difference is that if you’ve enjoyed Grit & Wit, believe in what I’m trying to build here, and would like to help support it, you’ll now have a way to do that.

Because while I love doing this, it isn’t actually free to do.

There are expenses involved with the website, publishing books, software, marketing, equipment, and all the other little things that come with trying to build something and get it in front of people. I’ve been happy to invest in it because I believe in it, and because watching this little community grow has been one of the unexpected joys of the last couple of years. I pray God’s blessings on each and every one of you for that.

If some of you would like to come alongside me and help with that, I’m incredibly grateful.

I also want to occasionally say thank you to the people who do. When I’m able, paid supporters may receive complimentary digital copies of select Grit & Wit books or resources that I publish and control. There may be some other surprises along the way too. I am open for suggestions of things you would love to see.

But I’m intentionally not creating a big list of exclusive benefits.

That’s kind of the point.

You’re not paying me because I’m promising to produce another newsletter every Thursday night. You’re supporting something you already enjoy and helping me continue making it available to everybody.

And if you don’t become a paid subscriber, I genuinely don’t want you to feel differently about being here.

There are plenty of ways to support what I’m doing that don’t cost anything. Read the articles. Leave a comment. Share one with somebody. Restack something. Tell somebody about one of my books. If you’ve read one, leaving an Amazon review helps more than most people realize.

Or just keep showing up.

That’s worth something to me too.

I don’t know exactly where Grit & Wit goes from here. A year ago, I couldn’t have predicted some of the things that are happening now. I certainly didn’t expect to be sitting here with more than 360 people choosing to have my writing show up in their inbox every week.

I’m grateful for it.

And I want to see how far we can take it without losing the thing that made me want to do it in the first place.

So that’s the plan.

Grit & Wit stays free. If you’d like to help me keep it that way and help me see where this thing can go, you can become a paid supporter.

If not, I’ll see you every Tuesday and some other days every now and then.

Same place. Same Grit & Wit.

Lead Well. Laugh Hard.

God bless each of you!

I had interviewed for an assistant principal position earlier that day, and when the district number showed up on my phone, I was pretty sure I knew what was coming.

I had prayed for this job. I had worked for this job.

Honestly, I had already decorated the office in my head.

Then I heard the “not excited” voice on the other end.

“Hey...Maury.”

You know the voice. It’s the one people use when they’re about to tell you something you don’t want to hear. It’s softer. Slower. Somewhere in the next few sentences, you know the word “unfortunately” is coming.

And it did. I didn’t get the job. I said, “Thanks,” and hung up.

Then I sat there. And sat there.

My students had just left class, so the classroom was empty. I put my head in my hands and didn’t move. I just sat there at my desk. Eventually, the lights went out. And I still just sat there.

The lights were controlled by motion sensors, and apparently sitting completely still while questioning every decision you’ve made in your professional life isn’t enough motion to keep them on.

So there I sat.

In the dark. In my anger. In my sadness. In my disappointment.

It was appropriate.

Because that’s pretty much how I felt.

When God Doesn’t Do What I Asked

Our church is spending seven weeks studying Philippians, and this week we were in Philippians 1:12–30.

Paul was writing from prison.

He was chained to Roman guards around the clock. Those guards rotated throughout the day, which meant Paul kept getting a new person chained to him.

I’m sure the Romans thought Paul was the captive.

Paul apparently saw it differently.

“Now I want you to know, brothers and sisters, that what has happened to me has actually advanced the gospel.” Philippians 1:12

Paul looked at chains and saw an audience.

I looked at a job rejection and saw a dark classroom.

I’m no Paul.

I was mad.

I had gone back to school and earned my master’s degree in educational administration. I had applied for administrative positions. I had interviewed. I had put in the work.

This particular position felt right.

More importantly, I had prayed about it.

A lot.

The problem was that somewhere along the way, I had confused praying about something with God agreeing to it. I wasn’t really praying, “God, Your will be done.” I was praying something closer to, “God, here’s my plan. I’d really appreciate Your signature at the bottom. Appreciate it.”

I believed we were on the same page.

We were not.

“Dad, Are You OK?”

I decided I needed to go home early that day, so I had to pick up my kids after I got the news. Brighton was old enough to sense something was wrong with his Daddy.

“Daddy, are you OK?”

“I’m fine.”

I lied. I wasn’t.

He asked again.

I gave him roughly the same answer. He tilted his head and looked at me from the passenger seat of the car. He had to notice the tears in the corners of my eyes I was trying to hold back.

Kids are pretty good lie detectors when it comes to their parents. He knew.

When I got home, I had a very honest conversation with God. I told Him I was angry. I told Him why I thought I deserved the job. I reminded Him how hard I had worked, as if He had somehow missed that part.

I talked about the money.

I talked about providing for my family.

I talked about what the position would mean.

I talked about feeling overlooked.

God got all of it. He was, of course, there through it all.

I’ve learned that He can handle my honesty, even when my honesty comes in hot.

Eventually, when I ran out of things to say, I was left with a simple realization.

God had never told me yes.

I had told myself yes and expected Him to go along with it.

There’s a big difference.

The Opportunity I Couldn’t See

A couple of weeks later, another opportunity came along.

That position paid more. The schedule was better. It brought me closer to home and gave me more time with the very family I was so worried about providing for.

It also took my career in a direction I hadn’t planned.

Looking back now, I’m incredibly thankful I didn’t get the job I was sitting in that dark classroom mourning.

But I’ve also learned something since then that I didn’t fully understand at the time.

Sometimes the better job doesn’t come. Sometimes the next door doesn’t open. Sometimes God doesn’t show us three weeks later why He said no.

Paul wasn’t telling the Philippians that his imprisonment had worked out because God had freed him and given him something better.

He was still in prison. The chains were still there. The guards were still there.

Paul had simply discovered that his circumstances couldn’t stop God from working through him.

That’s different.

And it’s much harder.

What Are We Trying to Gain?

This wasn’t the first time a job forced me to think about what really mattered.

Before becoming a teacher, I worked in retail management.

I actually liked retail. I was good at it. I enjoyed solving problems and making things run smoothly. I was also making more money than I would make when I left retail to become a teacher. There were opportunities to move up and make even more.

But there was a cost.

I had been moved to a store an hour away from home. I worked on Halloween. I worked on Christmas Day. I worked on New Year’s Day. My oldest child was growing up, and too many times I was watching the highlights in photos or videos instead of being there for the moment.

If you had asked me at 25 what success looked like, financial security would have been pretty high on the list. At 48, I’m beginning to wonder if anybody ever actually feels financially secure. If they do, I’d love to meet them and perhaps borrow some money. I’m kidding. Kinda. My definition of success has changed anyway. These days I’m much more concerned with whether I’m taking care of Karen and the kids, whether I’m a man of God they can depend on, and whether my yes actually means yes and my no means no.

Am I pointing my family toward Jesus?

Those questions matter a lot more to me now. Paul puts it much more simply:

“For me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.” Philippians 1:21

That’s one of those verses that’s easy to put on a T-shirt and much harder to live.

Christians Should Be a Little Weird

Pastor Sam said something Sunday that made me smile.

Christians should be weird. Not that kind of weird.

We should be different.

A few weeks ago, I was at a meeting that had nothing to do with church. There was quite a bit of cursing, and eventually a discussion started getting a little out of hand.

I could feel God prodding me to speak up, but I didn’t want to be weird. But, I finally spoke up. I mentioned my faith and said that cooler heads needed to prevail.

The temperature in the room came down. What I didn’t expect was what happened afterward. That moment led to other conversations about my faith.

I didn’t go into the meeting planning to share the gospel. I didn’t have a sermon tucked in my pocket in case things got rowdy. I just tried to respond in a way consistent with what I say I believe.

Sometimes that’s all it takes.

People are watching how Christians respond when things aren’t going our way. They’re watching how we handle disappointment. They’re watching how we treat people who disagree with us. They’re watching how we respond when everybody else in the room is losing their cool.

They’re watching what happens when the lights go out.

This world doesn’t need Christians who pretend life is always wonderful.

It needs Christians with an authentic faith that still holds when life isn’t.

Temporary Things Make Terrible Masters

Paul eventually tells the Philippians:

“Just one thing: As citizens of heaven, live your life worthy of the gospel of Christ.” Philippians 1:27

Pastor Sam put it this way:

When eternity is your aim, the temporary will lose its influence over you.

I like that.

I’ve spent a lot of my life worrying about temporary things.

Money. Jobs. Titles. Whether people liked me. Whether someone thought I was successful.

I still care what people think about my character. I want people to see me as dependable. I want them to know I’m a man who follows through on what he says.

But I don’t need everybody to like me. That’s progress. Apparently God has been doing some work.

Churches aren’t immune to getting temporary things out of order either.

I once heard about a church that got into a pretty serious argument during a building project.

The issue?

Carpet.

Some people wanted to keep the same color. Others wanted a different color.

People actually became divided over it.

I don’t know what color they eventually chose, but I feel pretty confident nobody is going to arrive in heaven and say, “This is wonderful, but I really think the sanctuary looked better in burgundy.”

We can laugh at that.

Then we can go right back to fighting over our own temporary things.

Paul tells believers to stand firm in one spirit.

Stay together.

Remember what actually matters.

To Die Is Gain

Paul takes the idea even further.

“To live is Christ and to die is gain.”

That second part hits differently as I get older.

I’ve now lost three of my four grandparents. One very recently.

I miss them.

There is sadness in knowing there are conversations I can’t have right now and moments they aren’t here to see. But the reunion keeps that sadness from having the final word.

I believe I will see them again.

I also believe the grandparents I watched grow older, hurt, and experience failing health aren’t dealing with any of that anymore.

They’re whole.

That’s why Paul can talk about death the way he does.

He isn’t saying life doesn’t matter. He’s saying Jesus matters more.

Following Jesus isn’t a guarantee that He’ll make our lives better. We follow Him because He is better than life.

That changes how we look at everything else.

When Their Lights Go Out

I’ve thought several times about Brighton sitting in the car with me after I didn’t get that job.

“Daddy, are you OK?”

He saw me hurting.

My other children have and will see it too.

As much as I’d like to protect them, eventually each of them will have their own dark classroom. They’ll work for something and not get it. Someone will reject them. A plan will fall apart. They’ll pray for something and God’s answer will be no.

Maybe they’ll get the better opportunity three weeks later. Maybe they won’t.

I can’t promise them that everything will work out the way they want. I don’t want to teach them that following Jesus means it will. I want them to remember something better.

God is faithful.

He has never let me down. He’s given me answers I didn’t like. He’s allowed doors to close that I desperately wanted open. He’s taken me places I didn’t plan to go. And I’ve occasionally sat in the dark wondering what in the world He was doing.

But He’s never stopped being faithful.

That’s what I hope my children see when they watch me follow Jesus.

Not a dad who never struggles. Not a dad who always gets it right. A dad who keeps following when he doesn’t understand.

Because when the lights go out, Jesus is still Jesus.

And He is still worth following.

Live It

Think about something in your life right now that isn’t going the way you planned.

Maybe it’s a closed door, a disappointment, a difficult relationship, a career setback, or a prayer that hasn’t been answered the way you hoped.

Be honest with God about it. He can handle the frustration, disappointment, and questions.

Then ask a different question.

Instead of only asking, “God, when are You going to change this?” ask, “God, how can You use me in this?”

You may eventually understand why the door closed.

You may not.

Either way, your circumstances don’t have to keep Christ from working through you.

And take a few minutes to think about what has the most influence over you right now. What’s your chain?

Money? Success? Comfort? Approval? Fear? A title? Being right?

Ask God to help you hold temporary things with a looser grip and keep eternity in view.

Dinner Table Devotional

Read: Philippians 1:12–14, 21, 27

Talk About It:

1. Have you ever been really disappointed when something didn’t happen the way you wanted? What happened?

2. Can you think of a time God used something difficult to bring about something good?

3. What do you think it means when Paul says, “To live is Christ”?

4. How should following Jesus make us different from the people around us?

5. When someone watches how we handle a hard situation, what do we want them to learn about our faith?

Pray:

Thank God for being faithful when life goes according to plan and when it doesn’t. Ask Him to help your family recognize opportunities to point others toward Jesus, especially during difficult circumstances. Pray that each of you would hold temporary things loosely and live in a way that shows others that Jesus is worth following.

In its place was a biblical marketplace.

There were tents and cardboard roofs set up around the room. Tables were covered with food from the Middle East. There were stations where we could make bookmarks and other crafts. Some of our teachers even dressed in costumes to make the whole thing feel a little more real.

We had been studying the Bible and memorizing the books of the Bible, and this was our reward. For a twelve-year-old kid in 1989, it was pretty impressive.

At the end, they gave each of us a Bible. Mine was a New King James Version with my name on it. Inside were the names of my Sunday School teachers.

I still have it.

I don’t remember every Sunday School lesson those teachers taught me. I couldn’t tell you what we studied the Sunday before the marketplace or the Sunday after it. But prior to that year, I remember Martha Penfield. I remember Pat McGehee. I remember them creating a place that I didn’t want to miss. I remember teachers who took the time to turn a room into something a twelve-year-old boy would still be talking about nearly forty years later.

At the time, I just thought it was cool. Looking back, I see something more.

God was using people.

The People Along the Way

Our entire church started a seven-week study of Philippians this week. The first message, from Philippians 1:1–11, was called A Church Worth Thanking God For.

Paul certainly had one.

He loved the church at Philippi, and when he thought about those people, he thanked God for them.

“I give thanks to my God for every remembrance of you.” Philippians 1:3

I have people like that too.

My Mama is near the top of the list.

Sunday mornings growing up meant Pillsbury cinnamon rolls for breakfast. They’re the same cinnamon rolls I make for my family on Christmas morning now. After breakfast, we loaded into the van and headed into town. Sunday School started at 9:45. Worship started at 11.

And we went.

There wasn’t much discussion about whether we felt like going to church that week.

Church was what the Wood family did.

There wasn’t children’s church either, outside of a few minutes when the kids might be invited to the front for a short lesson from Brother Paul Woodford. We sat in the service with the adults. We heard the sermon with everyone else.

Church wasn’t limited to Sunday mornings either. My brothers and I were involved in choir and dramas, and if we had lines to learn, Mama made sure we learned them.

We would sit somewhere in the house with our scripts. She would read everybody else’s parts while we practiced ours.

Then we would do it again.

And again.

Sometimes there were a lot of lines. Somehow, we always knew them when we needed to.

I didn’t understand what she was building at the time. Neither did I understand what those Sunday School teachers were building.

They were helping make church more than somewhere I had to go.

They were helping make it somewhere I wanted to be.

Someone Standing in the Chair Beside Me

After high school, my faith had to become mine.

I changed churches and reconnected with Kevin McGehee. I also met Pat Steward, who became like a second Mama to me.

Kevin became something like the big brother I never had.

I was going through a difficult time, and he gave me room to vent. More importantly, he kept pointing me back to God and telling me to cast my cares and worries on Him.

He also gave me opportunities to serve.

I helped with the youth. I went on mission trips. I attended classes and eventually taught some myself.

A lot of what I do today grew out of those years.

Kevin gave an illustration in one of those classes that I’ve never forgotten.

Imagine you’re standing on a chair and someone else is standing on the floor. Try to pull that person up onto the chair with you.

It’s difficult.

Now let that person try to pull you down.

That’s much easier.

His point was that we needed to be careful about the people we allowed to have the greatest influence in our lives. When it came to dating and marriage, find someone standing on the chair beside you. Find someone who will encourage you to stay there.

I was dating Karen at the time, or at least I think I was. It’s been a while.

But I remember immediately thinking the illustration described us.

When we were dating, Karen and I would leave Bible verses for each other underneath the windshield wipers of our cars. We’d put them in envelopes for the other person to find.

Yes, it was encouragement. It was also Christian flirting.

Whatever works. I still have those notes in a box.

We didn’t use words like sanctification while sliding envelopes underneath windshield wipers. We were just trying to encourage each other and keep Jesus exactly where He needed to be in our relationship.

Smack dab in the middle.

Twenty-six years after we started dating and twenty years into marriage, we’re still trying to do that.

We’ve gone from encouraging each other as two young people to raising four children together. We’ve walked through good seasons and hard ones. We’ve made mistakes. We’ve learned. We’ve grown.

I’m not the same man Karen started dating. She’s not the same woman I started dating.

We’re better and closer to Jesus. Thank goodness.

The Work Isn’t Finished

One of the main verses from Sunday’s sermon was:

“I am sure of this, that he who started a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” Philippians 1:6

That’s sanctification.

God is working on us throughout our lives, making us more like Jesus.

I can look back and see places where He’s changed me.

When Karen and I married in 2006, I was working in retail. It didn’t take much for something going wrong to stress me out. Plans changing could frustrate me pretty quickly.

I still don’t particularly enjoy plans changing. Let’s not get carried away with how sanctified I’ve become.

But I’ve mellowed.

I’ve learned that fewer things are worth getting worked up over. I’ve learned there aren’t nearly as many hills worth dying on as I once thought.

One of the phrases my family hears from me all the time now is, “I can only control myself.” You’ve heard me say it more than once in my writings.

That guy was not around in 2006.

But…

I’m thankful he’s here now.

I’m also very aware that God still has plenty of work to do.

I got a pretty good reminder of that Sunday morning.

We Don’t Go Down That Hallway Anymore

For eighteen years, Karen and I have had a child somewhere in the birth to preschool to lower elementary area at church.

Sunday morning, I walked Grayson toward his class just like I have countless times before.

He went toward his old classroom, and I stood outside watching through the glass wall to make sure he got where he needed to be.

Then it hit me. He wasn’t supposed to be there.

He had moved up.

Apparently, neither one of us got the mental memo that we already knew about.

I went back and got him. He was about as surprised as I was, and we found where he was supposed to go.

Later, I told Karen what had happened.

That’s when the bigger realization sank in.

For the first time in eighteen years, we don’t have a child on that hallway anymore. He was the last one.

Next Sunday will be different. We won’t even turn that direction.

Meanwhile, Brighton just turned eighteen and is starting his senior year of high school. Chloe is beginning her last year of middle school. Sophie is beginning her last year of elementary school.

Everybody is moving up.

And Dad better keep growing too.

From Helicopter to Lighthouse

The father Brighton needs at eighteen isn’t the same father he needed at eight.

We’re having a lot more adult conversations now.

I didn’t have many men giving me words of wisdom when I was eighteen, and I want things to be different for him. I’m trying to let him spread his wings while making sure he knows there is always a safe place to land and learn.

I’m not really a helicopter parent as much anymore. I’m trying to be more of a lighthouse. I can’t fly around controlling where my children go or every decision they make. I can’t make them follow Jesus. I can’t choose who they become.

But, I can point them toward Him.

I can help them recognize some of the rocks ahead because I’ve hit a few of them myself. I can be there when life gets rough.

And something interesting has started happening with Brighton. He’s sharpening me too.

He reads and studies biblical and Christian writings more than I do sometimes. He’ll tell me something he’s been studying, and we’ll talk about it. He brings what he’s learning. I bring some of what God has taught me through living it.

Proverbs 27:17 says, “Iron sharpens iron, and one person sharpens another.”

Sometimes that’s exactly what happens between us.

A Year From Now

At the end of Sunday’s message, Pastor Sam talked about an old Dodge Ram that belonged to his dad who passed away several years ago.

It has more than 250,000 miles on it. It has bumps and bruises. The air conditioner doesn’t work. There are plenty of reasons to replace it, but the truck means something to him because of the memories attached to it, including driving it while his dad was going through cancer treatments.

The truck is still the truck. Sam isn’t the same Sam who drove it all those years ago. Then he challenged us to think about our lives with Christ.

A year from now, Jesus will not have changed. But we should have.

That stuck with me.

A year from now, I want to be closer to Jesus than I am today. I want to know God’s Word better than I do today. I want to be more focused on others than I am today. I want to be a better husband to Karen and the father my children need for whatever stage comes next. I want to take the opportunities God gives me to write, speak, and tell people what He has done in my life. I hope a year from now I can look back and see that God did some work on me.

Because He isn’t finished. When I look back at the work He’s already done, I see His fingerprints everywhere.

But I see a lot of other fingerprints too. Sunday School teachers who turned a classroom into a biblical marketplace. A Mama who made cinnamon rolls and made sure three boys got to church. People like Kevin and Ms. Pat who invested in a young man and gave him somewhere to serve. A young woman who left Bible verses underneath my windshield wipers and eventually became my wife. Four children who have given me plenty of reasons to grow and occasionally shown me the places where I still need to.

God alone does the saving. God alone can change a heart.

But I’m thankful He gives us people to walk alongside us while He’s doing the work.

Paul had people like that in Philippi.

I have them too.

And when I remember them, I thank my God.

Live It

Take a few minutes this week and think about the people God has used in your walk with Him.

Maybe it was a Sunday School teacher whose name you haven’t thought about in years. Maybe it was a parent or grandparent who quietly made faith part of the rhythm of your home. Maybe it was a pastor, friend, spouse, sibling, or mentor who stood beside you when you needed someone.

Thank God for them. Then, if you still can, tell them.

After that, ask a harder question: Am I allowing God to continue His work in me?

Don’t compare yourself to somebody else. Look at your own walk. Think about who you were a year ago. Where has God changed you? Where does He still have some work to do?

And finally, look around.

Whose story might God be using you in right now?

Dinner Table Devotional

Read: Philippians 1:3–6 and Proverbs 27:17

Talk About It:

1. Who is someone God has used to help you grow closer to Him? What did that person do?

2. What is one way you can see that God has changed you over the past year?

3. What is one area where you want God to help you grow during the next year?

4. How can our family do a better job of sharpening and encouraging one another?

Pray:

Thank God by name for some of the people He has placed in your lives. Ask Him to continue the good work He has begun in each of you and to help your family encourage one another as you grow closer to Jesus.

It wasn’t anything fancy, but to me it was perfect. It had a black pinstripe down the side, black vents on the hood, and every weekend I had a routine.

I’d back it out from under the carport so it sat on the slope of our driveway. I’d fill a little blue bucket with soapy water and start at the top. I had a brush for the lower panels where the road grime and tar collected, and I even cleaned underneath the spoiler. Once it was washed and dried, I’d move inside. I’d get down on my hands and knees, vacuum under the seats, wipe down every piece of plastic with Armor All, and make the dashboard shine. By the time I was finished, that Mustang looked just about as good as the day I bought it.

Of course, that was before kids.

Back then I had time.

Those weekends weren’t really about washing a car. They gave me a chance to slow down, think, pray, or sometimes just enjoy the quiet. Looking back, I think that’s what I missed the most. The Mustang represented a season of life that eventually gave way to something even better.

Then Karen and I got married.

About a year and a half later, Brighton came along, and a two-door sports car gave way to a four-door family car. Mustangs are not really built for car seats, family grocery runs, and strollers. So we traded it for something bigger. I have never regretted that decision.

I loved being a husband. I loved becoming a dad. Looking back now, I wouldn’t trade my family for a garage full of sports cars.

Still, I missed that Mustang.

Maybe it wasn’t even the car I missed. Maybe it was what it represented. It reminded me of a season of life when I had time to slow down, wash the car, listen to music, and think about absolutely nothing. Those days eventually gave way to soccer, tennis, and flag football practices, church activities, and family vacations. I wouldn’t change any of that for the world, but every once in a while my mind wandered back to those days.

That’s probably why I started talking about owning a 1982 Pontiac Firebird.

If you grew up in the eighties, you already know where this is going. Knight Rider was one of my favorite shows growing up. My brothers and I loved watching Michael Knight drive KITT around every week. My middle brother, Sean, had already claimed the General Lee from The Dukes of Hazzard, so the Firebird became my dream car.

Every now and then I would mention finding one.

Karen would smile and gently remind me that it was an older car, it wasn’t practical for a growing family, and it really didn’t make much sense.

The funny thing is, I agreed with her.

I wasn’t secretly saving money to buy one. I wasn’t searching classified ads every night. I was simply enjoying the idea. Talking about it let me revisit a part of my childhood for a few minutes. Deep down, I already knew it probably wasn’t going to happen.

Years later, Karen and I were sitting in a marriage study when the speaker made a comment that caught both of our attention. He talked about how husbands often have dreams they know may never become reality. What hurts isn’t giving up the dream. What hurts is hearing someone they love tell them the dream is doesn’t make sense before they’ve even had a chance to enjoy it.

During our group discussion, several wives turned and asked their husbands if they had ever felt like one of their dreams had been dismissed.

Karen looked at me and asked the same question.

I smiled and nodded, telling her about the Firebird.

She immediately apologized.

She wasn’t being defensive. She genuinely had no idea that was how I felt. The truth is, I wasn’t upset with her. She wasn’t trying to hurt me. Everything she had said over the years made perfect sense. We had small children. A twenty-year-old sports car wasn’t exactly the wisest purchase for our family of four.

What that conversation did was open a window into how each of us was thinking.

She realized I wasn’t asking for permission to buy a Firebird.

I realized she wasn’t trying to crush a dream.

She was trying to protect our family.

That conversation changed something.

Fast forward to the past few months.

I’ve been looking for another vehicle. If you’ve talked to me recently, you know the search has been all over the map. Jeeps. Pickup trucks. Dodge Challengers. Chevy Camaro Super Sports. At one point I was looking at a 2013 Camaro with the little “mail slot” in the front grille. Karen laughed and said it would be the perfect place for a Knight Rider light. She remembered.

And that made me smile.

Somewhere along the way she had learned my language.

Every time I asked her opinion, she simply said, “You get what you want.”

Whenever I brought up practical concerns, she helped me think through them instead of shutting the conversation down. She reminded me that Brighton would soon be driving my old car, so we wouldn’t always need six seats anymore. Instead of telling me why something wouldn’t work, she helped me think about what could.

In the end, I didn’t buy a Camaro or Challenger.

I bought a black Jeep Wrangler with big tires. I guess this Batman needed a Tumbler, too.

The kids absolutely love it. Grayson will walk outside and just sit in it while it’s parked in the driveway. I smile every time I look out the window and see it sitting there.

The other afternoon I was outside installing another accessory on it when Karen came outside.

She smiled and said, “I’m so glad you’re out here enjoying this. It reminds me of when we were dating and you would wash the Mustang. You know you’re my favorite person, right?”

Of course I know.

That one sentence meant more to me than any accessory I’ll ever bolt onto that Jeep.

As I thought about it later, I realized something else.

I’ve been a dream killer too.

Karen’s dreams involve traveling. More than once she has brought up places she’d love for us to visit. My first response used to be, “We can’t do that. We can’t leave the kids.” That’s not cheap.”

I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I thought I was protecting our family. Looking back, I can see how quickly I dismissed something that meant a lot to her.

Somewhere along the way, I quit saying, “We can’t,” and started asking, “How can we make this happen?”

That simple change made all the difference.

Over the years we’ve watched some of those dreams become memories. We’ve gone snorkeling with sea turtles on the beaches of Puerto Rico, driven the winding roads of Ireland, and watched the sunset in Hawaii. Karen does a lot of the planning, but I’ve learned to enjoy planning with her. Months before a trip, we’ll start watching airfare, looking for hotel deals, and figuring out how to make it fit our budget. Half the fun is dreaming together before we ever pack a suitcase.

None of those trips happened overnight. They happened because the conversation changed.

I wasn’t trying to crush her dream.

I was trying to protect our family.

Sound familiar?

Sometimes we become dream killers because we love the person standing in front of us. We don’t want them to be disappointed. We don’t want them to get hurt. We don’t want them chasing something that isn’t realistic.

Our intentions may be good.

Our words still matter.

Proverbs 12:25 says, “Anxiety weighs down the heart, but a kind word cheers it up.”

There are plenty of things in life we can’t fix. We can’t promise every dream will come true. We can’t always make the finances work or change the season of life we’re in. Sometimes all we can do is encourage one another, pray together, and trust God with the future.

No one wants to hear their dream is unattainable.

Most people already know that.

That’s why they’re called dreams.

As husbands and wives, we’re called to love one another with our words. Ephesians 4:29 reminds us to use words that build people up and give grace to those who hear them. Sometimes building up means asking another question instead of giving another reason something won’t work. Sometimes it means listening a little longer before offering a solution.

That doesn't mean we ignore reality or pretend every dream will come true. It means we choose to encourage before we dismiss, to listen before we solve, and to ask, "How could we?" before saying, "We can't."

Looking back, I don't think God expects husbands and wives to make every dream come true. I do think He calls us to become the safest person in the world for our spouse to dream with. After all, there is no one on this earth I'd rather spend time with than Karen. If she has a dream, I want to be the first person helping her think through it. I know she'll do the same for me. That's the kind of marriage we're still building, and by God's grace, I think we're both enjoying the journey a whole lot more.

If this story encouraged you, would you share it with someone you love?

Sometimes one conversation can change the direction of a marriage.

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One day he casually said, “You’re eating lunch with me and my wife today.”

To be honest, it caught me off guard. We had only known each other for a week or two. Going to someone’s house for lunch wasn’t something I expected during my training. Still, I was raised to be polite, and besides, he certainly didn’t have to invite me. I thanked him, and we headed to his house.

We walked through the side door into a small kitchen where his wife greeted me with a smile and asked if I was hungry. I was nineteen years old. That answer was always yes.

A few minutes later she brought us lunch. It was a country ham sandwich with thick slices of tomato and a decent bit of mayonnaise.

Now I need to confess something. I have never been a big fan of country ham. Growing up on a farm, that probably sounds strange, but it has always been a little too salty for me. Fresh tomatoes have never been my thing either. Honestly, tomatoes of any kind are not on my favorite foods list.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind them cooked down into spaghetti sauce or turned into ketchup, but biting into a thick slice of tomato has never appealed to me. As for mayonnaise, I tolerate it a lot better now than I did back then.

In other words, she had unknowingly fixed me just about the last sandwich I would have picked for myself. I quickly began giving myself a pep talk in my head.

“You can do this, Maury.”

I picked it up and immediately noticed a huge slice of tomato. It wasn’t one of those little slices that gets lost on a sandwich. This thing was thick. Anyone who loves tomatoes would have thought they had hit the jackpot. I did not feel like I had won anything.

I smiled, took a bite, and started chewing.

My strategy was simple. I chewed until I could swallow the bite with a drink.

Speaking of the drink, she had asked if I wanted a Coke. I happily said yes. She brought me a tall glass with plenty of ice.

It was Diet Coke. I knew it the second I took a sip.

At that point I had a decision to make. I could think about everything that wasn’t the way I liked it, or I could simply appreciate the fact that an older couple had invited a young delivery driver they barely knew into their home for lunch.

So I ate every bite of that sandwich. Every bite. Down to the last piece of tomato.

I drank every drop of that Diet Coke.

When she kindly asked if I wanted another sandwich, I smiled and said, “No, thank you. I’m good. Thank you, though.”

Looking back, I realized pretty quickly that the lunch was never about the food. She was probably serving me the same lunch she had been making for her husband for years. It reminded me of my grandparents. Grandma fixed lunch for my Paw Paw almost every day. There was something familiar about it. They weren’t trying to impress me. They were simply sharing what they had. They were sharing a portion of their day together.

I’ve thought about that lunch many times over the years.

Jesus once sent His disciples into towns to minister, and He gave them an interesting instruction. In Luke 10, He told them that when someone welcomed them into a home, they were to stay there and “eat and drink what they offer you” (Luke 10:7-8).

I’ve always liked that picture.

Jesus knew hospitality wasn’t really about the menu. It was about the people opening their home. Receiving someone’s kindness with gratitude honors the heart behind the invitation.

I wonder how often we miss that.

We get so focused on what we want that we overlook someone’s generosity. We critique the meal, the gift, the timing, or the circumstances instead of simply saying, “Thank you.”

I’m glad nineteen-year-old Maury didn’t decide to tell that sweet lady everything he didn’t like about her lunch.

Instead, I got to enjoy something much better than a sandwich. I experienced kindness.

I honestly don’t remember much about delivering prescriptions during those weeks. I don’t remember many of the addresses or even many of the deliveries.

I do remember that little kitchen. I remember a country ham sandwich with a tomato that seemed way too thick. I remember a tall glass of Diet Coke.

Most of all, I remember an older couple who made room at their table for a young man they barely knew.

Funny how the things we remember most aren’t always our favorite meals.

Sometimes they’re simply the moments when someone made us feel welcome.

Thanks for reading Grit & Wit.

Have you ever had someone show you kindness in an ordinary way that you still remember years later? I’d love to hear your story in the comments.

If this article encouraged you, consider sharing it with someone who has a gift for making people feel welcome.

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This Sunday’s sermon came from Colossians 3:23–24, verses many of us have heard countless times:

“Whatever you do, do it from the heart, as something done for the Lord and not for people, knowing that you will receive the reward of an inheritance from the Lord. You serve the Lord Christ.” Colossians 3:23-24

On the surface, that seems like a pretty straightforward command. Work hard. Serve God. Do your best. But as I listened to the sermon and discussed it with our Life Group, I realized these verses aren’t really about what we do. They’re about why we do it.

Our pastor used two illustrations that immediately connected with the congregation. He talked about beanbag Christians and high chair Christians.

A beanbag Christian enjoys all the blessings that come with following Jesus. They appreciate the grace of God, the fellowship of the church, and the encouragement of other believers. They’re comfortable. Maybe a little too comfortable. They love attending church, but they’re always too busy when it’s time to serve. As soon as he described that picture, there were smiles and a few knowing laughs around the room because we’ve all seen it before. Just like a beanbag, we get nice and cozy and do not want to move from our spot.

It reminded me of the old story of the Little Red Hen. None of the animals wanted to help plant the wheat, grind the flour, or bake the bread, but when everything was finished, they were first in line to enjoy the meal. If we’re honest, churches can sometimes look the same way.

You’ve probably heard the saying that twenty percent of the people do one hundred percent of the work. I don’t know if those numbers are accurate, but every time I’ve heard someone say it, people nod their heads. Most of us have also met “Not Me.” In our family of six, “Not Me” is practically our fifth child.

“Who left this mess?”

“Not me.”

“Who’s taking out the trash?”

“Not me.”

It’s funny around our house, but it becomes a problem when nobody takes ownership. Six people can make a mess in a hurry, and if everyone assumes someone else will take care of it, the mess only gets bigger.

The other picture was the high chair Christian. These are people who are always busy. They volunteer. They attend every service. They check every spiritual box. From the outside, everything looks exactly as it should. The problem is that somewhere along the way, serving becomes duty instead of devotion.

Adrian Rogers once described what a church full of Pharisees would look like. They would attend every service, give faithfully, volunteer constantly, avoid the obvious sins, and still be lost. Jesus’ strongest rebukes were not aimed at tax collectors or fishermen. They were aimed at religious people who had mastered the appearance of holiness while neglecting the condition of their hearts.

That’s what hit me the most about Sunday’s message. Duty and devotion can look almost identical from the outside. Two people can be serving in the exact same ministry, doing the exact same task, and God sees two completely different hearts.

There have been Sundays when I went to church simply because that’s what I do on Sundays. Then there have been Sundays when I walked through the doors praying that God would speak to me. The church didn’t change. The people didn’t change. Even the sermon didn’t change. The only thing that changed was my heart.

The same thing happens at home.

I’ll be honest—I don’t enjoy cleaning the kitchen. If I walk in and see dishes piled up after a long day, it’s hard to get excited about grabbing the sponge. But if Karen isn’t feeling well, something changes. I’m still wiping the same counters and loading the same dishwasher, but now I’m doing it because I love her. The task is exactly the same. My motivation is completely different.

A few weeks ago I spent a good part of a hot day staining our deck. Let’s be real. I really didn’t care what color the deck was. It looked fine to me before I started. But Karen enjoys sitting outside, and I knew it would make her happy. It was hot. It was tedious. My back reminded me of every board I stained. Yet every time she comes inside after sitting on the deck, she thanks me.

I didn’t stain the deck because I love projects.

I stained the deck because I love my wife.

That’s the difference between duty and devotion.

I think about that at work too. Every day I help people solve technology problems. Some requests take only a few minutes. Others require a lot more patience. I’ve always tried to treat every person with the same respect and urgency because each one matters. Over the years I’ve even taken on projects no one asked me to do simply because I knew they would make someone else’s job easier.

Sometimes people noticed.

Sometimes someone else received the credit.

I’d be lying if I said that never bothered me. It does. But then I’m reminded that Colossians says I’m not ultimately working for people’s approval. I’m working for the Lord. His opinion carries a lot more weight than anyone else’s.

If I retired tomorrow, I hope people wouldn’t remember the software I supported or the projects I completed. I hope they’d simply say, “Maury was always willing to help.”

That’s the reputation I want.

The same thing happens at church. Brighton and I usually serve after the final service each Sunday. Most people are heading home while we’re stacking chairs, cleaning up, or driving staff members to their cars on the golf cart. Those aren’t glamorous jobs, but they’ve become some of my favorites. We’ve gotten to know staff members we probably never would have talked with otherwise, and every week I’m reminded that no job is beneath someone who follows Jesus.

After all, our Savior washed feet.

As we talked through the sermon in Life Group, someone brought up the idea of character. That’s really what all of this comes down to. Character is who you are when nobody is watching. It’s doing the right thing even if no one notices. It’s serving even if no one thanks you. It’s living with integrity because you know God sees what no one else does.

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized that being comes before doing.

Jesus didn’t tell His disciples to try harder to produce fruit. He told them to abide in Him. A branch doesn’t stay alive by working harder. It stays alive by staying connected to the vine.

I’ve noticed that’s how my own relationship with God has changed over the years, especially after becoming a husband and father. I don’t wait until a scheduled prayer time to talk with Him anymore. If something good happens, I thank Him. If something difficult happens, I ask Him for wisdom and help. I try to make sure my thank you’s outweigh my help me’s because healthy relationships aren’t built only around emergencies.

If my children kept the house spotless but never wanted to spend time with me, I’d be heartbroken. I’d much rather have a messy house filled with conversation than a spotless one filled with silence. I have to believe our Heavenly Father feels the same way. Before He wants our service, He wants our hearts.

As I finish writing this article, I’m sitting in our bonus room while Grayson plays video games. I’m not playing. I’m not even talking very much. I’m just sitting here with him because he asked me not leave the room after I got done playing a little.

After a while I asked, “Buddy, why did you want me in here if we’re not really doing anything?”

Without taking his eyes off the screen, he answered, “I just like your company.”

I smiled because I immediately thought about God.

So much of my Christian life has been spent asking, “Lord, what do You want me to do?”

Maybe, before He asks us to do anything, He’s simply saying, “Come spend some time with Me.”

The more time we spend with Him, the more our hearts begin to change. Serving stops feeling like an obligation and starts becoming a privilege. We no longer clean the kitchen because we have to. We no longer volunteer because someone guilted us into it. We no longer go to church simply because it’s Sunday.

We do those things because we’ve spent time with Jesus, and loving Him naturally changes the way we love and serve others.

That’s the difference between duty and devotion.

If this article encouraged or challenged you today, would you do me a favor?

❤️ Tap the heart if it resonated with you.

📤 Share it with someone who might need the reminder that God cares just as much about why we serve as how we serve.

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Thanks for reading. I’m grateful you’re here.

This week, we’re talking about messy rooms, faithful stewardship, and the surprising way God often uses our children to teach us lessons about our own hearts.

After you finish reading, don’t skip the Dinner Table Devotional at the end. It’s designed to help your family laugh together, open God’s Word, and have a meaningful conversation about what it means to be faithful with the little things.

I’m not saying one of my daughters is training for a hoarding championship, but if there were regional qualifiers, she’d be running preliminary heats with confidence and a snack wrapper in each hand.

Karen and I say, “Clean your room,” and they hear, “Gently shove items toward corners and hope no one checks under the bed or any other furniture.”

Let’s talk about clothes. Clothes in the closet? Nope. Clothes in the drawers? Not really. Clothes everywhere else—on the makeup table, draped over a chair, stuffed inside a reusable shopping bag they’ve apparently named “Laundry Stacy”? Absolutely.

And don’t get me started on bedding. We ask them to strip their beds so the sheets can be washed. They comply. They do not, however, even consider the second half of that process. Apparently, Mama and Daddy are the Linen Fairies, who flit in overnight making beds with fresh sheets and a song in our hearts.

We are not singing.

We are tired.

Then there are the dishes. There are glasses everywhere, with differing levels of water in them. I am not sure if they think the aliens from Signs are coming, but that room is the last place those aliens would want to be.

Eventually, I resort to my system. I walk into the room, slowly turn in a circle like I’m surveying a crime scene, and then, like a frustrated tornado, throw everything into one giant pile in the middle of the floor.

“Put it where it belongs.”

It doesn’t get to that point much, but it works at those level 10 days.

The funny thing is that every time I do it, they look at me as if this has never happened before. As if I’m some unreasonable visitor who has burst into their perfectly peaceful sanctuary. How dare I interrupt their carefully curated ecosystem of hoodies, hair ties, and half-finished water bottles?

I explain—again—that if they would simply pick up the little messes as they happen, they wouldn’t have to spend part of every weekend cleaning a disaster. They nod. They agree. They even assure me they understand.

Then I leave.

Ten minutes later I return to discover the giant pile has somehow reproduced into four smaller piles because they’re “organizing.”

Bless their hearts.

And I mean that in the way only Southerners can.

The truth is, I don’t really enjoy these conversations. After working all week, I don’t want to spend my free time cleaning up a mess I didn’t make. More than that, though, I’m not trying to raise children who simply know how to clean a bedroom. I’m trying to raise adults who understand stewardship, self-discipline, and gratitude for what God has entrusted to them.

I tell my kids something that they’ve probably grown tired of hearing: “Your bedroom is your practice home.”

One day that room may become a dorm room, an apartment, or a house of their own. Maybe one day there will be a spouse. Maybe children. Learning to care for what God has given you doesn’t begin the day you get the keys to your first home. It begins with the room you have today.

Jesus said, “Whoever is faithful with very little is also faithful with much” (Luke 16:10).

The more I thought about that, the more I realized this lesson wasn’t just for my kids.

My spiritual life can start looking a lot like one of those bedrooms.

I don’t always remove the things that don’t belong. Sometimes I simply move them around.

Instead of dealing with pride, I justify it.

Instead of confessing bitterness, I bury it.

Instead of repenting of a sinful habit, I hide it somewhere no one else can see.

The room looks different.

But it isn’t cleaner.

One thought kept coming back to me as I wrote this.

We don’t repent. We relocate.

The problem is that when we hide sin, we still know exactly where we put it. We may fool everyone else, but we never fool ourselves, and we certainly never fool God.

Jesus confronted the Pharisees about this very thing. “Now you Pharisees clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside you are full of greed and evil” (Luke 11:39). The outside looked respectable. The inside was another story.

James gives us the remedy: “But be doers of the word and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves” (James 1:22).

That’s the challenge, isn’t it? We can hear truth. We can agree with truth. We can even organize truth into neat little piles in our minds.

But until we obey it, nothing has really changed.

Thankfully, God is far more patient than I am standing in the middle of a messy bedroom. He lovingly points out the areas that need attention, not to shame us, but to help us grow. He wants more than a cleaned-up appearance. He wants transformed hearts.

So maybe this week isn’t about having the cleanest room in the house.

Maybe it’s about asking God to point out the pile we’ve been stepping around, the one we’ve convinced ourselves isn’t really a problem anymore.

Because whether it’s a bedroom or a heart, peace usually begins when everything is finally put where it belongs.

Dinner Table Devotional

Read Together

• James 1:22

• Luke 16:10

• Luke 11:39

Talk About It

1. Why is it easier to make a mess than to clean one up?

2. What responsibilities has God given each person in our family?

3. Why do you think Jesus says being faithful in little things matters?

4. Have you ever kept putting off something you knew needed to be done? What happened?

5. What does it mean to “relocate” sin instead of repenting of it?

6. Is there an area of your life where you’ve been hiding something instead of asking God to help you remove it?

7. What is one small act of faithfulness you can practice this week?

Live It

Choose one thing you’ve been putting off this week. Maybe it’s cleaning your room, apologizing to someone, spending time with God, or taking care of a responsibility you’ve ignored. Don’t just think about it. Do it.

Pray Together

Father, thank You for every blessing You’ve entrusted to us. Help us to be faithful with the little things because they prepare us for bigger responsibilities. Show us where we’ve been hiding sin instead of dealing with it. Give us hearts that are quick to obey and homes that honor You. In Jesus’ name, amen.

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Join me Thursday at 7:30 p.m. CT for Thursday Night Live. We'll continue the conversation, and I'll answer your questions.

One unexpected phone call. A strange pain. A conversation that doesn’t go quite the way you expected. Before long, your imagination has filled in all the blanks, and somehow you’ve convinced yourself that the worst-case scenario is no longer a possibility but an inevitability.

I know that feeling because I’ve lived it.

Years ago, Karen and I experienced our very first parenting panic. What started as a penny-sized spot on our three-year-old son’s leg sent us racing to Franklin, praying the whole way and wondering if our little boy was facing something life-changing. Looking back now, it’s one of those stories that makes us laugh. At the time, though, it felt anything but funny.

That night taught me something I’ve continued learning ever since: fear has an incredible ability to write stories that reality never tells. And more often than I’d like to admit, my imagination reaches the diagnosis long before God reveals the truth.

Paul’s words in Philippians remind me that God’s invitation isn’t to pretend difficult situations don’t exist. It’s to bring every anxious thought to Him before fear has the chance to finish writing the story.

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Read It

Philippians 4:6–7 (CSB)

“Don’t worry about anything, but in everything, through prayer and petition with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”

Own It

Every parent has a first freak out. Ours happened when Brighton was about three or four years old.

We were out running errands one evening when Brighton started complaining that his leg itched. At first, it didn’t seem like much. Kids scratch bug bites all the time. But when we finally got a good look at it in a store parking lot, Karen and I both stopped in our tracks.

There, on his leg, was a circular spot about the size of a penny. It had a bright pinkish-red ring around the outside, a dark blue circle just inside that, and a dark red spot in the very middle. Looking back now, I know exactly what we were seeing. Back then? I was convinced I was looking at rotting flesh.

Everything with Brighton was our first. Our first child. Our first fever. Our first late-night panic. We had no previous experiences to pull from, no parenting stories that ended with, “Oh, it’s probably nothing.” We were learning as we went, and every chapter felt like opening an instruction manual we’d never read before.

Karen and I looked at each other, both trying not to overreact while simultaneously overreacting in our own minds.

“What if it’s staph?”

“What if it’s necrotic tissue?”

“Isn’t that what kills people?”

The questions came much faster than the answers.

Instead of guessing, we started scrolling through our phone contacts looking for someone in the medical field. We found a nurse we trusted and called her. After listening to our description, she asked us to text her a picture of the spot with a coin beside it so she could judge the size. We grabbed a penny, laid it next to Brighton’s leg, snapped the picture, and hit send.

A few minutes later, my phone rang.

“You all probably need to get him to a doctor...ASAP.”

Those four letters changed everything.

I had been doing my best to stay calm for Karen, but the moment I heard that, I became a NASCAR driver.

The entire drive to Franklin felt like one long conversation built entirely on questions. If it was staph, what would they do? If it was a brown recluse bite, would they have to remove dead tissue? Would Williamson Medical send us straight to Vanderbilt? Would they keep him overnight? Which one of us would stay with him? Could we both stay?

Meanwhile, Brighton sat in the back seat acting like a perfectly healthy three-year-old whose leg happened to itch.

Karen prayed almost the whole drive. She prayed that God would heal our little boy, protect him, guide the doctors, and calm our hearts. I prayed too, but if I’m honest, my mind kept trying to outrun God. I was answering “what if” questions that hadn’t happened yet. I was mentally preparing for a future that existed only in my imagination.

By the time we arrived, the emergency room was packed, and they told us that if it looked as serious as we described, they’d probably send us to Vanderbilt anyway. We found a walk-in clinic that was about to close for the evening, and thankfully they agreed to see us.

The doctor walked in with a level of calmness that honestly frustrated me. Looking back, it’s funny. At the time, I was thinking, “Sir, where is your sense of urgency? Our son’s leg could be rotting away while you’re casually introducing yourself.”

He leaned over, looked at the spot for a few seconds, and finally said, “Let’s clean it off and get a better look.”

Cleaning it off?

That had honestly never crossed our minds.

We thought if we touched it, we might make things worse.

The doctor put a little white cream on a cloth and gently wiped across the spot. Once. Then again.

Karen and I watched in complete silence.

The blue started disappearing.

Wait...

Was that...

Blue jean lint?

The doctor smiled.

“He’s got ringworm.”

That was it.

Ringworm.

No staph.

No necrotic tissue.

No Vanderbilt.

No overnight hospital stay.

No life-changing diagnosis.

Just ringworm.

The red circle was exactly what it appeared to be all along. The “dead tissue” we’d been convinced we were looking at turned out to be nothing more than lint from the inside of Brighton’s blue jeans that had collected because he’d been scratching his leg all afternoon.

Karen and I looked at each other and immediately felt two emotions at the same time: overwhelming relief... and just a little bit of embarrassment.

We called our parents to let them know everything was okay.

“It was just ringworm.”

The nurse who had told us to get him to a doctor laughed when we updated her, but she also admitted she’d have sent us too after seeing the picture. And Brighton? He looked at both of us with an expression that seemed to say, “Can we go home now?”

Years later, I can laugh about that night.

Not because we cared too much.

But because we loved our son so much that our imagination outran reality.

Reflect

As funny as that story is now, I’ve realized over the years it wasn’t just teaching us how to be parents. God was teaching us something about fear.

Fear has a remarkable ability to color what we’re looking at until we can no longer see it clearly. It’s like pouring gasoline on the flames of our imagination. We don’t simply prepare for what might happen. We begin living as though it already has.

The funny thing is, I still catch myself doing it.

A few months ago, I woke up in the middle of the night with a minor health issue. Before long, my imagination was writing another horror story all its own. I started thinking about Karen. I thought about our four kids. I wondered what would happen if something was seriously wrong.

I wanted to wake Karen up, but instead I prayed. I asked God to heal me. I asked Him to calm my heart. By morning, I went to the doctor, got checked out, received some medicine, and within a short time the problem was gone.

As I drove home, I couldn’t help but think back to Brighton’s ringworm.

Once again, my imagination had been a ten.

Reality had been about a three.

I wonder how often we do that.

We spend so much time fearing what might be that we lose sight of what actually is. We borrow tomorrow’s troubles before they ever arrive. We rehearse conversations that never happen. We brace for diagnoses we never receive. We convince ourselves that because something resembles disaster, disaster must be inevitable.

Paul understood anxious hearts when he wrote Philippians 4. He didn’t promise that life would never give us reasons to worry. He simply reminded us where our worry belongs.

Take it to God.

Notice what God promises in return.

Not immediate answers.

Not immediate healing.

Not immediate solutions.

Peace.

Sometimes peace is the first miracle God performs.

Looking back now, Karen and I don’t panic quite as quickly. Part of that comes from raising four kids. Experience has taught us that not every rash is an emergency, not every fever is catastrophic, and not every difficult season ends in disaster.

But I think something else has changed too.

My faith has grown.

I’ve watched God carry our family through too many situations to ignore His faithfulness. I’ve learned that everything isn’t a disaster, even when it feels like one in the moment. I’ve also realized that as a husband and father, my family often borrows my calm. That doesn’t mean I never get scared. It means I’ve learned where to take my fear.

Sometimes God removes the problem.

Sometimes He simply reminds us that fear has been telling us a story that isn’t true.

Live It

Is there something in your life right now that your imagination has turned into a catastrophe?

Before you let fear finish writing the story, take it to the One who already knows the ending. Ask God for wisdom. Ask Him for peace. Ask Him to help you see your circumstances through the eyes of faith instead of the lens of fear.

You may still have a difficult road ahead.

Or you may discover that what looked terrifying simply needed to be cleaned off so you could finally see it clearly.

Dinner Table Devotional

• Have you ever worried about something that turned out to be much smaller than you imagined?

• Why do you think our minds naturally jump to worst-case scenarios?

• What does it look like to pray before we panic?

Pray It

Father, thank You for caring about the things that keep us awake at night. Forgive me for the times my imagination runs ahead of my faith. Help me bring my fears to You before I let them grow into something they were never meant to become. Fill my heart with Your peace, give me wisdom for today instead of worry about tomorrow, and help me become a calming presence for the people You’ve entrusted to my care. Amen.

This devotional actually began with a conversation with my oldest son, Brighton.

He came home after studying the story of David and Absalom. He mentioned how David’s love for his rebellious son mirrored God’s love for us. I had read that account many times over the years. I’d always been fascinated by David’s response. Why would he tell his commanders to “deal gently” with a son who had betrayed him? Why would he mourn so deeply for someone who had tried to take his throne?

I’d spent years thinking about David’s heart.

What I had never stopped to consider was what David’s heart revealed about God’s.

Sometimes the people we’re trying to teach end up teaching us. This was one of those moments.

Every family has moments they wish they could take back.

Sometimes it’s a harsh word spoken in anger. Sometimes it’s a slammed door, a broken relationship, or years of distance that seem impossible to repair. If you’re a parent, you’ve probably discovered that your love for your children doesn’t disappear simply because they’ve made poor choices. In many ways, it grows stronger because you desperately want them to find their way back.

The story of David and Absalom is one of the most heartbreaking accounts in Scripture. It’s a story of betrayal, regret, and unconditional love. But it also points us to an even greater Father who loved His rebellious children enough to make a way for them to come home.

As you read today’s passage, pay attention to David’s heart. Then ask yourself what it reveals about the heart of God.

Read It

2 Samuel 18:5

“The king commanded Joab, Abishai, and Ittai, ‘Treat the young man Absalom gently for my sake.’ And all the people heard when the king gave all the commanders orders concerning Absalom.”

2 Samuel 18:33

After learning of Absalom’s death. “The king was deeply moved and went up to the chamber over the city gate and wept. As he walked, he cried, ‘My son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you, Absalom, my son, my son!’

Own It

As parents, we’ve all heard words we’d rather forget.

“I hate you.”

“I wish I lived somewhere else.”

“You’re the meanest dad ever.”

The first time you hear those words, they sting. You know they probably aren’t true, but they still hurt. Most of the time those words don’t come from hatred. They come from frustration, embarrassment, or a child who just discovered that Mom and Dad aren’t changing their minds.

The funny thing is, I can’t really hold it against them.

I remember doing the exact same thing.

Growing up, my brothers Sean and Andrew and I had our share of arguments. I remember one time telling Sean that we weren’t brothers anymore. Looking back, that’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever said. You don’t stop being family because someone gets mad. You don’t erase years of love because of one heated argument.

Kids have a way of saying permanent things in temporary moments.

Now that I’m a dad, I’ve learned something.

After discipline or an argument, I usually don’t wait very long before I go back into my child’s room. I don’t want hurt feelings to have more time than they deserve. I don’t want distance to settle into a relationship that needs healing.

I usually sit down beside them, talk through what happened, and remind them of something they may not feel in that moment.

They’re still mine.

My love didn’t disappear because they made a bad decision.

In fact, moments like those probably make me want to reconnect even more.

Love and approval are not the same thing.

Some of the most loving words a parent can speak are, “I love you too much not to tell you the truth.” When my kids make choices that don’t honor God, they need me to lovingly point them back toward Him. Ignoring sin isn’t loving. Pretending wrong is right isn’t loving either.

Correction isn’t rejection.

It’s love with the courage to tell the truth.

I’ve told all four of my kids that there is nowhere they could ever be that would keep them from calling me. We even have a secret text code they can send if they ever find themselves somewhere they shouldn’t be. I’ll happily be the bad guy if it means getting them home safely. I never want fear or shame to keep them from reaching out for help. “Throw me under the bus all you want,” I’ve told them more than once.

I want them to know they can always come home.

Growing up around cattle taught me something about people too. Every now and then you’d have one that wanted to test the fence. It didn’t matter that the fence shocked it yesterday. Somehow it seemed to think today might be different. Sure enough, it would touch the fence again.

Sometimes we’re a lot like those cattle.

God gives us boundaries because He loves us, yet we still convince ourselves that maybe this time we’ll find something better on the other side. We test the fence over and over, wondering if life outside God’s design will finally satisfy us. Then ZAP!

That’s what Absalom did.

He wasn’t simply a rebellious son. He quietly stole the hearts of Israel, declared himself king, and forced David to flee Jerusalem. It wasn’t just family conflict.

It was treason. He broke the law. The big law.

By every human standard, David had every reason to protect his throne and demand justice. Instead, as his army marched into battle, David gave an unexpected command.

“Deal gently with the young man Absalom for my sake.”

That wasn’t simply the order of a king.

It was the plea of a father.

I’ve often wondered if part of David’s grief came from knowing he hadn’t always been the father he should have been. David made some painful mistakes with his family, and parents have a way of replaying those moments in their minds when relationships become strained. Whether those thoughts crossed David’s mind or not, one thing is certain.

He never stopped loving his son.

When Joab ignored David’s command and killed Absalom, David didn’t celebrate the end of the rebellion. He cried out, “My son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you.”

Every parent understands those words.

Love doesn’t disappear when your child disappoints you.

Then it hit me.

When I read this story, I’ve always imagined myself as David.

But that’s not who I am.

We are Absalom.

Every time I’ve chosen my own way over God’s, I’ve committed treason against the King of the universe. I’ve looked at His wisdom and decided I knew better.

Yet instead of abandoning me, He made a way for me to come home.

David wished he could take his son’s place.

Jesus actually took mine.

I’ve experienced a small picture of that kind of grace before.

When I was growing up, my brother Sean and I were throwing a baseball in the backyard like we had done dozens of times. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, and Sean, who was the best baseball player of the three of us, was working on scooping low throws at first base.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself. No idea honestly.

I threw one a little low. Maybe it took a bad hop. Maybe it skipped under his glove.

Either way...

The baseball rocketed straight into our sliding glass door.

It hit the bottom corner, and in an instant the entire pane turned into a giant spiderweb. There wasn’t a piece of glass bigger than a dime.

Sean and I just stood there staring at it.

Neither of us had to say a word.

We both knew exactly what we had to do next.

We walked inside, found Mama and Daddy, and told them what had happened.

We fully expected punishment.

Instead, we found understanding.

They knew we hadn’t been reckless.

It was an accident.

I’ve thought about that moment many times over the years.

How often do we approach God expecting anger when He’s already provided grace through Christ?

The difference, of course, is that my parents absorbed the cost of a broken window.

God absorbed the cost of our broken lives.

That’s why we don’t have to hide.

That’s why we don’t have to keep running.

Because Jesus already paid for what we could never fix ourselves.

Maybe that’s why I tell my own kids they can always call me.

Maybe that’s why I walk back into their room after hard conversations.

Maybe that’s why we have a secret text code if they ever need help.

I’m simply trying to reflect the heart of a Father who has spent my entire life reminding me of one beautiful truth.

Come home.

That’s the heart of our Father.

Live It

Ask yourself these questions today:

• Have I confused God’s correction with His rejection?

• Is there someone in my life who needs to know they are still loved, even while I disagree with their choices?

• Am I making it easy for my children, spouse, or loved ones to come to me when they’ve made a mistake?

• Is there an area where I need to stop running from God and simply come home?

Go Deeper

Read these passages and consider what they teach about the Father’s heart.

• 2 Samuel 18:5-33

• Luke 15:11-32

• Romans 5:6-11

• John 10:27-30

As you read, look for the ways God pursues, forgives, protects, and restores His children.

Dinner Table Devotional

Ask everyone at the table:

Have you ever been afraid to admit you did something wrong? Why?

Then ask:

How does it change the way we think about God when we realize He wants us to come to Him instead of hiding from Him?

Remind your family that discipline is meant to restore, not destroy. A loving parent corrects because they care, and our Heavenly Father does the same.

Pray

Father,

Thank You for loving me even when I have acted more like Absalom than a faithful child. Thank You that Your love isn’t based on my performance but on Your grace. Help me never confuse Your correction with rejection. Teach me to reflect Your heart in my own family so that those I love always know they can come home. And when I wander, remind me that through Jesus, Your arms are still open.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.

I'd love to hear from you. What's one way you've experienced the Father's unconditional love, or what's something you've learned as a parent about grace? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

Leave a comment

I was finishing up mowing the backyard this week when God interrupted my train of thought.

If you mow your own yard, you probably understand what I mean. There is something about mowing that clears my head. Maybe it’s the rhythm of walking back and forth. Maybe it’s seeing the neat lines appear behind you. Maybe it’s the instant gratification of taking something that looks a little wild and making it look cared for again. Whatever it is, I do a lot of thinking while I’m mowing.

This particular afternoon, I shut the mower off and just stood there for a minute. The yard looked good. The deck looked even better. I’d finally gotten around to staining it, and it looked brand new. Karen’s gazebo was sitting on top with the lights hanging around it, the couches I’d built were in place, and the landscaping project I’d been working on was finally starting to come together. I still want to add some decorative bracing to the gazebo, but for the first time in a while, I looked around and simply enjoyed what God had allowed me to build.

Whenever something like that happens, I’ve developed a habit over the years.

I thank God.

I don’t say that to sound super spiritual. Most of the time nobody is around to hear me anyway. It’s simply become something I intentionally do. When I notice something beautiful, when I see one of God’s blessings, or when something makes me smile, I stop and thank Him.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I smiled, shook my head, looked around one more time, and quietly said, “Thank You, Lord.”

As I stood there, my mind wandered like it usually does. My newest book (Built to Last) had just released, and the response had been better than I ever imagined. New writing opportunities have been opening up lately, and every time one does, I’m reminded that none of this is because I’m especially talented. It’s because God has been incredibly gracious.

Then I looked across the yard and saw one of my kids riding his bicycle.

Like every parent, I could make you a list of things they do that get on my nerves. Four kids under one roof can make enough noise to convince you the house is being remodeled. They fuss with each other sometimes over the dumbest things, and they things that should cause a fuss are ignored for whatever reason. They eat like a plague of locusts has descended upon the pantry. They leave cups in places that seem to defy the laws of physics.

They’re kids.

But then another thought crossed my mind.

Whenever we’re out in public, people constantly tell Karen and me how respectful they are. They’ll carry on conversations with adults. They have manners. They’re genuinely enjoyable to be around.

More importantly, every one of them has trusted Christ, and each of them is growing in their faith in his or her own way. I have never had to sit them down and convince them that church matters. They want to go.

Then I thought about Karen.

Some men use mowing the yard as an escape from what’s waiting inside the house. They’ll stay outside just a little longer because the garage is quieter than the living room.

Not me.

Don’t get me wrong. I like mowing. I like working outside more than a lot of my household chores.

But I love walking back through the door.

I love my wife.

I love my kids.

I love the life God has given me.

That’s when I believe the Lord planted the seed for this article.

It wasn’t an audible voice, but the thought was so clear it may as well have been.

“Well, Maury...this home you’re leading is partly your fault.”

I laughed.

Then I shook my head again.

Because He was right.

Walking Through the Door

I stepped inside, and Christian worship music was playing through one of our speakers. Nobody had been told to turn it on. Nobody had been forced to listen to it. Somebody in our house simply wanted to hear music that pointed their heart toward Jesus.

That made me smile.

Karen was in the kitchen making banana pudding because I didn’t get much on Father’s Day.

Our locusts...I mean, our kids...had made sure of that.

I started getting hamburgers ready for the Blackstone because I’d promised everyone burgers for supper. Every one of the kids has a favorite cheese, and after all these years I know which slice belongs on which burger without having to ask. Mine is pepper jack and cheddar.

I had even timed supper so Brighton would be getting home from work just as everything was ready.

Earlier that afternoon I’d texted him and asked if he’d grab me a Coke.

When he walked through the door, he held it up and grinned.

“Do you know how much this was? Three dollars,” he said.

“I’ll pay you back.” I walked over and handed him twelve quarters.

A few weeks earlier he’d bought a video game online and paid me back the exact same way. Turnabout’s fair play.

It wasn’t really about the Coke. It was about the relationship.

I’ve realized lately that something is changing between Brighton and me. He’s still my son, but we’re slowly entering that season where we’re becoming friends too. I don’t dread my kids growing up the way some parents do. Honestly, I look forward to it. It’s like reading a really good book. Every chapter gets better than the one before it.

The house just felt...

Peaceful.

Not silent. Four kids live here.

Peaceful.

Karen eventually stepped back inside after sitting on the deck for a while and smiled.

“That backyard is my happy place,” she said. “Thank you for making it so pretty.”

I don’t think she was really talking about the deck. I think she was talking about the life we’ve built together.

Standing there with hamburger grease on my hands, I quietly thanked God again. Then another thought hit me. Maybe none of this happened by accident.

Peace Is Cultivated

Karen has a saying that I’ve heard her repeat more than once when we have led marriage studies.

“As the husband goes, so goes the household.”

The more I thought about it, the more I realized she’s probably right.

Homes don’t naturally drift toward peace. They drift toward chaos. Peace has to be cultivated.

The atmosphere inside our home didn’t magically appear one Tuesday afternoon. It has been built over thousands of ordinary moments that nobody else will ever see.

Every conversation.

Every apology.

Every prayer.

Every hug.

Every family dinner.

Every bedtime Bible reading.

Every decision to leave work at work.

Every one of those moments has quietly shaped the culture of our home.

Then it hit me.

The atmosphere inside our house is, at least in part, in fact my fault.

Not because I’m perfect. Far from it.

But because fathers are culture builders whether we realize it or not. For better or worse.

That got me thinking about the “bad side” of being a Christian husband and father.

You know...

The terrible burden of actually having to live like one.

The Bad Side #1: Somebody Has to Go First

Nobody told me that becoming a Christian father meant I’d actually have to open my Bible instead of just owning several of them.

I really do have several.

There’s the King James Bible I received for Christmas in 1989. Every Christmas Eve I still read Luke 2 from that same Bible before our family goes to bed. I have my Tony Evans Study Bible that I carry to church every Sunday. The spine is beginning to fall apart, which tells me it’s being used the way it was intended. I have other Bibles that people have given me over the years, and many of those have now been passed down to my children until they received their own.

Next to my bed is a prayer journal. It’s filled with prayers, answers, and praises. Lately God has been answering so many prayers that I almost can’t keep up with writing them down. I pray for my wife. I pray for my daughters. I pray for Brighton’s future career and for the young woman who will one day become his wife.

He hasn’t met her yet.

But Karen and I have already been praying for her.

I did the same thing before I met Karen. I’m awfully glad I did.

My kids know where that journal is. My sermon notebooks are sitting out too. In fact, my daughters eventually asked for notebooks of their own because they wanted to take notes during church just like Dad. Brighton carries a composition notebook with him every Sunday.

Nobody made that happen. Nobody was told they had to do it.

They watched.

Just today, Brighton came home excited to tell me what he’d been studying. He had been reading about David after Absalom’s death and told me how David’s grief reminded him of God’s love for us. Even after Absalom rebelled against his father, David still loved him. Brighton saw a picture of God’s heart in that story.

I never had to ask if he’d spent time with the Lord.

His excitement answered the question before I ever could.

Children rarely become what we demand.

More often, they become what they see.

The Bad Side #2: You Have to Keep Dating the Same Woman

Poor me.

I have to spend the rest of my life with the same beautiful woman.

The one who’s gorgeous, smart, funny, and somehow still likes me after all these years.

Life is rough.

Karen still comes over, grabs my arm, and throws it around her shoulder. Then she’ll smile and ask, “You still like me?”

I always answer, “I think so.”

Our kids see that. They see us hold hands. They see us hug. They see us laugh.

They also see that we’re on the same team.

Whenever one of the kids tries to play the odds by asking the other parent after already receiving an answer, the response is almost always the same.

“What did your Mama say?”

Or...

“What did your Daddy say?”

We stand together.

Karen has made me a better man. Truthfully, I think I crave her respect even more than her love. Knowing she loves me is easy. Respect has to be earned, and she respects me in a way that makes me want to become an even better husband tomorrow than I was today.

I’ve realized something else over the years.

I might be the chisel that knocks off some of the rough edges around our house.

Karen is the polisher.

She’s the one who smooths those edges until they shine.

That’s one of the greatest gifts God ever gave me.

The Bad Side #3: Somebody Has to Protect the Atmosphere

I work from home now, so technically I don’t come home anymore.

I clock out.

The funny thing is that my kids know exactly what time that happens. Within minutes somebody usually appears in the bonus room.

“Daddy...are you off?”

Usually a hug follows along with a “Yes!” Sometimes with a request.

Usually both.

I don’t mind.

Actually, I invited it.

Even when I’m writing, one or two of them are usually sitting beside me asking what I’m writing about or whether they’re in the story. They love it.

Life wasn’t always like that.

When I worked retail years ago, I had an hour commute one way. Karen had already left for work before I woke up, and by the time I got home around nine o’clock at night, she was exhausted and so was I.

We weren’t angry.

We were just tired.

We felt like two ships passing in the night.

I hated it.

Around that same time, I made another decision.

Growing up, I didn’t always enjoy when my dad brought work home emotionally. I remember how that felt.

So I decided my wife and kids would never become the dumping ground for my bad day.

If somebody at work frustrates me...

That isn’t my family’s fault.

They’re my refuge.

I want to be theirs.

My kids joke that I’m Batman.

I don’t think they’re talking about the cape.

I think they’re talking about the calm. And the fact that I have a complete Batsuit hanging in my closet, but I digress.

When something goes wrong, I want them to believe Dad has a plan. Sometimes I’m already on Plan C because Plans A and B have completely fallen apart, but they don’t need to see my panic.

They need to see my faith.

When storms come, I want my family to think, “If Daddy isn’t worried, maybe everything’s going to be okay.”

Not because I’m fearless.

Because they know I trust the One who is.

The Bad Side #4: They’re Always Watching

Children are incredible observers.

They notice far more than we think they do.

My boys know they’re called to be gentlemen, even when it’s difficult. They’ve watched me try to treat people with kindness, even when those people haven’t always deserved it.

Unfortunately, they’ve also inherited my sarcasm.

We’re still working on proper timing and audience. Progress is being made.

They’ve watched me stop to help people.

They’ve watched Karen quietly serve people.

They’ve watched us apologize to one another.

They’ve watched us forgive.

Being a Christian has never been presented as something we do on Sundays.

It’s simply who we’re trying to become.

The Bad Side #5: Sunday Has to Survive Monday

Church isn’t just somewhere we attend. It’s where we gather with other believers before going out to be the Church the rest of the week.

Prayer isn’t reserved for bedtime and meals.

Forgiveness isn’t just preached.

It’s practiced.

Serving isn’t divided into “Mom jobs” and “Dad jobs.” We simply serve each other because that’s what families do.

Our children need to see that following Jesus works just as well on Tuesday afternoon as it does on Sunday morning. Otherwise they’ll eventually notice the difference.

The Bad Side #6: You’re Building More Than a House

As I stood in the backyard that afternoon, admiring the freshly stained deck, God reminded me that I’d spent one afternoon improving a backyard.

God had spent twenty years building a home.

I spent one afternoon staining a deck.

God has spent twenty years staining a husband.

One project made the backyard beautiful.

The other made coming home beautiful.

Every prayer.

Every apology.

Every date night.

Every Blackstone burger.

Every bedtime Bible reading.

Every Coke paid back in quarters.

Every decision to leave stress at work.

Another coat.

Another layer.

Another brick in the culture of our home.

One day my children will have homes of their own. My prayer isn’t that they copy my furniture or my landscaping.

I hope they build a culture where worship music plays because someone wants to hear it.

Where husbands and wives still laugh together after decades.

Where children know they’re safe.

Where prayer is normal.

Where God’s Word is open.

Where peace has been cultivated.

Maybe one afternoon they’ll finish mowing their own yard. Maybe they’ll stop, smile, shake their head, and thank God. And maybe the Lord will whisper to them what He whispered to me.

“This home you’re leading is partly your fault.”

I hope they smile.

Because that may be one of the greatest compliments a Christian husband and father could ever receive.

So yes, there is a bad side to being a Christian husband and father.

You have to go first.

You have to pray first.

You have to forgive first.

You have to love first.

You have to protect the atmosphere of your home.

You have to build the culture everyone else gets to enjoy.

Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? Except it isn’t. It’s one of the greatest privileges God has ever entrusted to a man.

So don’t just build a nice house. Build a peaceful home. Be the kind of husband your wife is thankful to see walk through the door. Be the kind of father your kids are excited to interrupt because they know Dad is “off work.”

Leave your stress on the porch whenever you can. Your family didn’t cause your bad day. In many ways, they’re God’s gift to help you recover from it.

Be their refuge.

After all, that’s exactly what our Heavenly Father has been for us.

And if one afternoon behind a lawn mower reminds you to stop, look around, and thank God for the life He’s given you...

Don’t be surprised if He reminds you that the peace inside your home didn’t happen by accident.

It was built one faithful day at a time.

If that’s the fault God wants to lay at my feet, I’ll thank Him for it every single day.

Thanks for reading Grit & Wit. My hope is to encourage husbands, fathers, and families to follow Christ with grit, grace, and a little humor along the way.

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