All Things...

Happy Daughters Day to Willow Storm. Who could ask for more?

Traveler’s Tip #341
If you stop at Wall Drug in South Dakota you can have your picture taken on a horse-size, concrete jackalope… So that’s nice.

Coming to you live from a Holliday Inn in St. Louis today. On the banks of the mighty Mississippi in the land of Twain. A few thousand miles since my last note—moving hard and fast. We have a concert in Kansas City tonight. If you wouldn’t mind, say a pray for our car—still running good but passed the 200,000-mile mark this trip.
Miles and miles and miles. Brother, the road can be a constant cycle of ups and downs. Sometimes when I’m tired it doesn’t take much to drive the highs and lows.
Only Jesus keeps things consistent. He is constant Joy (I am not).

There are days I can identify with my Lord in the garden so long ago.
            “Jesus, let this cup pass,” I say.
            “All things,” He answers. “All things…”
I’ve seen the torches of the Romans streaming down the hill. A cohort the Bible says—hundreds. A great multitude of men. They gather around, every pressure and care and snare this world can throw. And the world has a good arm—a hanging curve, inside fastball, then one that catches me in the head and takes me to the dirt. In these times no man stands with me. Friends flee. No flesh will be my rescue. No church or program cares. All is lost. Then my Friend—the painter of sunsets, the One who holds the cosmos in His hands—settles an arm around my shoulder.
            He smiles and simply says, “I Am.”
And He Is. In a rush, the power of that simple truth dwarfs everything else. The Romans, priests, and devils drops to their faces.
And I’m into my Master’s arms. To the mountain tops. Higher up, further in.
Yes, all is lost.
And now I can rest.
Are you standing in the batters box on a full count? Be encouraged today, traveler. You’re not alone. Maybe you have or haven’t hit the 200,000-mile mark yet but we’re all on this road nonetheless. It might go long—maybe even extra innings. But when the last out is made we’ll be breathing hard, but celebrating in the winning dugout.
All things…
Fair winds,