What Makes Jesus Sad…

Isaiah told us the Messiah (the one who would fix all the problems) would be a man of sorrows.  What does that mean?  It means, I think, that Jesus was and is a man who feels the pain of sadness.  What makes Jesus sad? 

I think it makes Jesus sad to see people hungry in the world when there is enough food to feed them.  In many countries where there is starvation, food is used as a political weapon.  Oppressive governments starve their opponents and feed their allies.  In these United States, there is more than enough food, but there are still hungry people.  Some people are hungry because they are foolish with money or life choices.  I still think Jesus wants them to have a meal.  Maybe I should give the equivalent of one week’s grocery money to my local food pantry to make sure there is an opportunity for people to eat.   

I think it makes Jesus sad to see his people fight over stuff that does not matter.  Does the color of the carpet really matter?  Does it really matter how you interpret Revelation?  Won’t we all find out what it means when Jesus actually comes back?  I think Jesus meant for us to be completely put under the water when we are baptized, but if you want to be sprinkled with water instead, I should not hate you.  I cannot help but wonder if Jesus does not sometimes weep over arguments that do not matter that are done in his name. 

I know it makes Jesus sad when he sends messages to people and they do not listen.  He wept over Jerusalem, because he sent prophet after prophet, and people did not listen.  I cannot imagine his heartbreak when he still sees people wrecking their lives because they did not heed the warnings. 

I think it makes Jesus sad when people are lost and lonely.  Jesus told a story about this, about a shepherd who lost one of his sheep.  His sadness motivated him to leave the ninety-and-nine sheep and look for the one.  Jesus talked about engaging the lonely: visiting people in prison, welcoming the foreigner, taking care of the sick.  If you think about it, heaven is the place prepared for us, so we are never lonely again.  Hell is a lonely place because God is not guiding people to connection. 

I think it makes Jesus sad when a woman terminates her pregnancy.  I know there are a lot of strong feelings about this.  I know some women feel deeply the pain of losing a child and I believe Jesus weeps with them.  I know other women who feel like terminating a pregnancy solves a problem.  They do not see the other problems that come later.  Jesus is sad for the loss of a child and for the soul damage that is done. 

I think Jesus is sad when people hate.  Hate brings division, conflict, sometimes war.  Jesus came to teach us to love as he loved.  It hurts his heart when people spew hate, especially when they spew it in his name.  I read a story just this week of a white pastor who wrote a hate letter to a black pastor in Fort Worth.  He signed it, “Cordially.”  I guarantee Jesus did not think the man’s comments were cordial, Christian, or kind.  I know I would hate to have my name attached to some of the things people say and do “In Jesus name.” 

I think it makes Jesus sad when people’s courage fails them.  His best friend, Peter, denied him three times and we are told after the rooster crowed, Jesus looked at him.  How many times have I made Jesus sad because I lacked the courage to do the right thing, the hard thing?  How many times has the Spirit said to me, “Fear not,” and I have replied, “No thanks, I think I’ll trust my fears more than I trust you.” 

I know this list could go on and on.  But there is an amazing promise, that one day, Jesus will no longer be sad.  One day, everything will settle out.  One day people will no longer make Jesus sad.  One day I will no longer make Jesus sad.  

We are told that in heaven, “He will wipe every tear from their eyes.  There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”  What this means, of course, is there is no crying in heaven.  It means not only will you stop crying, but Jesus will stop crying too, because his children have finally come home.

I am Malchus…

I am Malchus, servant of the High Priest Caiaphas.  When a job needs to be done, quickly and quietly, Caiaphas taps me. 

I became a servant because I owed money I could not pay back.  I was put into a debtor’s prison and then sold.  I knew the only hope I had for freedom was to do the jobs I was assigned and to do them well.  I passed from Master to Master, always selling for a higher price.  One day my Master told me I was going to new Master, someone close to the very top.  I was brought to Jerusalem and entered the service of Caiaphas.

Caiaphas’ family were the elite.  His father-in-law, Annas, was the real power.  He was more politician than priest, always jockeying for position, always jealous for more power.  I was supposed to serve and not hear, but I could not help but overhear the news that would flow through the household.

Before long, because of my size, I became the enforcer for the family.  When they needed someone to shut up, I was sent to “persuade” the talker.  Occasionally, something more than words was needed.  After I broke a few bones, people got in line.

A recurring topic of conversation for the past few years was Jesus of Nazareth.  According to my Master, he was another hot-head who thought he was the Messiah.  But I heard other stories when I was out in town.  People said he healed the sick and drove out demons.  He came to Jerusalem a few times and I was sent by my Master to blend in with the crowd and find out more.  I only saw the man teaching, nothing more.  It was teaching like I had never heard.  He claimed to be the “light of the world” and the “bread of life.”  I did not understand his meaning, but even I had to admit there was something about his teaching that drew me, that made me want to know more.

Though a Jew, I was not a religious man.  Working in my Master’s house convinced me that religion was just a scheme to manipulate people.  Something about Jesus, however told me he was not interested in religious power.  He spoke of God as “Father.”  Whatever he was, I knew he was not a hot-head radical. 

It was the start of Passover week when Jesus came to Jerusalem the last time.  Crowds gathered and sang songs hailing him as the Messiah.  I reported all this to my Master.  With every report, I could sense he was more rattled, unnerved almost. 

On Wednesday before the feast, I saw my Master talking with a man I recognized as a disciple of Jesus.  I saw my Master hand over a bag of money.  I did not inquire about the transaction; I would find out soon enough if it concerned me.

Late Thursday night, my Master called to me.  When I came to him, the disciple of Jesus was with him again.  My Master said, “Malchus, go with this man, Judas.  Take some men with you, there may be trouble.  Judas will show you where Jesus is.  Seize him and bring him to my father-in-law’s house.”  I gathered a force of men: a few temple guards, a couple of other servants, and a few acquaintances who always seemed to be lurking near the High Priest’s home, including my cousin.

Judas led us to the Garden called Gethsemane.  The full moon shown on his face.  Streaks of red marked his face as if he had been bleeding.  His disciples were gathered around and looked like they had just awakened.  Judas told us he would kiss Jesus, as a servant would kiss a master.  I knew it would be a kiss of betrayal.

Judas did kiss him and we stepped forward.  From nowhere came a flash of metal and I felt pain as I had never felt before.  I put my hand to my head and realized in shock my right ear was missing.  Then I looked down and saw it: my ear, in the dirt. 

One of his disciples, a man I had seen before, was holding a sword.  The men with me surged forward but Jesus stopped them.  He seemed to radiate power.  “Put away your sword,” he commanded Peter.  “Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?”

I fell to my knees, in agony, screaming from the pain.  Then Jesus leaned down, picked up my severed ear, and he put it back in its place.  When the ear touched my bloodied head, there was a power I had never felt before. It was warmth and light.  The pain stopped.  Jesus looked me in the eye, he smiled, then he helped me to my feet. 

I reached up with my right hand, just to make sure.  Had I imagined it?  Was my ear really torn off?  I felt the pain.  I saw my ear on the ground.  It was real, I’m sure of it.  But now my ear was back on my head. 

The other men took hold of Jesus and led him off to Annas’ house.  I trailed behind, bewildered.  When I got back to the Caiaphas’ house, I saw them bring Jesus in.  Others were gathered.  I decided to stay in the courtyard in case there was trouble.  There was.  Around the fire, heated conversation arose.  Then I heard clearly my cousin’s voice, “Didn’t I see you in the olive grove.  You are one of his disciples.”  Another voice spat out an oath, “I tell you, I don’t know the man.”  A rooster crowed in the distance.

There were many comings and goings last night.  Now it is Friday and I hear Pilate, persuaded by my Master and his allies, ordered Jesus to be crucified.  He is hanging on the cross, just outside the city walls.  I do not know what to make of this.  He seemed more irritant than rebel, more teacher than general. 

But I cannot deny that I saw my ear severed and now it is back on my head.  Now I hear perfectly.  Whoever this man is, he has a power greater than any power I have seen.  I cannot help but wonder:  If a man can heal an ear, is there anything too hard for him to do?

Simon’s Choice…

Simon was the ultimate trickster.  He made you believe his access to God was better than yours.  For a fee, he’d pray for you.  If you needed advice, he offered it to you – for a fee.  When a miracle was needed, he’d twist you around and you’d feel like he’d done something, though you weren’t sure what.  Yes, a fee was involved for that too.

People called him a sorcerer.  They assumed, because of his tricks, Simon could control God.  Sorcerers knew they couldn’t control God, but they learned (usually from another sorcerer) how to pull off some sleight of hand, or how to bluff somebody, or how to manipulate someone’s leg to make it seem longer.  People were more naive in those days.

When you trick people for a living, the danger is you begin to believe your own PR.  Long before P.T. Barnum billed his circus as the greatest show on earth, Simon boasted he was the greatest.  Nobody turns out to see the average sorcerer.  The greater the fame, the higher the fee.

Rumors reached Simon about a man named Jesus.  Everybody within a hundred miles heard about him.  People said he cast out demons and healed the sick.  Naturally, whenever a sorcerer like Simon hears about someone like Jesus, they have two questions: How much is he collecting in fees; and, how is he pulling it off? 

Simon couldn’t figure out how Jesus was doing it.  The people who were being healed seemed to be drawn from the crowd.  He had no accomplice to fake an illness or demon possession, a standard trick of the trade.  Simon heard one story that seemed impossible, that Jesus had just spoken a word and a servant of a centurion was healed.  Jesus wasn’t even in the house.

What astounded Simon most, however, was Jesus didn’t charge.  He never passed the basket, never gave a rate for a prayer.  Of all the things Simon heard, this one made the least sense of all.  What was the point of doing all this if you didn’t make money?

Months went by.  Then Simon heard this same guy, Jesus, was crucified in Jerusalem.  Before Simon could think “One less competitor,” the news was followed by a report that he risen from the dead.  Simon was impressed.  Talk about the ultimate trick!  But Simon knew if Jesus started working the Samaritan circuit, with a reputation of coming back from the dead, his career was over.

The strange thing was after a few weeks Jesus disappeared off the face of the earth.  There was word his followers in Jerusalem said he went up to heaven and left them to tell everybody the good news.  Simon couldn’t figure it out, but was relieved he wouldn’t have to compete with the guy.

Business stayed pretty good for a few months, but then a man named Philip came into Simon’s territory.  Philip didn’t promote himself; he just talked about Jesus.  He invited people to change their lives by believing Jesus was the son of God and live by Jesus’ teaching.  Just like Jesus, he casts out demons and healed sick people.  And just like Jesus, he didn’t charge a fee. 

Simon had to take a day off to see what this was all about.  While he listened to Philip speak, his own heart moved.  The lies he’d told himself wilted.  His soul leaned in, and he wanted this new way of life too.  On the first day of the week, he lined up with other new believers, ignoring the murmurs in the crowd, and he was baptized by Philip.  Something inside of him was happening.

He couldn’t bring himself to get back on the trail, doing his old shyster tricks.  Instead, he followed Philip around day after day, amazed.  He kept trying to figure out how Philip was doing the miracles.

In a few weeks, two of Jesus’ friends, Peter and John, came up from Jerusalem.  They meet with the new believers.  They did a strange thing: they prayed over them and laid their hands on them.  Exactly how, Simon could not explain, but he knew, and he knew the people knew, they had been changed.

The old familiar voice whispered again to Simon: “Imagine what you could charge with that kind of power?”  Simon could picture himself in fine robes of gold, a new chariot (the latest model, with two cup-holders), and the crowds back hanging on his every word.  He pulled out his money bag, went to Peter and dropped it in his hand.  “Give me the power to give the Spirit,” he said with a wink.

Peter put the money back in Simon’s hand and gave him a blistering sermon.  Peter gave clear instructions about repenting and taking this seriously, because God can’t be controlled by people and you cannot buy the power of God.

Simon faced a choice: the old or the new.  Go with the old way, no matter how hollow, or empty?  Go with the old way, manipulating and using people?  Or go with the new way?  Find a new way to treat people.  Find a new way to make a living.  Find a new way to deal with life.  Find a new life in Jesus.

We don’t’ know what Simon did.  We just know his choice.  And in his story, we know our choice too – Old way, or new way.  Simon’s choice.  And yours.

Tell Me About It

She switched to beer from whiskey to dull the pain of being alone in the bar another night.  Tom, the bartender was her friend, as long as she told him to pour another round.  She wasn’t sure how she had gotten in such a dark place. 

A cheerleader in high school, she was one of the popular girls.  One night in the backseat of the quarterback’s Camaro she gave up her virginity.  In return, she got a cold shoulder at school the next day.  She wept and wept in the girl’s bathroom, but then made up her mind she’d never let anyone know how much she hurt.

She slept with the quarterback’s best friend to pay him back.  She became the life of the party, everyone’s favorite girl for a good time.  College was living for the weekend.  When a friend told her she was drinking too much, she replied she could quit anytime she wanted to.  She wanted to, sometimes, but the alcohol had become her friend, her comfort.

Past college, she had a couple of long-term relationships, but every time she hinted about marriage, the guy withdrew.  In her bed, the tears sometime returned.  She wondered if the guys loved her or were just using her. 

She was fired from her last job for showing up late one too many mornings.  An expert excuse-maker, she’d begun to believe her own lies.  It was unfair, she told her family, but their sympathy was thin, worn out from being lied to one too many times.  She hated the job she had now; she took it only for the money.  It was getting harder and harder to keep her facade together.  Most mornings she was hungover; it took the first hour at work for the cobwebs to clear and for her to be coherent.  The blackouts scared her most.  Some mornings she woke up and couldn’t remember a thing from the day before.

While she was drowning her thoughts in her whiskey, a man sat down beside her.  She waited for the pick-up line before she stole a glance to see what response he would get.  He ordered a Perrier.  Tom, the bartender had to ask him to repeat it.  After he twisted off the top, she said, “That’s kind of strange drink to order in a bar.”

He chuckled and said, “I’m a little different.”  Then she stole a glance.  He was early thirties, beard, and looked like he had worked construction.  Something about him made her lean in and ask, “Different ‘good’ or different ‘bad?’”

“Just different,” he said.  “What about you?”

“Different bad, definitely,” she replied.

He paused and said, “That’s interesting.  Tell me about it.”

Before she knew it, she was telling him her whole sad story.  Maybe it was the whiskey, or his kind smile, or her own heart so full of pain, or the way he nodded, like he understood.  She told him about the one-night stands, the nightly doses of whiskey, the loneliness of her life, and the sinking feeling she had that this was to be her life, one night after another, starving for love and thirsty for the next drink.  She even told him about the abortion she’d had in college, that no one knew about, not even her family.  Part of her expected him to get up and walk away, but he stayed right there.  He was there, listening to her, to first person to really listen to her in years.

When she paused in her tale, he spoke up: “Life doesn’t have to be that way, you know.”  With acid in her voice, she said, “Yeah, it would be nice if I could start over.”

“Why don’t you?” he said.  “How would I do that?” was her skeptical reply.

There was kindness in his eyes when he said, “If you talk to God, he will give you a new start.  Call it a new birth.  But you have to be honest about your life.  Shouldn’t be too hard; you already know your life is a mess.  But in case you don’t know it, God loves you and he will give power to start a new life.  It’s called grace.”

“Are you one of those religious nuts?” she asked.  “Not really,” he replied.  “Just call me JC.  I’m not about religion.  I just like to find hurting people – people like you – and let them know they can tell me about whatever is on their hearts.  See, before we ever met, I knew you would need some hope, some love, and some grace.  I just wanted to share with you some good news – there is a God who loves you and who wants to give a new start.”

She was quiet for a while.  He didn’t say anything else.  Then, in a small voice, she said, “It sounds too good to be true.”  He said “A lot of people think that.  But you’ll never know if it is true or not unless …”

She interrupted him: “Unless I try it.”  He grinned and said, “Tell me about it.”

2020 Snuck Up On Me…

The headline jarred me: “The NBA All-Decade Team.”  I’m not a big NBA fan; it was the “All-Decade” part that threw me.  Somehow my brain had not absorbed we were marking the end of a decade.  I knew we were changing from 2019 to 2020, but it doesn’t seem like ten years have passed.

I think my confusion is justified.  When I was little, I watched a cartoon called The Jetsons.  According to that cartoon, by 2020 we’d all be living in the clouds, have flying cars, and robot maids.  Roombas do not count as maids.  In 1965 James Bond had his own jetpack.  I’m still waiting for mine.  I pretty sure 1965 was the same year Lyndon Johnson declared war on poverty.  That war has lasted a long time. 

Growing up in the sixties, science had all the answers.  After all, science and engineering put a man on the moon.  We were told by 2020 disease would be wiped out and people would be living on Mars.  Only in the movies. 

We’ve made some progress.  When I tell my children about writing a computer program for a college class and having to use punch cards, they ask, “What’s a punch card?”  Computers were the size of cars and had reels of tape.  My first computer was portable; it weighed thirty-four pounds.  The last computer I bought weighs three pounds.  It is easier to carry.

I got my first cell phone in 1994.  The church had a business meeting to decide if I needed one.  My cell phone was the size of a shaving kit, stuffed.  I marveled that I could drive and talk on the phone at the same time.  Who knew in 2020 we’d be saying, “Hold on just a minute, I want to take a picture” and then whip out our phones?

Not all progress is good.  When I grew up, supper was home cooked every night because fast food only applied to something running faster than you could shoot.  Mama used to make cat-head biscuits (if you don’t know what a cat-head biscuit is, ask your grandpa).  All the biscuits in our house now come in tubes labeled “Pillsbury.”  My Aunt Neta used to make the best chicken and dumplings you ever tasted.  She had no recipe.  When a granddaughter asked her how she made them, her directions started with, “Go out to the chicken coop and grab a hen…”  “Fresh” had a different meaning back then.

Church has changed too.  We didn’t need microphones for the preacher in those days.  Preachers of the Baptist flavor preached at the decibel level of a jet engine.  Even Methodist preachers of that era thundered like a Peterbilt diesel cranking on a cold morning.  Now we have a “Sound Man” and even the smallest churches must have a screen and a video projector.  Imagine how effective Jesus would have been if he’d had PowerPoint. 

When I started as a pastor, if someone was having surgery, we’d have special prayer.  I’d be there to pray before the surgery, stay through the surgery, and hear the Doctor’s report of the surgery.  Surgery was touch and go in those days.  Recently a member of my church had a heart attack; he was airlifted to Columbia, had three stents put in, and came home the next day with a scar on his wrist (I’m still trying to figure why working on your heart means you have a scar on your wrist).  I asked him why he didn’t call me.  He said, “I didn’t want to bother you, it was minor.”

Revivals were two-week meetings when the lost were saved, the saved were stirred, and the preacher got a break.  Vacation Bible School lasted two weeks as well.  When I was a young pastor and suggested we cut VBS to one-week, you’d have thought I suggested devil worship.  We not only had church Sunday morning, we went Sunday night too.  Now revivals have just about died out, VBS is down to four nights, and Sunday services are fading fast.

Music changed too.  I still remember the first time I heard a guitar in church; I thought it was a sign of the Apocalypse.  When we decided to use drums in worship at the church I serve, we sat them on stage for a month before we ever played them.  Today, thought, there are young people who think you can’t worship the Lord if the fog machine is broken.

A new decade is coming, unless, of course, Jesus comes first.  Whatever your expectations are about the future, they are probably wrong.  Instead of trying to predict what will change, maybe you should focus on the One who does not change.  There is an old gospel song that says it well, “I know not what the future holds, but I know who holds the future.”

Welcome, 2020.  The God who led me through The Jetsons, the moon shoot, Richard Nixon, disco, Jimmy Carter, Reganomics, “No new taxes,” the saga of Bill and Hillary, 9-11, Obamacare, and Trump tweets leads me still.  He not only holds the future, he holds me too.

What Ever Happened to the Wise Men’s Presents?

This time of year, you are bound to hear the Christmas carol, “We Three Kings of Orient Are.”  Every child, of course, knows the variation: “We three Kings of Orient Are, tried to smoke a big cigar.  It was loaded, it exploded, BANG!”  The real song, you remember, goes like this: “We three Kings of Orient are, bearing gifts, we traverse afar.  Field and fountain, moor and mountain, following yonder star.”

Matthew in his gospel tells us they were wise men, not kings.  The best modern equivalent would be to call them “professors.”  They probably were learned men who sought to interpret the stars to guide the government. The traditional number of wise men is three, all though Matthew doesn’t tell us how many there actually were.  Give these men credit.  They were spiritually curious.  Whether sent by their government or making a trip on their own, they want to find this new King and pay him homage.

Matthew wants us to know about the gifts.  The wise men brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh to the newborn king.  Gold, of course, was valuable as currency.  Frankincense is a valuable perfume.  Myrrh is a precious ointment often used in the burial process.

When the wise men came to Bethlehem, after a stop at Herod’s palace, they found the new King in the humblest of circumstances.  They did not scratch their heads and say, “Really? A king born to this poor family?  I think we must have made a mistake.”  Instead, they believed in the sign of the star and believed this child was the promised King.  They presented their gifts and we are told, they worshiped him.  That is faith.

To carpenter’s family, even if they came from royal blood, these gifts were beyond extravagance.  Joseph probably never before held gold in his hands.  He would have been paid with denarius, which would have been a silver or copper coin.  Mary only would have caught a whiff of frankincense if she brushed against a wealthy person passed through Nazareth.  Myrrh was for the burial of the rich and the powerful, not the poor. 

What happened to the presents?

Most of us are like Cuba Gooding, Jr.’s character in the movie Jerry Maguire: “Show me the money.”  Shouldn’t there be a few verses in the Bible about what happened to gifts?  The wise men went to great lengths to bring these gifts.  They were valuable.  No doubt they were received with awe and gratitude.  You would think Matthew would tell us what happened to these three amazing gifts.

No one knows what happened to them.  Matthew only tells us the wise men brought them.  There is not another word in scripture that tells us what happened after that.

There are legends, stories.  One legend says the thieves crucified with Jesus had stolen the gold given him at birth.  Another says that Judas was made custodian of the gifts and he sold them and pocketed the money.  There is a story that the myrrh given to Jesus as a child was used in his burial.  A more practical story is Joseph used the presents to finance the family’s flight to Egypt.  None of these stories are in the Bible. 

So, what happened to the presents?  Why doesn’t Matthew tell us what happened to the gifts?

Because Christmas is not about the gifts we bring; it is about the Gift God gives.

It is as if God is telling us, “Gold, frankincense, and myrrh are nice, but not all that important.  What matters is the gift I have for you.  My gift is the gift of my Son, myself.  My gift is the hope of the world.  My gift is the gift of grace.  While you were still a sinner, Jesus was born into this world, died for your sins, and was resurrected to give you power.”

I know how important it is to give the right gift.  Many of us are anxious and eager to say just the right thing with our gift.  In the midst of choosing and wrapping, pause.  Remember that our Heavenly Father has a gift for you.  His gift is worth more than all the gold, all the frankincense, and all the myrrh in the world.  It’s not a gift you can buy.  This gift can only be received.

This Christmas make sure you receive the Gift before you worry about giving a gift.

What Will Thanksgiving Be?

Thanksgiving for me is our extended family gathering in the woods.  The tradition started in 1937.  My grandfather, Henry W. Smith, had died in that year of the Great Depression.  Granny Smith did not want to have the Thanksgiving meal in the house, so the family gathered outside on the banks of the Buckhorn Creek.  You can do that in November if you live in Florida.

After the creek flooded one year, they moved to a grove of black-jack oaks, where it has been every year since.  I was twenty-three days old when I went to my first Thanksgiving.  I’ve only missed one – when we lived in Kentucky and were awaiting the birth of our first child.

We’ll have a long table loaded with ribs, turkey, squash, brown rice casserole, broccoli casserole, and more.  For those of you not familiar with casseroles, add enough cheese and butter to anything and it will be good.  There are desserts that have so many calories and carbs that you will gain weight just by looking at them. 

 Two of my favorite delicacies will be served: swamp cabbage and guava cobbler.  You may not know it, but this is what you will eat in heaven.  I know this because Revelation promises there is no mourning or crying in heaven, which means there must be swamp cabbage and guava cobbler.

 We used to sit on hay bales, but recently upgraded to actual tables and chairs brought from the house.  The rumor that we made the switch because the hay bales no longer supported the weight of certain family members is a lie.

 We take pictures of each generation.  Since the death of my Aunt Ouida, I now find myself in the oldest generation.  I will hasten to point out I’m the youngest member of the oldest generation.

 After we have all eaten too much, after visiting with people we see only once a year but keep up with on Facebook, we slowly pack up the leftovers, and head back to what was my parent’s house, while other cousins scatter to other celebrations.  There are a few demented family members who walk the three miles back to the house, but I have never been tempted to join them.

 Everyone’s Thanksgiving will not be this way.  There will be a lonely widow in a nursing home, who will eat turkey provided by the staff.  They will be kind, but she will wonder why her children are not with her. 

 A solider in Syria who wishes he was settling in for a nap, is instead crouched behind a wall, dodging sniper fire.  ISIS, the Syrians, and whoever else is shooting over there do not celebrate Thanksgiving.

 A trooper somewhere will be standing beside a road, working an accident with fatalities.  He’s done it before, but it is more painful to watch a body being moved on a day when you are supposed to give thanks.

 A homeless man will stand in line for turkey and dressing.  He might wonder how his life came to this.  Someone will say to him, “Happy Thanksgiving,” but he finds it hard to count his blessings. 

 A surgical team will be in an operating room, doing a surgery that can’t wait. Somebody had to take call.  The surgery takes longer than they thought, and their Thanksgiving meal will come from a vending machine.

 A young couple, off at school, a long way from home, can’t afford to make the trip.  In their cramped apartment, they attempt to cook a turkey, but don’t know you have to thaw it first.  Their turkey turns to shreds, and they eat Chinese takeout for their first Thanksgiving together.  It makes their heart ache for home a little more.

 A child whose parents got in a violent fight the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving will be brought to a foster home.  He will sit down to Thanksgiving dinner with strange people, a little scared, not knowing how long he will be there.

 I don’t know what Thanksgiving will be for you.  But I know two things.  I know no matter where you are or what you are having to do, there will be something to give thanks for.  Find it.  Thank God. 

 And I know this: there will be someone you need to pray for this Thanksgiving.  Maybe you need to pray for their protection.  Maybe you need to pray for them to be encouraged.  Maybe you need to pray they will find hope. 

 No matter what Thanksgiving is for you, God will be there.  That, by itself, is reason enough to give thanks.