But be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves. For if anyone is a hearer of the word and not a doer, he is like a man who looks intently at his natural face in a mirror. For he looks at himself and goes away and at once forgets what he was like. But the one who looks into the perfect law, the law of liberty, and perseveres, being no hearer who forgets but a doer who acts, he will be blessed in his doing. (Jas 1:22-25)
            How many times has the above passage been used in sermons and articles?  I think I have even used it myself, at least once if not more, on this blog.  We must constantly look at ourselves in the mirror of God's word and then we will see all of our faults and be able to fix them, right?  I recently had an experience that made me stop and rethink all of that.
            We had the privilege of keeping our grandsons for a while, and had taken them to their favorite eating joint.  Silas sat across from me in the booth and we were discussing school or friends or something of the sort.  He leaned down to get a sip of his soda then looked right at me and said, "Grandma?"
            "Yes?" I encouraged.
 "You have two different eyes, don't you?  One big eye and one little eye."
            It took a minute for me to realize what he meant.  So then I explained that I had very sick eyes (which is exactly what one doctor called them), and that the "little eye" had needed so many surgeries that I couldn't hold it open as well as I could the other one.  He was perfectly satisfied with the explanation and we went on to talk about other things.
            That night I looked in the mirror, wondering where this "little eye" was that he saw.  I had never noticed that much difference.  That's when I realized that every time I looked in the mirror I only looked at the other eye.  It has had surgeries too, and it is also "sick," but it has not been medically abused as much as the other.  When I made myself look at both eyes I was actually startled.  Since I always focus on the other eye, I had never really noticed exactly how different the two eyes look.
            Don't you suppose the same thing can happen when we look in the mirror James spoke about?    Simply looking in the mirror is not enough when we only look at the good we do and refuse to look at the very sick parts of our souls, the parts that really need spiritual medicine.
            So here is today's challenge:  don't just look at the big eye; focus on the little one, the one you really need to see.  I can't fix my "little eye," but you can fix yours right up, if you are brave enough to really look at it and honest enough to change.
 
How can you say to your brother, ‘Brother, let me take out the speck that is in your eye,’ when you yourself do not see the log that is in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take out the speck that is in your brother's eye. (Luke 6:42)
 

Over the holidays I finally used up several votive candles.  That's "several" as in half a dozen.  Now I have six empty little jars, none of which have lids.  The budget-conscious woman in me wondered what to do with them.  With no lids they are fairly useless, and I have no more shelf space to accommodate them.
 
So I went looking for Keith.  "Can you use these for nails or screws or something?"  He looked skeptical but took them with him to the shed anyway. 
Very shortly he was back inside with those same jars.  "I already have a shelf full of them."

Still it was difficult to make myself throw them away.  We are so used to saving and "re-purposing" because we have had to for so long, that it felt like I was being sinfully wasteful to even considerate it.  But I took a deep breath and did so.

I wonder if we don't have the same problem with our spirituality.  Habits, hobbies, even family traditions can get in the way of the time we need for spiritual things.  Those things are not usually wrong.  A smattering of them can even be healthy, not just to our bodies, but also to our weary minds.  But what goes undone because I just can't let go of a trivial pursuit of mine in order to pursue something not trivial at all?  At what point does is become "clutter" in my life?

Perhaps it is time for some careful consideration.  How might I rearrange things so that I can spend more time on spiritual endeavors?  Sometimes it is as simple as changing the order of things or just getting up 10 minutes early.  Can I do those simple things for God, for my relationship with Him, for my spiritual health?

Here's a thought.  Family night is important.  I would never even consider asking someone to give it up.  But maybe once or twice a month you could use that time of togetherness to cook and take a meal to someone who needs it.  Or take your children with you to visit at the hospital, then stop for ice cream on the way home.  (How do you think they will learn visiting otherwise?)  Or spend the first half hour of family night on a devotion and accompanying discussion.  It isn't that difficult to figure these things out when you really want to.

Stop saving useless "votive jars" when you already have a shelf full of them.  At some point it is no longer good stewardship.  At some point, even good things can become sinful.
 
​And that which fell among the thorns, these are they that have heard, and as they go on their way they are choked with cares and riches and pleasures of this life, and bring no fruit to perfection. 
(Luke 8:14)                                                                            

Dene Ward

Several years ago I received a pot of rust colored chrysanthemums as a gift.  I enjoyed them for many days before they began to fade.
            “Well that’s that,” I thought as I placed them on the outside workbench so Keith could salvage the dark green plastic pot for other uses.  By the time he got to them, they were brown and withered, as dead looking as any plant I had ever seen.
            Keith cannot stand to throw things away.  “It might come in handy,” he always says as he pulls things out of the trash.  That is why he stuck those dried out flowers in the ground beneath the dining room window.  Yet even he was amazed when a few days later green leaves sprouted on those black stems.  It was fall, a mum’s favorite season, and before long I had twice as many as I had started with.
            Fast forward to Thanksgiving, a year later.  I now had a bed full of rust colored mums about two feet square.  The next year the bed was four feet wide and my amaryllises were swamped.  Keith built a raised bed about eight feet square, half of it for the mums and the rest for a plumbago, a miniature rose, and a blue sage.  That has lasted exactly one year.  The plumbago, rose, and sage have been evicted by the mums and need a new home.
            What started as one six inch pot of mums, withered and brown, has become 64 square feet of blooms so thick they sprawl over the timbers of the raised bed into the field surrounding it.  Whenever I cut an armful for a vase inside, you cannot even tell where I cut them. 
            We often fall prey to the defeatist attitude, “What can one person do?” Much to the delight of our Adversary we sit alone in the nursery pot, wither, and die.  Yet the influence we have as Christians can spread through our families, our workplaces, our neighborhoods, and our communities.  The good deeds we do, the moral character we show, the words we do—and don’t—say make an impression on others.  Those are the seeds we plant, never giving in to the notion that one person cannot accomplish anything.  The attitudes we show when mistreated and the peace with which we face life’s trials will make others ask, “Why?  Can I have this too?  How?”
            Plant a seed every chance you get.  If a six inch pot of dried up mums can spread so quickly, just think what the living Word of God shown through your life can accomplish.
 
And he said, How shall we liken the kingdom of God?  Or in what parable shall we set it forth?  It is like a grain of mustard seed, which, when it is sown upon the earth, though it be less than all the seeds that are upon the earth,  yet when it is sown, grows up, and becomes greater than all the herbs, and puts out great branches, so that the birds of the heaven can lodge under the shadow thereof, Mark 4:30-32.
 
Dene Ward

We have actually had some winter this year so we are once again drinking our last cup of coffee by a fire in the mornings, instead of under a fan.  The first time this winter, I was reminded of a basic fact.  Cool, crisp air behaves differently than hot, humid air.

              Hot humid air is also hazy air.  You cannot see nearly as far and the sky is a duller, almost muted, shade of blue.  Cool air is clear.  Even my weak eyes can see farther.  And a clear winter sky is one of the prettiest blues you will ever see.

              Hot humid air will also mute sound.  Not enough that you will notice it in the summer.  You only notice it on a cold morning when suddenly the traffic on the highway a quarter mile through the woods sounds like it might just be coming through the trees right at you.  You can always hear better in the winter.

              And that may very well mean that we need to keep a cool head about us in religious matters.  When your spiritual vision is clouded by the heat of emotion, you will inevitably make the wrong decision.  In almost every Bible narrative you will see the difference between wrong-headed emotion and cool clear logic.  Look at Joseph and Potiphar's wife as a simple example.  Which one was guided by hot, wanton desire and which by a decision based on a cool, careful consideration of right and wrong?  And that process plays out over and over, not only in the Bible, but in our own lives.

              The difficult part of this, at least in a culture so steeped in emotionalism, is teaching these things to our children.  I told mine over and over, you have to be a little cold-blooded when it comes to choosing a spouse.  You have to be willing to ask yourself the hard questions.  Will she be a good mother to my children?  Will she be a help or hindrance in my chosen career?  Are her aims in life the same as mine?  Does she understand a lifetime commitment in the same manner I do?  Will she help me get to Heaven, and will she let me help her?  Too many times I see young ladies who are blinded by love, falling for exactly the wrong guy, and who will not listen to their friends who quite clearly see an emotional, and possibly physical, abuser.  And I see young men who refuse to understand that attraction should come from knowing one another and sharing spiritual ideals, not good looks and shapely figures.

              There are any number of decisions we make in life, some having nothing to do with right and wrong, and some everything, that require clear thinking.  Some things hurt, and hurt badly, but must be done for the good of oneself, one's family, and people we are trying to serve.  Some of those things are things God has said to do.  You would be surprised how many times I have heard God's commands completely dismissed because someone might be "hurt."

              And so, as you notice how clear things appear this winter, remember that a little cold logic can be an excellent thing.  You will see better.  You will hear better.  And you will make far better decisions both for this life and the next.
 
“Come now, let us reason together, says the LORD… (Isa 1:18)
 
Dene Ward

I remember folding diapers one day when Lucas was 2 and Nathan just a few weeks old.  I had not had a full night’s sleep in the three or four weeks since Nathan’s birth—an emergency C-section, which while routine, was still major surgery.  The garden was at its height, and laundry was a daily chore along with the usual cooking and cleaning. 
            During Nathan’s morning nap I gave Lucas as much attention as possible.  We were learning the alphabet, going through magazines to find pictures of things beginning with that week’s letter, practicing how to draw it, and finding it among the words of the book I read to him that day.  Our daily Bible lesson included a song I had composed if no ready-made one came to mind, and a dramatic re-creation, either by us or handy stuffed animals which assumed new identities at his command. 
            Lest anyone think Keith was not doing his share, he was preaching part-time as well as holding down two other part-time jobs and finishing up a degree at the university 20 miles down the road.  Then he came home and became Goliath or the “big fish” or whatever large character he needed to be as Lucas recounted his Bible lesson to Daddy.  He always gave Lucas his evening bath and watched Nathan while I cleaned up supper dishes.  After the babies were in bed, he studied.
            On that particular day I was making those intricate folds of bleached white cotton robotically.  Nathan was cooing and gurgling on a blanket in the floor, and Lucas was lining up his assorted toy cars and trucks on the other end of the sofa from my stack of diapers.  A wave of weariness hit with such force that I leaned my head over on the sofa arm for a second’s rest.
            Ten minutes later I woke up to little grunts from Nathan.  This meant I had approximately fifteen seconds to start nursing him before a full-blown howl erupted from that deceptively small set of lungs.  What amazed me, though, was that Lucas was in the middle of running a fire engine up my arm and parking it next to my head.  Was this what woke me?  Obviously not, for there were already five other vehicles parked by my nose.  It was my baby’s impending distress that woke me from such a deep slumber, not the arm traffic.
            That was not the only time exhaustion struck so strongly.  Young mothers, I believe, live in a perpetual state of weariness, at least the ones who understand their God-given duties and try to fulfill them.  There have been nights when falling into bed and relaxing actually hurt for a few seconds.
            There are other things that make me weary, not in body but in spirit.  A relative’s foolish words or actions can cause hurt and turmoil throughout the family.  Two supposedly mature brothers or sisters in the Lord who behave like three year olds; an argument over scripture that is punctuated not by “This is what the scriptures say,” but rather, “This is what I think, this is what I feel about it, this is what I am comfortable with;” people who take your much prayed about words and actions in the worst possible light, making petty comments that pierce your heart, and spreading their thoughts to others, who then bring them back to you.  Then there is the evening news.  These things make you throw up your hands in defeat and say along with the apostle John, “Lord, come quickly.”
            Rest—if there is anything about Heaven I look forward to more than anything else, it is rest—rest to my soul.
            God had promised his people rest when he took them out of Egypt.  All they had to do was trust him and obey him, but despite the great signs and wonders done before their eyes, they could not manage that.  So God said, As I swore in my wrath, they shall not enter into my rest, Heb 4:3.  They did enter Canaan, but they did not enter The Rest.  They had troubles constantly, from within and without, simply because they did not have the faith it took to obey God.  There remains therefore a Sabbath rest for the people of God, 4:9, a rest like God’s rest.  The Hebrew writer is careful that we understand the difference.  God did not rest because he was tired; he rested because he had finished his work, 4:4. 
            And we have that promise.  If we can get past the times that cause us to throw up our hands and shake our heads, the people who make our burdens heavier instead of lighter; if we can manage to stay strong and finish the course, we can rest too.  Oh, what a wonderful promise!
 
For if Joshua had given them rest, he would not have spoken afterward of another day.  There remains therefore a Sabbath rest for the people of God.  For he who has entered into his own rest has himself also rested from his work as God did from his.  Let us therefore give diligence to enter into that rest, that no one fall after the same example of disobedience, Heb 4:8-11.  
 
Dene Ward

The Adventures of Superman first debuted on television on September 19, 1952.  At least that is the generally accepted date.  Others dispute it, but we are going with that one today.  Based upon comic book characters created in 1938, it starred George Reeves and Phyllis Coates the first year, then Reeves and Noel Niell afterward as Superman/Clark Kent and Lois Lane.  The show ran for six seasons.
            I realize I am dating myself but I remember afternoon showings in the 60s (reruns) of the old black and white version.  I enjoyed it at that age, but I never really understood how Superman could change clothes in a glass phone booth and no one notice, and why everyone was fooled when Clark Kent took off his glasses.  Then I started wondering how many suits he had and where they went to in all those phone booths.  I realize that I am not supposed to wonder those things, just accept that a man can transform himself instantly into an unrecognizable superhero with a clothes change and a laughably minimal disguise.  At least when Captain Marvel came along in my own children's time, a lightning bolt transformed him instantly.  Now that made more sense.
            But I have seen instant transformation before.  Some kind and pleasant folks, when they get behind the wheel, instantly become impatient, self-centered monsters.  It's all about their schedules, their convenience, and people in their way.  I have also seen it in check-out lines at the grocery store.  The same man who kindly reached a box on a high shelf for me, or the woman who asked a question about which brand of coffee I preferred and then politely thanked me for the information, will, when the line is long and the progress slow, begin huffing and puffing in irritation, heave great sighs of annoyance, and constantly look over to other lines to see if everyone is as slow as this old person in front of her who can't seem to find her wallet in that monstrosity of a carpetbag.
            The Bible does talk about transformation—but not those kinds. 
Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come (2Cor 5:17).
…put off your old self, which belongs to your former manner of life and is corrupt through deceitful desires, and to be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and…put on the new self, created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness (Eph 4:22-24).
Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect (Rom 12:2).
            Those transformations often take longer than a lightning bolt or even a clothes change, but our commitment to Christ at baptism is supposed to enable it along.  Renewing our minds in study and meditation, living lives of righteousness and holiness rather than clinging to the old worldliness, and striving to do the will of the Father, Paul tells us in the above passages, will all help us in that transformation.  And whenever we find ourselves in those situations that used to transform us into ogres instantly, plan ahead, think ahead, and remember that we are no longer that old person.  We tossed him in the garbage where he belongs.  We are new creatures.  We don't need a phone booth on the corner because this transformation should be forever.
 
I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me (Gal 2:20).
 
Dene Ward

Lucas lives five minutes from the beach.  On our first visit we drove across Santa Rosa Sound and strolled the white sand beach, watching the sandpipers’ maniacal little legs dodging the last remnant of a wave as it crept across the shiny wet sand, and looked across the emerald green water for the first sign of a dolphin breaking the surface while the seagulls screamed overhead hoping for an errant crust or dropped crumb.  We plodded along, our feet sinking into the mud, leaning into westerly winds that would blow the curls right out of your hair, our words caught just as they slipped out of our mouths and blown away like dust bunnies in a fan.
            We weren’t alone.  Pale-skinned tourists in floppy sunhats scoured the beach for shells.  Children played tag with the waves.  Older tweens and teens, their hands and legs breaded with sand, carried pails of mud for sandcastles and sculptures, and gathered shells and driftwood for ornamentation.  Lovers of all ages strolled hand in hand, eyes only for one another.
            The beach itself is lined with condos, ten or more stories of glittering glass, reflecting the sun, balconies furnished with umbrella-ed tables and cushioned chairs and potted plants of the sort than can tolerate the sun, the heat, and the salt spray that constantly drifts over the narrow spit of land between the surf and the sound.
            “Wonder what one of those costs?” we often ask, telling ourselves we would never tire of the view and the calming rhythm of waves pounding the shore again and again and again.
            But guess what?  Before long we’d had enough and we piled back into the car for the five minute drive back to the apartment.  The first time we visited, we walked on the beach three times in three days, but soon it was down to one almost obligatory visit, and this past visit?  We didn’t go a single time.
            It’s easy to get used to things.  When we moved to Illinois for two years, I saw snow for the first time in my 21 years of life.  Guess who was out playing in it, digging tunnels through eave-high drifts, throwing snowballs with mittened hands, and building snowmen?  All of our neighbors stayed inside where it was warm, peering through their blinds at the crazy people from Florida.
            A few weeks ago a YouTube video went viral.  It pictured something not often seen these days—a young man helping a poor, elderly woman check out in a grocery line one item at a time because she was not sure she had enough money, and doing it with patience, respect, and kindness.  Isn’t it sad that something like that has become so rare that, just like a landlubber at the beach or a Floridian in the snow, everyone stops in their tracks to look?
            And isn’t it sad that some Christians need the example that young man set?  Giving courtesy and respect where it is deserved and even where it isn’t, yielding our rights, speaking with kindness, affording others the right to make the same mistakes we do without incurring our wrath, and realizing that not everyone operates on OUR timetables—THAT should be so common among us that no one gives it a second thought and certainly wouldn’t take a video of our actions as something rare—even behind a steering wheel.  Instead, we pat ourselves on the back for doing these things once every now and then.
            We should be like the waves incessantly breaking on this world with mercy, grace, and kindness, whether the shore is rough and rocky or flat and smooth.  No one ever questions whether the next wave will come.  It rolls in again and again, over and over and over without a break in the rhythm, so regularly that no one stops to say, “Look!  Here comes another wave.”  If it didn’t come, it wouldn’t be a wave.
            Are you a wave, or just an occasional splash?
 
Keep your conduct among the Gentiles honorable, so that when they speak against you as evildoers, they may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day of visitation. 1Pet 2:12
 
Dene Ward

Croquet has a long and unsure history as a game.  The things we do know even seem to be in dispute.  Sometime in the early 1850s, a woman named Mary Workman-MacNaghten, whose father was a baronet in Ireland, went to a London toy maker named Isaac Spratt, and asked him to make a croquet set.  Her family had played the game long before she was born "by tradition," which means no written set of rules, using mallets made by local carpenters.  Her brother eventually wrote down the rules they used.  Spratt made some sets and printed out those rules.  He registered his creation with the Stationers' Company in 1856, but the copyright form gives the date as August 2, 1853, plenty of time for Lewis Carroll to make the game even more famous in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
            When our boys were in middle school we gave them a croquet set.  At first they seemed a little disappointed—croquet?  How boring.  Then we actually started playing and they discovered strategy, like whacking your opponent completely out of bounds with one of your free shots.  Now that was fun.
            We have settled down to annual games during the holidays whenever we get together.  It is the perfect way to let the turkey digest, and we usually wind up playing two or three times.  But that time of year means a less than clear playing field on what is already a rollercoaster lawn.  Our yard, you see, isn’t exactly a lawn.  It’s an old watermelon field, and though the rows have settled somewhat after thirty-odd years, we still have low spots, gopher holes, ant hills, and armadillo mounds.  But in the fall we also have sycamore leaves the size of paper plates, pine cones, piles of Spanish moss, and cast off twigs from the windy fronts that come through every few days between October and March.  You cannot keep it cleaned up if you want to do something besides yard work with your life.  So when you swing your mallet, no matter how carefully you have aimed, you never really know where your ball will end up.  We call it “ultimate croquet.”  Anyone who is used to a tabletop green lawn would be easy pickings for one of us—even me, the perennial loser.
            All those “hazards” make for an interesting game of croquet, but let me tell you something.  I have learned the hard way that an interesting life is not that great.  I have dug ditches in a flooding rainstorm, cowered over my children during a tornado, prayed all night during a hurricane, climbed out of a totaled car, followed an ambulance all the way to the hospital, hugged a seizing baby in my lap as we drove ninety down country roads to the doctor’s office, bandaged bullet wounds, hauled drinking water and bath water for a month, signed my life away before experimental surgeries—well, you get the picture. Give me dull and routine any day. 
            Dull and routine is exactly what Paul told Timothy to pray for.  I exhort therefore, first of all, that supplications, prayers, intercessions, thanksgivings, be made for all men; for kings and all that are in high place; that we may lead a tranquil and quiet life in all godliness and gravity. This is good and acceptable in the sight of God our Savior; who would have all men to be saved, and come to the knowledge of the truth, 1 Tim 2:1-5. 
            Did you catch that?  Pray that our leaders will do what is necessary for us to have a “tranquil and quiet life” so that all men can “come to a knowledge of the truth.”  God’s ministers cannot preach the gospel in a country where everyone is in hiding or running in terror from the enemy, where you never have enough security to sit down with a man and discuss something spiritual for an hour or so, where you wonder how you will feed your family that night, let alone the next day.  The Pax Romana was one of the reasons the gospel could spread—peace in the known world.  That along with the ease of travel because every country was part of the same empire and a worldwide language made the first century “the fullness of times” predicted in the prophets.
            I don’t have much sympathy for people who are easily bored, who seem to think that life must always be exciting or it isn’t worth living.  I am here to tell you that excitement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  And God gave us plenty to do during those dull, routine times.  It’s called serving others and spreading the Word.  If you want some excitement, try that.  It’s even better than Ultimate Croquet.
 
Now concerning brotherly love you have no need for anyone to write to you, for you yourselves have been taught by God to love one another, for that indeed is what you are doing to all the brothers throughout Macedonia. But we urge you, brothers, to do this more and more, and to aspire to live quietly, and to mind your own affairs, and to work with your hands, as we instructed you, 1 Thes 4:9-11.
 
Dene Ward

I do a lot of self-editing.  When you write as much as I do, you spend just about as much time fixing your errors as making them in the first place.  I find typos and grammar mistakes, misplaced words, and especially missing words because, despite my age, my mind still works faster than my fingers. 
            Since I took several writing courses, both in high school and college, I find I spend the most time on word choice.  In the first place, you want concrete nouns and verbs—words that appeal to the senses, helping you to see, hear, smell, taste, or feel the action.  It will save words and that brevity in its very terseness will stress the point you are trying to make.  You need to avoid delayers ("there is," or "there are") whenever possible.  As their name implies, they delay the point you want to make and that, too, will dilute its power.  And you want to avoid passive voice if you can.  In scholarly works, or even simple expository writing, that is not always possible, but just a little effort will make your writing much easier to read and understand, and more likely to be remembered.
            Don't you wish we had time to edit our spoken words?  How many times have I said to myself, "I could have said that in a better way," or "I wish I hadn't said that at all?"
            You can see from the above that one of the things good writers try to do is omit extraneous words.  The same thing is true for watching your tongue.  The Proverb writer tells us that when words are many, transgression is not lacking (10:19), in other words, edit, edit, edit!  The less you say, the safer you will be.  James tells us how to accomplish that:  Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak… (Jas 1:19).  Slow down.  Listen and pay attention to what you hear.  Then think before you speak.  You are a lot less likely to need editing.
 
​Whoever keeps his mouth and his tongue keeps himself out of trouble (Prov 21:23).
 
Dene Ward

As a former piano teacher for many years, I cannot help but give advice occasionally.  So I was listening to a young student play one day, a beginner actually, and noticed that he had a problem with his finger numbers.  If you will notice on your own hands, if you hold them out in front of you, they run the opposite from each other, with both thumbs in the middle.  So in piano, where playing with the incorrect finger can keep one from increasing facility and smooth playing, knowing which finger is which is fundamental.  I have always taught my beginners the little saying, "Tommy Thumb is finger 1, finger 3 is tallest finger, finger 5 if smallest finger."  Then I have them hold their hands together so that the fingers of each hand match, and count 1-2-3-4-5, moving the correct finger of each hand with each number.  Then when they spread their hands apart, they can see that the hands are mirror images of each other and do not run in the same direction.  It worked for forty years with countless students.
            So when I saw this little guy playing fingers 1—1—2-3-4---, when he should have been playing 5—5—5-4-3---, I knew he had not gotten the memo, so to speak.  After he finished playing (the whole left hand backwards), I applauded and complimented his rhythm and his touch and then asked if I could show him something.  He was an amenable little guy, so we went through the Tommy Thumb rhyme a couple of times, along with the rest of the routine.  He looked at me long and hard, then started playing again and played exactly the same thing—wrong.  Then he got up from the piano and flounced off, stopping only to turn around and say, "My thumb is NOT Tommy!"
            I must say that I laughed.  It was funny.  And it was new for me, something that had never happened before.  But then, maybe it had.
            A long, long time ago, God sent the prophet Nathan to tell King David a story as if it were real.  After hearing the story, which I am sure you have all heard (2 Sam 12:1-6, just in case), David was incensed.  He pronounced an instant judgment on the evil man Nathan had spoken of.  You see, he didn't get it.  His thumb was NOT Tommy.  Finally, Nathan had to say, "Thou art the man" (2 Sam 12:7).  When it's YOUR thumb, when you are the one being talked about, the picture which had been so very clear, suddenly becomes muddy.  We are all prone to it.
            The most difficult part of studying the Bible is, and always has been, applying the message to oneself.  No one wants to admit wrong, especially when it becomes crystal clear exactly how wrong one has been.  James talks about looking in the mirror and then walking away without changing a thing (James 1:23-24).  If I see my hair is a mess but don't brush it, if I see mustard on my shirt but don't change it, if I see green in my teeth but don't brush them, exactly how much good did it do to even look in the first place?  That is exactly how much good Bible study does for us when we won't apply what we hear.
            The little guy I mentioned is playing quite well now.  He eventually got the message that his thumb was indeed Tommy.  What messages are we missing?
 
As for you, son of man, your people who talk together about you by the walls and at the doors of the houses, say to one another, each to his brother, ‘Come, and hear what the word is that comes from the LORD.’ And they come to you as people come, and they sit before you as my people, and they hear what you say but they will not do it; for with lustful talk in their mouths they act; their heart is set on their gain. And behold, you are to them like one who sings lustful songs with a beautiful voice and plays well on an instrument, for they hear what you say, but they will not do it (Ezek 33:30-32).
 
Dene Ward