It was foolish.  Not even a two-year old would have made the mistake. May I tell you about it?

Trekking along a pathway in the Sonoran Desert's Saguaro National Park, Charlie, Kathy, Diana and I were struck by the landscape.  No other place on the planet has as many Saguaro cacti . Nor was the Saguaro the only cactus around.  There were dozens of varieties.  Deserts, I am learning, offer a strange beauty—and I was determined to capture it all on my Nikon…or die trying.

Convinced I had framed up a pretty cool shot, I asked my wife to smile into the camera.  But peering through the viewfinder, I realized the angle was off.  I needed to move.  The path was too narrow, its range of view too constricting. So I carefully stepped off into the dense (thorny) vegetation.  I moved the camera slowly… and took the shot of my smiling wife.  That’s when I learned a lesson from the teddy bear cholla cactus.

Named for its fuzzy appearance, the teddy bear—or “jumping cholla”—looks like a soft teddy bear, complete with cute little arms.   But take it from me, this is no plush toy.  The thing is covered with slivery spines (not thorns).  Get just close enough and those spines seem to jump off and embed themselves in your skin.

The pain in my leg was intense.  But worse yet was the discovery that each spine had a barbed tip.  So ripping them out was an extra delight.  Having cleared my leg of the evil teddy bear’s spines, I sensed a mild case of the chills.  All this…because I stepped off the path.  

Yet how often have you and I done the same thing, spiritually?  A temptation comes along and it looks as harmless as a teddy bear.  It charmingly bids us take just a step or two off the path of our commitment to Christ—and enjoy a better deal.

Then comes the sting…the barbed tip…the reality that we have sinned—and sinned foolishly.  Proverbs 12:28 assures us, “In the way of righteousness there is life; along that path is immortality.”

I’m learning—sometimes the hard way—it really is best to stay on the path.

Six degrees Fahrenheit.   Walk a mile and a half in that kind of weather and you discover an alternate meaning to the expression, “chill out.”   Though our day began in the windy city of Chicago, it ended in the warmth of Arizona.

Our friends, Charlie and Kathy, were kind enough to host our visit and drive us down to Tucson's Saguaro National Park.  What a contrast to the snow and ice we'd left behind.   Midwesterner that I am, it took a while for me to process that we were driving through an honest-to-goodness desert.   Red rock formations, gray dust and the stereotypical roadside tumbleweed or cactus painted an iconic portrait of southwestern desert life.

All of this I had expected.  But here's what I didn't expect: beauty.   Winding along the Valley View trail (with a wary eye for any of the six species of rattle snakes that slither through the park), we were treated now and then to the most gorgeous flowers.  Atop a random cactus sat a ring of yellow blooms, an unlikely crown for the prickly guard lining the side of the trail.

Deprived of regular rain or shade, these plants dared to bloom in a climate hostile to growth or beauty.   I am learning there are some flowers that can only be grown in the desert.

Perhaps you are trekking through a desert of your own at this very moment.  An emotional desert.  Maybe a spiritual desert.  The truth is, we're all either in the middle of a desert, or soon will be.  Two words of encouragement:

First, we do not walk alone.  I love the reminder of Hebrews 13:5: “For He Himself has said, 'Never will I leave you, never will I forsake you.'” 

Second, it might not feel like it right now, but it's possible—entirely possible—spectacular beauty will soon crown your life.  I don't know how.  I don't know in what form.  I can only tell you that I've seen it before.

So stick to the trail.

Keep on walking.

And dare to bloom.

It was cancer, they said.

Didn't have long to live, they said.

So we began praying for George (not his real name) from my wife's side of the family.   George, age 59, had lived his entire life apart from God.  Some drinks.  Some divorces.  He was irreligious, irreverent and fully cognizant he was in his last weeks of life.

A family member suggested my wife send him a Christmas card.  So she found one that presented the essence of the salvation message, and included our little family newsletter, which also pointed to Christ.

At night—every night—Diana and I prayed urgently for George, that he would have his eyes opened, spiritually, and that he would receive Christ in his last days. It would be a lie to say that I had great faith.  Some faith, sure, but not the kind of faith I should have.

When the call came that George had died, along with it came details for the funeral. A two hour drive into rural Illinois brought us to the funeral home, where a minister made the claim that George was in heaven (“Liberal pastor for sure!” I grumbled to myself, oddly comfortable with my cynicism).

Yet the pastor went on to relate how he had visited George in his home, clearly explained the gospel message, and that both George AND his wife boldly stated their desire to receive Christ.  They prayed together!

Here was a man dangled close enough over Hell, his feet could have smelled of brimstone.  And yet....and yet....God snatched him away. His mercy and goodness and kindness and gentle call pursued this man to the literal midnight hour.

I am dumbfounded.

Forgive my lack of faith, Lord.

Me--who claims to believe--forgive my unbelief.

Amazing grace.

How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like George...

                                                    ...And me.

If dogs make you nervous, make no plans to visit the country of Romania.  For whatever reason, the nation is loaded with dogs—stray dogs.  When you go for a walk, or get out of a car, or head to the store, you cannot escape them—scruffy, matted, but usually harmless.

In the capital city of Bucharest alone, there are an estimated 65,000 wild dogs—enough to fill Ford Field in Detroit or the Alamo dome in San Antonio (imagine the sound of their collective barking).

In Romania, 9,760 people were reportedly bitten by the stray dogs last year.  Nationally, experts believe there are some 500,000 stray dogs in Romania.  One stray dog for every 40 people.

If the same dog-to-human ratio were replicated in the U.S., we would have nearly nine million stray dogs trotting around the country.  A population larger than Chicago, Boston, Denver, San Francisco, and Nashville—combined.

The question, of course, is why so many stray dogs?  Our friend, Laura, from Ploesti, told us the most likely explanation is that when Dictator Nicolai Ceausescu bulldozed tens of thousands of homes with nice grassy yards and forced the people to live in tiny apartment buildings, they no longer had room for their dogs.  Rather than destroy these pets, the animals were simply abandoned. Those dogs, of course, multiplied and now we have Rovers roaming Romania in huge numbers.

Dogs are not without mention in Scripture.  They are at times shown as voracious consumers--Ahab's wife, Jezebel, was literally eaten by dogs.   At other times, as in the story of poor Lazarus, they offer comfort—licking our wounds.

In Matthew 7:6 Jesus said, “Do not give what is holy to dogs.”  So while we cannot solve the problem of dogs in Romania, the greater concern for Christ followers is that we develop a spiritual sensitivity that prevents us from offering holy things to people who are as spiritually senseless… as a wild dog.

Call me obsessive compulsive, but I like to celebrate the new.

I remember the distinct smell of new pencils in first grade.  Or the smell of new erasers (“Pink Pearl” was the brand to buy).

Over the years, I've always loved the sheen on a new book cover—and have gone to great lengths to preserve my books.  I want the covers to look new.  Forever.

A particular peeve of my mine is when I loan someone a magazine or book and they bend back the cover on itself.   Or bend page corners as a book mark.

We once bought a new storm door that was installed with its protective plastic shrink wrap.    It looked so nice and the plastic actually seemed to be keeping the door clean, so we (I) decided to leave it on.  A month passed.  A year.  Then another.

When the plastic had grown gray collecting dust and dirt, I was asked (by a very patient wife) to please remove it.  But season after season of heat and humidity had made a glue (or more accurately, goo) out of the thing.   It took hours of scraping with a heat gun to finally clean it all off.

I look at a new life—our granddaughter, Lucy's, for example—and I ponder the fact that apart from typical one-year-old tantrums, her soul is essentially “clean and shiny.”  New, if you will.

But then there are the rest of us.  With some miles on us.  Some dirt on us.  Some I'm-not-new-anymore all over us.  We're covered in gray guilt we cannot scrape off.  Inside, we long for a clean slate. A new slate, even.

Did you know it's yours for the asking?

The Bible says, “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.  The old has passed away.  Behold, the new has come” (2 Corinthians 5:17).

Here we are at the start of a new year.  Why not get that new life Jesus offers for yourself?  If you've got questions, talk to a friend now at 888-NEED-HIM.  And if you've already received Christ, let's celebrate that through His forgiveness we are made new.  Every day.