The exterior of my house looks like a junkyard. I am not exaggerating. Out
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Out back are two sets of patio furniture. Ones I picked up and off the
I’ve never done that before. I really wanted patio furniture. So, the first
second I saw the first set, the wrought iron white chairs, I declared them
as cute as could be. That is, until a couple weeks later rust stains started
showing up everywhere. I haven’t gotten rid of the chairs yet. My deck now
is etched with tons of full-blown brown circles.
The other set was the replacement for the first set. I spotted the two big
brown wicker chairs set aside as “throw-away items” in a neighbor’s yard. I
rapidly snagged them (may I remind you, I’ve never been a trash hunter…I
really wanted patio furniture). Like a sleuth agent, I threw them in my back
before anyone could see.
Only later did I come to find out that the majority of the legs were
missing. I guess they had enough legs to fool me at first. Go figure.
So, now, when I go outside, front-yard or back, I am overcome with junk.
Junk that is rusty. Junk that is wasteful. Junk that is annoying. Junk I now
to figure out how to dispose of. Junk that leaves stains I also have to get
cleaned. Junk that pesters me. And, no patio furniture, to boot.
What junk are you dealing with in your life? An old house? An old wardrobe?
An old annoying habit that drives you nuts? A problem you can’t fix? A
you can’t de-stain? Baggage that feels to internally weighty to unload?
We can shift our attitude. Did you know that? I tried it. Sitting on the
said-white chairs, the other day, I recommitted to God to be positive about
all. That is. . .until I looked left. . . and saw the brown chairs.
Grr…not them again. My thoughts wandered off to lands of annoyed and
God, how do we continually see the good, while we are surrounded by the bad?
“Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ
Jesus.” (1 Thess. 5:18, NIV)
What if we were really go give thanks in (and for) ALL circumstances, good
God thank you that these rusty patio chairs remind me: earthly things rust,
eternal things last.
God, thank you that the brown chairs, flipped over, with their broken and
legless limbs up to the sky speak: on earth we don’t get everything, but in
we have all we ever need.
God, thank you that the broken table out front is symbolic of seasons: they
change, but your love, God, always stay the same.
God, thank you that what looks like junk can be seen through a new light.
Thank you that what looks broken is a reminder of my brokenness and how you’ve
repaired me. Oh God, I give thanks that you haven’t left me broken, but you
are repairing me. You are good.
To give thanks for our bad, is to, undoubtedly, find God’s good. It is to
let victimhood, despair and frustration drop off you and to let a high and
view come in you. It’s powerful.
Junk has purpose. Thank you God, my deck kind-of, now, looks like art work.
God, help me to give thanks. So many times I see what is bad, but through
you, I ask for vision to see what is good. I ask you for a voice full of