A few years ago, I was walking through an estate sale when I noticed several boxes sitting on the basement floor filled with shiny gold trophies. Most of them were golf trophies, collected over what appeared to be many years. Some were larger than others, and the sheer number of them was overwhelming. Each one had the man's name engraved on it, along with the accomplishment it represented.

I don't know anything about the man who owned them other than the fact that he was apparently a spectacular golfer. I don't know how seriously he took the game or how many hours he spent practicing, but I would guess that winning those trophies had been one of the great joys of his life. Maybe he carried each one home proudly and had an entire trophy case where he displayed his numerous awards. Perhaps there were pictures of him holding them while friends and family congratulated him. Each trophy represented something he had worked hard to achieve.

But now, the person who had lived in this home, or perhaps the couple who had lived there, had apparently passed away. Their belongings were being sold, and these trophies that had once been so meaningful were sitting in cardboard boxes on a basement floor with a sign on the front that said $1.

Sadly, no one wanted them. What are you going to do with a golf trophy engraved with someone else's name? Eventually, instead of charging a dollar for each trophy, the price was changed so that you could take the entire box home for one dollar. Still, no one wanted them.

I remember looking at those trophies and thinking about how they had probably once been a tremendous source of pride for this man. Not necessarily because of what they cost, but because of what they represented.  Achievement, success, recognition, and winning. And now nobody wanted an entire box of them for one dollar. Unless someone in his family eventually decided to keep them, I'm guessing they ended up at Goodwill or perhaps simply in the trash.

You know, we all have our own version of trophies. They may not be made of plastic and metal or have our names engraved on little brass plates. Maybe our trophy is the position we worked years to earn or the title that appears beneath our name in our email signature. Maybe it's the house we saved to buy or the number in our bank account. Maybe it's the recognition we receive, the things we own, or the accomplishments we're proud to tell people about.

None of those things are necessarily wrong. It's good to have goals. It's good to work hard, and it's good to celebrate when we finally accomplish something we've worked toward for a long time. But there is something unsettling about realizing how temporary all of it is.

We can spend an enormous amount of our lives trying to accumulate things that eventually someone else will put into a box and stick a sign on the front that says $1. There has to be something more to live for. There has to be something more permanent to do with the years we've been given.

The things that can feel so important to us right now won't necessarily be important at all after we're gone. The title will belong to someone else. Someone else will live in the house. The money will be spent or inherited. The possessions will be divided up, donated, sold, or thrown away. Eventually, even the trophies will end up in a box.

Maybe the question isn't whether we should accomplish things during our lives. Maybe the better question is what all of those accomplishments are ultimately for. If I spend my entire life building something that ends with me, I'm not sure I've built something that lasts.

He Must Increase

John the Baptist was also a bit of a quirky guy. He lived in the wilderness, wore clothing made of camel's hair with a leather belt around his waist, and ate locusts and wild honey. He was a true wilderness man, and I don't imagine he was terribly concerned about impressing anyone. John knew who he was, he knew why he was here, and perhaps just as importantly, he knew who he wasn't.

When Jesus' ministry began, John said something important: “He must increase, but I must decrease.” (John 3:30) John understood that his ministry had never really been about him. He had been given an incredibly important assignment, but that assignment was to prepare the way for the Messiah. The people who had been following John would eventually need to start following Jesus because John wasn't the Messiah. He was simply the one God had chosen to point people toward Him.

I think what makes John's response so remarkable is that he was okay with that. He had spent years preaching, baptizing, gathering followers, and preparing people for what was coming, but he never confused the work God had given him with something that belonged to him. When Jesus arrived, John didn't try to protect his position or hold on to his followers. He understood that everything he had been given was meant to point people toward Christ. His purpose was important, but he also understood that fulfilling that purpose would eventually require him to step out of the spotlight.

That's a very different way of looking at life than the one our world often gives us. We live in a culture that constantly encourages us to increase. We want to increase our income, our influence, the size of our house, the number of people who know our name, the accomplishments on our résumé, and perhaps even the number of trophies sitting on our shelves. Living a simple life doesn't earn many accolades, so why would anyone intentionally choose to decrease when so much of the world seems to be telling us that the goal is to accumulate as much as possible?

There isn't anything inherently wrong with accomplishment, success, or having nice things. But somewhere along the way, it becomes very easy to begin measuring the value of our lives by how much we can accumulate and how much recognition we receive for it. John measured his life differently. He wasn't concerned with how much recognition he could receive because what mattered to him was whether he had accomplished what God sent him to do. He didn't need his own name to become greater because he knew there was another Name that mattered infinitely more.

Maybe that's part of what those trophies sitting in the basement were reminding me. Eventually, everything with my name on it will belong to someone else or be thrown away. My possessions won't last forever. Neither will my position or my accomplishments. Even the things I spend years working to build will eventually be handed to someone else. But what God chooses to do through my life can reach far beyond the things that have my name engraved on them.

I wonder what would happen if we really began to live as though everything we are and everything we possess has been given to us for the purpose of making Christ increase. What if the question wasn't simply what we could accomplish with our lives, but how the things we've been given could point someone toward Him? Our homes, careers, money, talents, influence, time, and even our accomplishments would become more than things to collect. They would become things God could use.

Perhaps that's what decreasing really begins to look like. It doesn't necessarily mean having less, accomplishing less, or believing that what we do doesn't matter. John the Baptist certainly didn't live an insignificant life. Maybe it simply means making less of our lives about us.

And somehow, when life becomes less about us, it begins to become much more meaningful.

Stepping Down From the Throne

So what does it actually mean to decrease?

One simple way I've heard it described is that we have to step down from the throne of our own lives. I've heard that expression many times over the years, and I think it helps explain what John was talking about when he said, “He must increase, but I must decrease.”

When we're sitting on the throne of our own lives, we make the decisions. If we feel like doing something, we do it. If we don't feel like doing something, we don't. Sometimes we make good decisions and sometimes we make terrible ones, but either way, they're our decisions. We consider what we want, what will make us comfortable, what will make us happy, and what will benefit us, and then we build our lives around those things.

That's what makes decreasing so difficult. In order for Christ to increase, we have to be willing to step down from the throne of our own lives and allow Jesus to take His rightful place as King.  And that sounds wonderful until the King asks us to do something we don't particularly want to do.

Maybe He asks us to give generously when there are plenty of things we'd rather spend the money on. Maybe He asks us to change the way we respond to our families when we're tired, stressed, and convinced we have every right to be irritated. Maybe He asks us to forgive someone we'd rather stay angry with, serve someone when it isn't convenient, or tell someone about the gospel when doing so feels uncomfortable.

When I'm sitting on the throne, I get to decide whether those things fit into my plans. When Christ is on the throne, the question begins to change. Instead of simply asking what I want to do, I have to start asking what He wants me to do.

That doesn't mean we're suddenly going to get everything right. We won't. We will climb back onto that throne more times than we'd probably like to admit. But the goal of the Christian life is that, little by little, there is less of us running the show and more of Christ. We learn to surrender our preferences, our plans, our reactions, our money, our time, and eventually every part of our lives to Him.

And somewhere in that process, something remarkable begins to happen. We change.

That's not because Christians are somehow better people than everyone else. We aren't. It's because when we genuinely seek to obey Christ, He begins transforming us. We become more generous because He is generous. We become more compassionate because He is compassionate. We learn to forgive because He forgives. We begin serving because He served. The more Christ increases in our lives, the more our lives begin to look like His.

I think this may be one of the most difficult parts of the Christian walk because surrender goes against something deep within us. We naturally want to protect ourselves, serve ourselves, make our own decisions, and remain firmly seated on the throne. Yet Jesus repeatedly taught that greatness in His Kingdom looks completely different. He taught His followers to serve, and then He demonstrated exactly what He meant by kneeling down and washing His disciples' feet. The King Himself chose the position of a servant.

Perhaps this brings us all the way back to those boxes of golf trophies sitting on the basement floor.

If we want to build a life that lasts beyond us, perhaps we have to stop concentrating quite so much on building a life that points toward us. The awards, titles, possessions, and accomplishments that once seemed so important will eventually belong to someone else, be forgotten, or perhaps end up in a cardboard box with a one-dollar sign taped to the front.

But there are other things we leave behind.

People will remember when we showed up when it wasn't convenient. Our children may remember the times we chose patience when we had every reason to be frustrated. Someone may remember that we gave when they desperately needed help, that we forgave when forgiveness was difficult, or that we showed them love and compassion during a season when they weren't receiving much of either.

Those things don't fit neatly into a trophy case, but they have a way of continuing long after we're gone. They shape our children, who may someday shape their children. They affect friends, neighbors, coworkers, and sometimes people whose lives we may never realize we've touched.

Isn't it strange?

We spend so much of our lives trying to become more, and yet perhaps the greatest legacy we can leave comes from becoming less like ourselves and more like Christ.

John the Baptist understood that. His goal wasn't to leave behind a world filled with people talking about John. His life was successful because he pointed people toward Jesus.

Maybe ours should be measured the same way.

Yesterday was one of those days when nothing seemed to work out. Nothing terrible happened. There was no crisis or emergency. It was simply one thing after another that didn't go according to plan.

My daughter's birthday is coming up, and I had already arranged for someone to make her birthday cake. It was one of those little details I had checked off my list and didn't have to think about anymore. Until I did. I found out the cake wasn't going to work out after all, which meant I suddenly needed to come up with another plan. Okay. Fine. I can find another cake.

Then there were the movers. I'm helping a friend move some things, and I had already scheduled movers to help us. The plan was for some of their belongings to be stored temporarily in my garage. Everything was arranged and ready to go. Then I received a notice from my apartment complex that they were going to be repaving the road leading to my building, which meant access would be closed for the day. And naturally, out of all the days they could have chosen to close the road, they chose the exact day I had scheduled the movers.

So now I needed another plan for that too.

Then there was my son's doctor's appointment. It had been scheduled for quite some time, but the doctor's vacation plans changed, so the appointment had to be moved. Another plan changed. Another thing to rearrange. Another item I thought was settled suddenly wasn't.

And on and on it went.

By the end of the day, I felt like I had spent most of it adjusting plans I had already made. Nothing was devastating, and every problem had a solution. We would find another cake. We would figure out what to do about the movers. The doctor's appointment would be rescheduled. But sometimes it isn't the size of the problems that gets to us. It's the accumulation of them. It's one little disappointment followed by another until you find yourself wondering if anything is simply going to go according to plan.

I'm guessing you've had days like that too. Days when the schedule you've carefully put together seems to unravel one piece at a time. Days when every time you solve one problem, another one appears. Days when you finally reach the evening and think, Well, at least that's over.

Then, the next day I woke up with a head cold.

Of course I did.

As I lay there feeling the congestion settling into my head, I couldn't help but laugh a little. Apparently, we weren't quite finished and I needed to change my weekend plans so I could get better.

But somewhere in the middle of all those changed plans, I began thinking about why days like this bother me so much. After all, I know I can't control everything. I've lived long enough to understand that plans change. People change. Circumstances change. Roads apparently get repaved at precisely the least convenient time possible. And yet there is still something in me that likes things settled. I like knowing what is going to happen. I like making a plan, checking something off my list, and knowing I don't have to think about it anymore.

Maybe that's why days like this can be so frustrating. They remind me how little control I actually have. I can make the appointment, but I can't guarantee the doctor will be there. I can schedule the movers, but I can't keep someone from closing the road. I can order the cake, but I can't guarantee the cake will actually happen. I can make all the plans I want, but I can't make everything work out.

Perhaps that's not always a bad thing to be reminded of.

Lately, I've had a theme around this specific topic. I've been discovering that following Jesus for a long time hasn't made me as independent as I once thought it would. In fact, it seems to be doing exactly the opposite.

When Life Doesn't Work Out

When I get like that, my natural instinct is usually to withdraw. I become quiet, keep to myself, and avoid interacting with anyone. Somehow, in my mind, it feels kinder to isolate than to risk taking my frustration out on the people I love most. To be honest, there is probably some wisdom in stepping away for a little while. Sometimes we genuinely need a few quiet moments to let our emotions settle before they spill over onto everyone around us.

But this particular evening felt different.

As I stood in the kitchen trying to make dinner, it seemed as though every little thing required more effort than it should have. Nothing was actually going wrong, yet every ingredient, every decision, and every interruption felt like one more thing I didn't have the emotional energy to handle. By the end of the evening, I had retreated into my own little world, and the next morning I found myself sending an apology text to my kids because I knew they had experienced a version of me they didn't deserve.

The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized dinner had never really been the problem.

The truth was, I had been carrying around hurt for days.

My divorce had been occupying far more space in my heart than I wanted to admit. Old memories had been surfacing again...things that had been said, things that had happened, conversations I couldn't change, and if I'm being completely honest, anger that I hadn't fully surrendered to God. It wasn't that one particular event had triggered me that evening. Rather, weeks of sadness, frustration, disappointment, and hurt had quietly been piling up beneath the surface until even something as ordinary as making dinner felt overwhelming.

Standing there in my kitchen, I remember thinking that I simply didn't have anything left to give. Nothing catastrophic had happened. I wasn't responding to some terrible piece of news. I was just emotionally exhausted.

Looking back now, I realize I didn't simply need a few minutes alone.

I needed Jesus.

Sometimes we think we need Him most during life's biggest crises, a frightening diagnosis, the loss of someone we love, or a tragedy we never saw coming. Those are certainly moments when we cling to Him with everything we have. But perhaps we need Him just as desperately on ordinary evenings when dinner won't come together, our emotions feel heavier than we can explain, and we discover we've been carrying burdens far longer than we realized.

Life is hard, even on its ordinary days. We weren't created to simply survive them on our own strength. We need Christ not only for life's biggest storms, but for the quiet Tuesday evenings when our hearts have become weary and we don't even recognize why.

When the Hurt Leaks Out

But then Tuesday night comes, dinner doesn't come together easily, and everything we've been carrying starts leaking out.

Unfortunately, the people who receive the spillover are often the people who had absolutely nothing to do with the original wound. They didn't cause the hurt we're carrying. They weren't responsible for the memories that resurfaced that afternoon or the anger that has been quietly building for weeks. They just happened to be standing nearby when something ordinary became the final straw.

Unforgiveness has a way of doing that. We might be able to tuck it into a closet for a while, shut the door, and go about our lives as though everything is fine. But eventually, it comes back out, reminding us that it was there all along.

I think that's partly because forgiveness is a process. Deep wounds don't always heal quickly, and sometimes forgiveness doesn't happen all at once either. We can sincerely surrender something to God and discover later that there are still places in our hearts where the hurt remains. Sometimes it even disguises itself as something else. We think we're dealing with anger. Or stress. Or sadness. Or simply the lingering difficulties of a divorce. But God has a way of gently pulling back those layers and showing us what is underneath.

And sometimes, when all the disguises are removed, there it is.

The same darn thing we've been battling for years.

The anger I thought I had contained wasn't really contained at all. It had simply been waiting beneath the surface until an ordinary Tuesday night, when dinner required more effort than I had to give, and suddenly it came pouring out in a place where I never expected it.

Of course, my response to God was something along the lines of, Really, Lord? This again?

In moments like these, I find Peter incredibly relatable. He came to Jesus and asked, "Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?" (Matthew 18:21).

I understand the question.

I want a number.

Perhaps that's the accountant in me, but if we're going to do this forgiveness thing, I'd like to know exactly how many times are required. Surely there comes a point when I've fulfilled my obligation. Seven sounds fairly generous to me.

Unfortunately, Jesus gave Peter a much bigger number.

Jesus answered, "I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times." (Matthew 18:22).

I can imagine Peter's reaction because I suspect it would have been similar to mine.

Are You serious? I have to do this again?

But I don't think Jesus was really giving Peter a number to keep track of. He was showing him that forgiveness would have to become a way of life. There would always be another offense, another disappointment, another hurt, and sometimes even another memory of an old wound we thought we had already surrendered. Following Christ would require us to forgive again and again throughout our lives.

And here's the part I don't want to miss: Jesus isn't asking us to model something He has never done Himself.

Think about how many times Christ has forgiven us. Not once. Not seven times. Not even seventy-seven. We come back to Him over and over with our failures, our selfishness, our disobedience, and even our repeated struggles with the very same sins we promised Him we would leave behind.

And still, there is grace.

Still, there is forgiveness.

Jesus is the ultimate model of the very thing He asks of us. So if my desire is to become more like Christ, I can't give up on forgiveness simply because I'm tired of doing it. Becoming more Christlike means learning, little by little, to forgive as I have been forgiven.

Choosing What Will Hold Me

But what does it actually mean to forgive someone again?

When Peter asked Jesus how many times he had to forgive, perhaps he wasn't only talking about different offenses. What if sometimes we have to forgive the same offense over and over? What if the same wound returns seventy-seven times? What if the person doesn't necessarily hurt us again, although they might, but the memory does?

Something reminds us of what happened, and suddenly we're right back there. We remember what was said. We remember what was done. We remember how deeply it hurt. And every time that memory surfaces, we have a choice about what we're going to do with it. We can pick it back up and carry it around for a while, or we can surrender it to Christ again.

I hate to admit it, but I like to pick it back up.

There's a part of me that doesn't want to forget how I was wronged because remembering feels a little like protection. If I keep the details close enough, perhaps I can make sure it never happens again. If I remember exactly how much it hurt, perhaps I'll recognize the warning signs next time. Somehow holding onto the offense can feel safer than releasing it.

But remembering what happened and remaining bound to what happened are not the same thing.

Forgiveness doesn't require us to pretend something wasn't wrong. It doesn't erase wisdom or eliminate the need for boundaries. It doesn't mean we have to place ourselves back into situations where someone can continue hurting us. Forgiveness simply means we stop insisting on carrying the offense everywhere we go.

We carry it into work. We carry it into new relationships. We carry it into conversations with people who never caused the wound. And sometimes we carry it right back into the kitchen on an ordinary Tuesday night and discover that yesterday's hurt is still spilling into today's life.

I don't think God's command to forgive has ever been about letting someone off the hook. I think it's also about God refusing to allow His children to remain trapped in the places where they experienced their deepest sorrows. Unforgiveness has a way of holding us there. It continually invites us back to the offense, back to the conversation, back to what should have happened, back to what we wish we had said, and back to the pain we desperately want to leave behind.

But we were never meant to live there.

If I've learned anything about God during all these years of walking with Him, it's that He is a God of freedom. Again and again, He leads His children out of the places that hold them captive. He doesn't want us chained to anger, bitterness, resentment, or something someone did to us years ago. He wants our hearts free to follow Him wherever He leads us next.

Maybe that's why forgiveness sometimes has to happen seventy-seven times. Maybe I really did forgive yesterday, but today the memory returned. So today, I surrender it again. Tomorrow, if it comes back, I'll surrender it again. Not because yesterday's forgiveness wasn't genuine, but because healing from deep wounds takes time, and every time I choose to release the hurt instead of rehearsing it, I loosen its grip on my life a little more.

Eventually, I think it comes down to a choice about what I'm willing to be bound to.

I can remain bound to unforgiveness, carrying around the weight of something I cannot go back and change. Or I can bind myself more closely to Christ, trusting Him with the healing I haven't completely experienced yet.

One of those keeps me living in yesterday.

The other leads me toward freedom.

So perhaps the next time an old memory surfaces, I don't need to be discouraged that I'm dealing with the same darn thing again. Maybe I simply need to recognize another opportunity to put it back into the hands of Jesus.

And if I have to do that seventy-seven times, then seventy-seven times I will choose Christ.

Because I don't want yesterday's hurt spilling into another Tuesday night.

I want to be free.

This wasn't one of the old movie theaters I grew up with. It was one of those newer theaters where every seat is a large recliner and you can order dinner right from your chair. Mine even had a heated seat, which I quickly decided should become standard in every theater. As we settled into our recliners with our food and drinks, I couldn't help but think how different movie theaters are today. My kids have never experienced sitting in a worn-out seat with gray duct tape wrapped around the armrests while your shoes stuck just a little to the floor every time you shifted your feet. Somehow, that all seemed perfectly normal when I was growing up.

We enjoyed the movie, and when the credits began to roll we gathered our things and started making our way out. I had ordered a cheeseburger during the movie, so I picked up my empty tray along with the bottle of water I'd been drinking. About that time, my son realized he had dropped his phone underneath his recliner. Since the theater was still fairly dark, we all stopped while he reached underneath the chair trying to retrieve it. I leaned over to help, balancing my tray in one hand and my water bottle in the other as I looked under one side of the chair and then the other.

What I didn't realize was that I had taken the lid off my water bottle. Every time I turned from one side to the other, a little wave of water sloshed out of the bottle and landed squarely on my son. The theater was dark enough that I never noticed what I was doing, and apparently he was so focused on finding his phone that he didn't say anything either. By the time we finally found it, I had managed to splash him several different times without having the slightest clue.

As we started walking toward the exit, my daughter was following just behind me. I turned around to say something to her while we were talking, and without realizing it I sent another splash of water flying, this time all over her. She hurried to catch up with me and finally said, "Mom, you don't have the lid on your water bottle."

I looked down and laughed. "Oh! I'm sorry."

In my mind I had probably dripped a few drops of water. I had no idea that for the last several minutes I had essentially been spraying both of my children every time I turned around.

We continued through the lobby, laughing and talking about the movie, and I pushed open one of the heavy glass doors leading outside. Still carrying on the conversation, I walked into the parking lot before realizing that my kids weren't beside me anymore. When I turned around, they were just coming through the doorway.

"Mom," they said, "you slammed the door right in our faces."

Apparently after I walked through, the heavy door had swung back behind me. I never even noticed. I had simply kept walking and talking as though they were right there beside me.  Anyone viewing me from the parking lot probably thought I was crazy.  That poor woman, they probably said, she has no idea she just took her kids out with a swinging door.  

As they caught up with me, I finally looked at them and noticed that both of their shirts had long streaks of water running down the front. Completely confused, I asked, "Why are you two all wet?"

They just looked at me and said in unison.

"Because you threw water all over us!"

At that point the three of us completely lost it. We laughed all the way across the parking lot. My son  said, "It's okay, Mom. You just baptized us in the movie theater." My daughter informed me that I was turning into my mother, and I suppose there's probably at least a little truth to that.

The more I thought about that evening, though, the more I realized the funniest part wasn't that I had splashed my kids with water or accidentally let the door swing back into their faces. It was that I had absolutely no idea I was doing any of it. I wasn't trying to make their evening miserable. I wasn't intentionally being inconsiderate. I simply went through the entire experience completely unaware of the effect I was having on the two people walking closest behind me.

As I reflected on that later, I couldn't help but wonder how often I do the same thing in everyday life. We spend so much of our time thinking about the ways other people have hurt us that we rarely stop to ask whether we might be leaving a trail of our own. Maybe our words are a little sharper than we realize. Maybe our impatience splashes onto the people we love most. Maybe we've allowed a door to swing shut behind us without ever noticing who it hit.

It's easy to recognize the water someone else has thrown on us. It's much harder to recognize the water we're throwing on everyone else.

As we laughed about it later that evening, I couldn't help but think about how much of life is lived exactly like that.

Why Does Carelessness Matter?

The water bottle and the swinging door weren't intentional. They made us laugh because I was having one of those classic "Mom moments." I wasn't trying to soak my kids, and I certainly wasn't trying to let a heavy door swing back into their faces. The whole thing happened because I was completely unaware of what I was doing.

The truth is, I think a lot of our relationships work the same way.

Most of us don't wake up in the morning planning to hurt the people we love. We don't set out to be impatient, dismissive, or thoughtless. More often than not, we're simply distracted. We're tired. We're carrying burdens no one else can see. Our minds are already on tomorrow's responsibilities while our bodies are standing in today's conversations. And before we know it, we've splashed someone with our words or allowed a door to swing shut behind us without ever realizing they were standing there.

If I'm being honest, I can quickly make a list of people who have hurt me over the years. I remember the careless words. I remember the doors that seemed to close in my face. I remember the emotional "water" that other people have splashed on me, and if I'm not careful, I can replay those moments over and over again. At certain points in my life, replaying those moments was one of my favorite hobbies.

But as I thought about that evening at the movie theater, another question began to form in my mind.

When was the last time I was the one holding the water bottle?

Figuratively speaking, of course.  Literally speaking, it was yesterday.

Who have I accidentally splashed because I wasn't paying attention? Who has quietly absorbed the overflow of my stress or my distraction while I went through life assuming everything was fine? Who have I taken for granted simply because I knew they would love me enough to forgive me?

Sometimes carelessness grows out of exhaustion. Sometimes it comes from stress. Sometimes it comes from trying to juggle too many responsibilities at once. None of those things make us bad people, but they can make us blind to the needs of the people walking closest beside us.

The people who often receive the least of our attention are the very people who deserve the most of it. They're the ones who patiently wait while we're busy. They're the ones we assume will understand. They're the ones we unintentionally put on the back burner because we know they'll still be there tomorrow.

David prayed one of the bravest prayers in all of Scripture:

Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.  Psalm 139:23-24

What strikes me about that prayer is that David wasn't simply asking God to forgive the things he already knew about. He was inviting God to reveal the things he couldn't see.  That feels much harder.

Most of us already know the areas where we struggle. We know the sins we wrestle with. We know the habits we wish were different and the places where we need God's help. But David was essentially saying, "God, look deeper than I can. Show me what I'm missing."

Show me where I'm careless.  Show me where my words have been sharper than I realized.  Show me where I've taken someone for granted.  Show me where I've been so distracted by my own concerns that I haven't noticed the person standing right beside me.  Show me where I'm walking around with the lid off my water bottle.

That's a brave prayer because we may not always like what God brings to our attention. But I think there's also something incredibly freeing about it. We don't have to spend our lives trying to discover every blind spot on our own. We can invite the One who knows us completely to gently show us what we cannot see.

And maybe that's where change begins.  Not with becoming more aware of everyone else's faults, but with becoming willing to let God show us our own.

How Do We Create Distance

Isn't it interesting that the people closest to us are usually the ones who get the splash?

And isn't that so unfair?

When my daughter finally caught up with me and said, "Mom, you don't have the lid on your water bottle," she wasn't trying to embarrass me. She wasn't trying to make me feel guilty. She wasn't angry.  She was simply trying to stop me from splashing people when I didn't even realize I was doing it.

I wonder if we need to become better listeners when the people closest to us tell us they need more of our attention, more of our time, or simply a little more care. Maybe instead of assuming they're asking for too much, we should pause long enough to consider that perhaps they're trying to point out something we can't see for ourselves.

God does the same thing.

Sometimes He speaks through His Word. Sometimes He gently nudges our hearts during prayer. And sometimes He lovingly speaks through the people who know us best.

Proverbs 27:6 says, "Faithful are the wounds of a friend."

Not every wound is meant to hurt us. Some wounds are meant to heal us.

Sometimes the people who love us the most are willing to risk an awkward conversation because they care more about the relationship than avoiding an uncomfortable moment. They want to be close to us, but they're also trying to tell us that something we're doing is creating distance.

The question is whether we'll listen.  Will we become defensive?  Will we explain ourselves?  Will we tell them they're asking for too much?  Will we insist they misunderstood our intentions?  Or will we respond the way David did and simply pray, "Lord, if this is true...show me."

So today, instead of asking God to show me who's been splashing water on me, I think I'll ask Him a different question.

Lord, am I carrying around an open water bottle?

And if I am...

Would You lovingly show me before I soak someone else?