When I need to pray the most is usually when my tongue tucks its tail and runs away. I’m left wordless. Rather than a prayer warrior, I feel like a prayer deserter.
Someone was once asked to pen a six-word novel.
They wrote: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."
Many, including me, could have written those sad, six words.
There are many children, young and old, who can’t stomach Father’s Day. They are the offspring of deadbeat dads, abusive fathers, men who have failed them in ways that possibly scarred them for life. To them the whole purpose of this day is senseless, if not revolting.
When the twelve-year-old Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem while his parents headed home to Nazareth, He knew what He was doing. He knew that Mary and Joseph would assume that He was somewhere in the large crowd of family and friends who’d made the pilgrimage with them. He knew that eventually they’d realize He wasn’t in the group, and that they’d retrace their steps in search of their missing boy.