With love,

Your heavenly Father

The A to Z of Friendship
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To laugh often and much,
To win the respect of intelligent people
And the affection of children,
To earn the appreciation of honest critics
And to endure the betrayal of false friends,
To appreciate beauty,
To find the best in others,
To leave the world a bit better,
Whether by a healthy child, a garden patch,
Or a redeemed social condition,
To know even one life has breathed easier
Because you lived,
This is to have succeeded.

Courtesies. I extend courtesies to God. I politely thank Him for a good meal and a good day. I thank Him as I would a waiter, as I would tip for service well done.

Yet sometimes I don't feel like leaving a tip or giving thanks. I don't always feel thankful because I don't always feel well-served. All too often I don't wake up overwhelmed by God's goodness and overflowing with a heart that knows life is good, and that heaven is far better.

What's wrong? Don't I know the halls of heaven throb with the music and praise of adoring creatures? Yes. But this isn't heaven. I agree with those who have noted that it's hard to think about heaven when your stomach's empty. I'm not starving. But sometimes it feels as if there's a hole in my heart.

Some of my most deeply felt prayers for others are not answered. Problems linger. Uncertainty about the future robs me of gratefulness. When I thank God for the good He does, I can't forget what He's withheld.

What's wrong with me? Why don't I feel that with every waking breath I owe God unending, heartfelt praise? Gradually I begin to realize that I have slipped into the presumption that God owes me something. I act as if I deserve what I get, and more. I think, "I didn't ask to be born, meaningful work, friends to count on, health, happiness, and all of the good things God gives me?"

Once in a while the fog lifts enough for me to see a different picture. And then I am amazed to see the truth about what God owes me. Nothing. Not health, or life, or peace of mind. Not friendships, money for extras, or meaningful work. He doesn't owe me answers to my prayers, or the conviction that all will be well with the souls that are breaking my heart. God owes me nothing.

More accurately, I don't even deserve what I have been given, let alone what He has withheld. I don't deserve another day, another meal, another laugh. God is not indebted to me. He is not oligated to make me happy by giving me what my heart demands. He is not beholden to me just because He made me.

Thinking I deserve anything is my unholy presumption. I often forget the most basic and foundational doctrines of Christian faith. I forget that "grace" means "undeserved help." "Mercy" means "undeserved relief." What do we have that has not first been received as "grace" or "mercy"? Together they emcompass everything. I deserve nothing. Any good is an act of God's sheer, undeserved kindness.

In my presumption I have it all wrong. God owe me nothing. But I owe Hime everything.

Thank You, Lord, for shoes to put on my feet, for feet to move, and for a blood-spattered cross at which to stand. Thank You for graciously and lovingly leading us to the ground at the foot of the cross where Your Son died. We don't deserve to stand on such holy ground. I don't deserve such love. I don't deserve His suffering, or His offer of forgiveness and eternal life. But You, Father, You deserve praise. Together with Your Son and Spirit, You deserve our unending thanks, and honor, and worship. Thank You for all You have done.
R W Emerson

The Wenmicks were small wooden people. Each of the wooden people was carved by a woodworker named Eli. His workshop sat on a hill overlooking their village.
Every Wenmick was different.
Some had big noses, others had large eyes.
Some were tall and others were short.
Some wore hats, others wore coats.
But all were made by the same carver and all lived in the village. And all day, everyday, the Wenmicks did the same thing: they gave each other stickers. Each Wenmick had a box of golden star stickers and a box of grey dot stickers.
Up and down the streets all over the city, peole could be seen sticking stars or dots on one another.The pretty ones, thoses with smooth wood and fine paint, always got stars. But if the wood was rough and the paint chipped, the Wenmicks gave dots.
The talented ones got starts, too. Some could lift big sticks high above their heads or jump over tall boxes. Still others knew big words or could sing very pretty songs. Everyone gave them stars. Some Wenmicks had starts all over them! Everytimes they got a star it made them feel so good that they did something else and got another start.
Others tough, could do little. They got dots.
Punchinello was one of these.
He tried to jump high like the others, but he always fell. And when he fell, the others would gather around and give him dots. Sometimes when he fell, it would scar his wood, so the people would give him more dots. He would try to explain why he fell and say something silly, and the Wenmicks would give hime more dots.
After awhile he had so many dots thay he didn't want to go outside. He was afraid he would do something dumb such as forget his hat or step in the water, and then people would give him another dot. In fact, he had so many gray dots that some people would come up and give him one without reason.
"He deserves lots of dots," the wooden people would agree with one another. "He's not a good wooden person. After awhile, Punchinello believed them. "I'm not a good Wenmick." he would say.The few times he went outside, he hung around other Wenmicks who hd a lot of dots. He felt better around them.
One day he met a Wenmick who was unlike any he had ever met. She had not dots or starts. She was just wooden. Her name was Lucia. It wasn't that people didn't try to give her stickers; it's just that the stickers didn't stick.
Some admired Lucia for having not dots, so they would run up and give her a star. But it would fall off.
Some would look down on her for having no stars, so they would give her ah dot. But it wouldn't stay either.
"That's the way I want to be," thought Puchinello. "I don't want anyone's marks." So he asked the stickerless Wenmick how she did it.
"It's easy," Lucia replied. "Every day I go to see Eli."
"Eli?"
"Yes, Eli. The woodcarver. I sit in the workshop with him."
"Why?"
"Why don't you find out for yourself? Go up the hill. He's there."
And with that, the Wenmick with no marks turned and skipped away.
"But he won't see me!" Punchinello cried out. Lucia didn't hear. So Punchinello went home.
He sat near a window and watched the wooden people as they scurried around giving each other stars and dots.
"It's not right," he muttered to himself. And he resolved to go see Eli.
He walked up the narrow path to the top of the hill and stepped into the big shop. His wooden eyes widened at the size of everything. The stool was as tall as he was. he had to stand on his tiptoes to see the top of the workbench. A hammer was as long as his arm. Punchinello swallowed hard.
"I'm not staying here!" He said, and he turned to leave. Then he heard his name.
"Punchinello?" The voice was deep and strong. Punchinello stopped. "Punchinello! How good to see you. Come and let me have a loot at you."
Punchinello turned slowly and looked at the large bearded craftsman. "You know my name?" the little Wenmick asked.
"Of course I do. I made you."
Eli stooped down and picked him up and set him on the bench.
"Hmm," the maked spoke thoughtfully as he inspected the gray circles. "Looks like you've been given some bad marks."
"I didn't mean to, Eli. I really tried hard."
"Oh you don't have to defend yourself to me, child. I don't care what the other Wenmicks think."
"You don't?"
"No, and you shouldn't either. Who are they to give stars and dots? They're Wenmicks just like you. What they think doesn't matter Punchinello. All that matters is what I think. And I think you are pretty special."
Punchinello laughed. "Me, special? Why? I can't walk fast. I can't jump. My paint is peeling. Why do I matter to you?"
Eli looked at Punchinello, put his hands on those small wooden shoulders, and spoke very slowly. "Because you're mine. That's why you matter to me."
Punchinello had never had anyone look at him like this---much less his maker. he didn't know what to say.
"Everyday I've been hoping you'd come," Eli explained.
"I came because I met someone who had no marks."
"I know. She told me about you."
"Why don't the stickers stay on her?"
"Because she has decided that what I think is more important that what they think. The stickers only stick if you let them."
"What?"
"The stickers only stick if they matter to you. The more you trust my love, the less you care about the stickers."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"You will, but it will take time. You've got a lot of marks. For now, just come to see me everyday and let me remind you how much I care." Eli lifted Punchinello off the bench and set him on the ground.
"Remember," Eli said as the Wenmick walked out of the door. "You are special because I made you. And I don't make mistakes."
Punchinello didn't stop, but in his heart he thought, "I think he really means it."
And when he did a dot fell to the ground.

***Man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart. And that is all that really matters.
This was written so that everybody may be inspired to live a life that matters to GOD not to the world.
Author unknown