My daughter said “Thanks!” to me in a frustrated tone after I finished helping her with her math. She was angrier at the arithmetic than at me, but her sass couldn’t help but be noticed. When I questioned her, she quickly softened. After all, I hate math, too, and I had been pleasantly pursuing my own work till she interrupted. I felt like spouting off a “Thanks!” of my own.
Pondering this scene now, I’m afraid this is what I do to my Heavenly Father—yell the occasional “Thanks!” upward for all these frustrations below. I may not have math homework to turn in, but many things don’t add up. I don’t like medical bills. I don’t like pulled back muscles. I don’t like counting calories. I don’t like gray hair. I don’t like deadly viruses. And I don’t like the bickering and division in our nation. “Thanks, Lord!”
This is what I’m actually shouting every time I mutter a complaint—a sarcastic, irreverent “Thanks!” Is He not on His throne? Has He not ordained my steps? Certainly He is and He has. Is He surprised by my mathematical mishaps and wrong equations? No, He is not.
I stand before my Creator empty-handed. I bring nothing of worth to offer Him.
Enter Jesus—King of my heart, Lord of my life, Savior of my soul. He fills my hands with provision. He solves my math problems with perfection. He plans my future with promise. He is the reason I breathe in and out, and He is the One to whom I gratefully and humbly pray, “Thank You!”
Oh friends, let us not lose sight of who is worthy of all our gratitude and worship, the Great Mathematician keeping all things in order. Let’s open our hands to Him. They hold nothing otherwise.
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