What is it about driving that turns a normal guy into a crazed lunatic? We’ve all seen it, haven’t we? But I think I have some clues:  Men love races and the road is subliminally set up like a race. There’s a destination.  There are green lights, red lights, stripes, places for pit-stops and every journey ends with an imaginary finish line. It is soin my blood and I’m not NASCAR guy.  I’m at the gas pump and I want the family to finish using the facilities because I look at all the cars on the road and somewhere deep in the synapses between the cerebral cortex and the hypothalamus gland, a voice is whispering as I watch them whiz by, “They’re all beating you!” Where did this voice come from? Did I watch too many Dukes of Hazzard reruns? Do I secretly adhere to the creeds of Ricky Bobby? Was I traumatized by my brother’s victory at the Super Speed Go-Cart Derby?

Most guys that I know talk to the other vehicles. I see them. Is this therapy? Does it really help? We know they can’t hear us but that doesn’t stop us from blurting out the snarkiest observation we can think of. I thought it was just an American deal until I went on a mission trip to Guatemala. They were just as annoyed and perhaps even more assertive than American drivers.

I think it all started with a guy in 2 Kings named Jehu.  If you want a picture of road rage, look no further. Whenever you find Jehu in the narrative, he’s either racing around the Northern Kingdom in his tricked out chariot with the spinning hubcaps or he’s shooting his arrows all over the suburbs. He actually ran over wicked queen Jezebel with his chariot. He was so notorious in his chariot that people around town thought reckless driving and Jehu were synonymous. Note the following passage:

Again the watchman reported… “The driving is like that of Jehu son of Nimshi—he drives like a madman.”2 Kings 9:20

When you get behind the wheel think about Mary on her donkey, not Jehu in his chariot. We’ll all be a lot safer and sleep a little sounder. And if someone tells you that you drive like Jehu, that’s not a compliment.  That’s a warning! You might need extensive counseling.

My mother made it to Heaven this past year, but she left an indelible mark on my life. Growing up, I thought my mother was the strictest, most penny-pinching woman on the planet. As an adult, this theory has been confirmed. I used to think this was a flaw more than a virtue. I was wrong.

Mom was prepared for every crisis. The apocalypse, the great tribulation and the nuclear meltdown never happened but they did, the world would have turned to her and they would all receive stacks of canned hominy, frozen vegetables and enough toilet paper to go around. But not the two-ply toilet paper. Much too expensive…

I remember our weekly runs to the bread surplus store to get expired cinnamon bread at half price. If it weren’t for the commercials I wouldn’t have even known that McDonald’s served French fries until I was over the age of accountability.

I can still hear her say, “I’m so glad you were born but after all those labor pains, I should be the one to get the presents.” Yes, birthdays were celebrated and gifts were given. I knew she was joking but the there was an imputed virtue in the middle of this humorous proverb— no one should get rewarded for just showing up on earth. We had to find our own jam and figure out how to play it well.

Along with her skill of saving, she mastered the art of discipline. She didn’t have to lay a hand on me. Her laser-focused glare could singe my eyebrows from 600 yards away. I used to complain that Mom made me go to bed earlier than any other child in North America. The only acceptable places to be after 8 p.m. were church or bed. Screen time wasn’t an issue in our house. My big brother and I stayed out of the house for hours because we knew if we weren’t studying, she’d have a list of activities on hand that involved brooms, scouring pads and variety of household cleaning chemicals. Of course, I was way too busy for this, so we usually braved the elements and rode our bikes like we were training for the Tour De France.

One of the greatest things my mom did growing up was to force me to fail. She didn’t just want me to feel the thrill of victory. She knew that I had to learn the agony of defeat. I still remember the day she yanked the training wheels of the bike without telling me. If she saw a fear or weakness in my psyche, she would push me in that direction. This kept me from the sin of cockiness. She knew that I had no sense of direction- none whatsoever, so she’d send me on errands that would surely get me lost in the streets of our town. With no hand-eye coordination, she signed me up for piano lessons which I enjoyed about as much as I did cleaning the grout- both of which were daily activities. I can’t play anything today, but it gave me the chutzpa to run toward the things I really enjoyed doing with an even greater passion.

Mom isn’t with us this year but she programmed me for success in so many ways and whenever I get too big for my britches, I still feel her influence over me. I still tithe at church, watch my language, eat my vegetables, try to do more than what’s expected, and, yes, I still put the seat down on the toilet.

She also parented three of the greatest people on earth, my dear brother, Mark and my two awesome sisters, Melodye and Melinda.

I guess you could say I was sheltered as a child, and I am so thankful for it.

I was alone the night a violent thunderstorm hit our town and the electricity went out. At that moment I was watching a football game, scanning twitter and listening to music. When darkness arrived in a split second I realized that the battery on my iPhone was almost gone. A brief moment of panic ensued.

How could I possibly know whether the big men in golden helmets and tights would take the oblong ball across the field before being tackled by the big men in orange helmets! (These are important things in 2018.)

I realized that in a matter of minutes I would be thrust into the lifestyle millions of people enjoyed in the 1800s! The silence and lack of media connection was unnerving at first. It was then that I sensed the presence of God speaking to me about my addiction to noise. After 15 minutes I had rediscovered the beauty of silence. These days, silence is something we have to fight to achieve, but it is definitely worth the fight.  The National Center of Biotechnology stated in a study that two minutes of silence is more relaxing than listening to “relaxing” music, based on changes in blood pressure and blood circulation in the brain.

However, this is not new knowledge for people of the Book. The Bible urges us to experience silence as a spiritual discipline. Every day we are faced with the choice of constant communication, noise and blather or intentional, Jesus-focused silence. Don’t wait for a power outage in order to spend time in silence. God might be trying to tell you something but all the ambient noise and entertainment leaves you deaf to His voice. I believe we would be astounded by all God wants to say to us and yet He never gets a chance because of our preoccupation with news, messages, conversations and entertainment.

“The sole cause of man’s unhappiness is he does not know how to stay quietly in his room.” Blaise Pascal

Indeed, silence is something we must continually and actively seek. It’s not the default these days.The white noise of politics, entertainment, social media, viral videos, large crowds, streaming music, and binge-watched dramas clutter our minds and heighten our already over-stimulated minds. Meanwhile there is a whispering voice that speaks and yet is rarely heard,

The most powerful buttons in your home are the on/off ones.

The more we turn off the noise, the greater opportunity we have to hear from God. Most spend their lives watching fake people live fake lives on rectangular screens. It inhibits us living the real life God beckons us to live. Today, it takes discipline. Lots of discipline, but the pay-off is priceless.

Silence isn’t just golden, it is godly.

Annie Johnson Flint’s life declares the greatness of God in the midst of confusion and pain. She was orphaned as a baby. She lived in a home that bordered on poverty and spent her days as a caregiver to her adopted mother who suffered from a number of strokes. In midlife, she also fell ill and spent most of her remaining years crippled, bed-ridden, dealing with depression and suffering from chronic pain. How could God glorify Himself in all her unanswered prayers, suffering and depression?

While most would look at her life and ask this question, Annie focused on all God was doing in the midst of every challenge she faced. She didn’t hide her pain. Instead she chose to be an encouragement to the small community around her. Because of her faith, God gave grace to her. Believers have continued singing her testimony for well over 100 years. In one stanza, her life became a wellspring of encouragement to those who face adversity, pain and the anomaly of illness:

He giveth more grace when the burdens grow greater,
He sendeth more strength when the labors increase;
To added affliction He addeth His mercy;
To multiplied trials, His multiplied peace.

When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
When our strength has failed ere the day is half done,
When we reach the end of our hoarded resources,
Our Father’s full giving is only begun.

His love has no limit; His grace has no measure.
His pow’r has no boundary known unto men;
For out of His infinite riches in Jesus,
He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again!

So often, we’re enamored by success, security, beauty and prestige. Our economy is alien to the equity of Heaven. Our self-made narratives are houses of cards when they stray from the truthful, painful process of brokenness.

This doesn’t happen on the platform. It happens in the closet.

I think about Annie Flint’s life and I hear her song in the middle of my own questions about suffering. I must trust the same God Annie trusted. He is enough for today’s struggles and tomorrow’s crucibles. He was enough for her. He is enough for us.