October 31, 2013

A Choosy Beggar

He sat by the sidewalk, dark leathery hands outstretched.
"Help me get a meal?" he asked us as we passed. So we turned, and we offered him the hearty remains of our recent lunch. His eyes fell on our gift, and his face fell as well. "No thanks," he said, backing away, "I don't like that kind of food. It just doesn't agree with me."

Half relieved we'd get to keep our food, half indignant that he'd dare turn it away, we walked on. Judgment seared across my heart. Beggars can't be choosers. I guess he wasn't very hungry, after all. 

I am the beggar. I extend my empty hands, pleading for more of God's presence in my life. When His own hands open to pour out His gifts, I balk at them. "No thanks, Father. I don't like that discomfort. I don't like this sickness or loneliness or season of waiting. I will not praise You for the mundane, the dead-end job,  the less-than-ideal. It just doesn't agree with me."

I push against what He offers— not leftovers to fill the belly, but sovereignly crafted means to fill me with more of Himself. I guess I didn't want His power in my life much after all.

Oh that I would graciously allow His strength to be magnified in my weakness.1 That I would learn to accept His mercies in every form, rejoicing that "He whose heart is kind beyond all measure gives unto each day what He deems best."2

Lord, help me not to be a choosy beggar.

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