Saturday, April 22, 2017


“You have put more joy in my heart
than they have when then their grain and wine abound.
In peace I will both lie down and sleep;
for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.” —Psalm 4:7–8

“For I have been crucified with Christ, and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me. And the life I live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, Who loved me and gave Himself up for me.”—Galatians 2:20

What grace you’ve given me all my life, O Lord, and what delight you’ve made me enjoy in your presence. There’s nothing else I can wish for, no other thing I desire. I am grateful—eternally, most of all, for all the things that you’ve done for me, for showing me who you are.

You know my innermost thoughts, my restlessness—and you know all too well that, if left on my own devices, I will never turn to you. But you sought me ought, and you found me, and you’ve never let me go.

What a story it is to tell the world, and if every life is, in fact, a story, then mine would have you as the centerpiece around which everything resolves. May it always be, O Lord, that you will always occupy the throne of my heart—not my family, my ambitions, my worldly desires. May I behold you so dearly that the entire world—no, the entire universe—pales in comparison to you.

Remove from me the vanity of the world. Restore to me the joy of your salvation daily, and help me be cloaked with humility, because I am a truly proud man. My pride manifests in so many ways—in my irritations, my unholy thoughts, my wicked actions, my feelings that I deserve more than what I have. But I look to Christ, who left everything and became man, and when he was a little past 30—around my age—bore my sins, accepted your wrath, and died the most brutal death imaginable on that wooden cross. May I be reminded of this daily—the cross, your suffering, your death, your life.

Take good care of my family. Give more good years to my parents and provide for my brothers. Bless the church, and nourish it with your Word. Show my friends the way of your salvation so they will know you, too. Heal my patients, and comfort them.

And may this be the narrative of my life: that I’ve lived—and will joyfully live—my next remaining, most fruitful years, for you.


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