A Little Bit of Hangin'

This morning I got up to go work out. I planned on running on the elliptical, but by the time I got inside, all the machines were taken. I had brought a book inside with me, just in case, so I headed to the stationary bikes instead. While I was biking I was able to finish Max Lucado's God Came Near and wanted to share from a chapter that really struck me.

The chapter was titled "A Little Bit of Hangin'" and referred to a story about Abraham Lincoln. The president had pardoned a soldier who had been sentenced to hang for committing treason. Although the president let the man live, Lincoln told the man's mother, "I wish we could teach him a lesson. I wish we could give him just a little bit of hangin'."

Lucado went on to share how he himself experienced "just a little bit of hangin'" when his 2 year-old daughter fell into a friend's pool and almost drowned. That afternoon he realized how something (or in this case someone) so precious to him could be taken away so quickly. I could try to summarize what Lucado said he learned that day, but I wouldn't do nearly as good of job as he did. So I will just let him tell you himself.

Here's what Lucado wrote:

The stool was kicked out from under my feet and the rope jerked around my neck just long enough to remind me of what really matters. It was a divine slap, a gracious knock on the head, a severe mercy. Because of it I came face to face with one of the underground's slyest agents -- the agent of familiarity.

His commission from the black throne room is clear, and fatal: 'Take nothing from your victim; cause him only to take everything for granted.'

He'd been on my trail for years and I never knew it. But I know it now. I've come to recognize his tactics and detect his presence. And I'm doing my best to keep him out. His aim is deadly.His goal is nothing less than to take what is most precious to us and make it appear most common.

To say that this agent of familiarity breed contempt is to let him off easy. Contempt is just one of his offspring. He also sires broken hearts, wasted hours, and an insatiable desire for more. He's an expert in robbing the sparkle and replacing it with the drab. He invented the yawn and put the hum in the humdrum. And his strategy is deceptive.

He won't steal your salvation; he'll just make you forget what it was like to be lost. You'll grow accustomed to prayer and thereby not pray. Worship will become commonplace and study optional. With the passing of time he'll infiltrate your heart with boredom and cover the cross with dust so you'll be safely out of reach of change. Score one for the agent of familiarity.

Nor will he steal your home from you; he'll do something far worse. He'll paint it with a familiar coat of drabness.

He'll replace evening gowns with bathrobes, nights on the town with evenings in the recliner, and romance with routine. He'll scatter the dust of yesterday over wedding pictures in the hallway until they become a memory of another couple in another time.

He won't take your children, he'll just make you too busy to notice them. His whispers to procrastinate are seductive. There is always next summer to coach the team, next month to go to the lake, and next week to teach Johnny how to pray. He'll make you forget that the faces around the table will soon be at tables of their own. Hence, books will go unread, games will go unplayed, hearts will go unnutured, and opportunities will go ignored. All because the poison of the ordinary has deadened your senses to the magic of the moment.

Before you know it, the little face that brought tears to your eyes in the delivery room has become -- perish the thought -- common. A common kid sitting in the back seat of your van as you whiz down the fast lane of life. Unless something changes, unless someone wakes you up, that common kid will become a common stranger.

A little bit of hangin' might do us all a bit of good.

I feel like I have experienced "a little bit of hangin'" lately, and though it's been painful, I know that God has helped me, like He did with Max Lucado, appreciate life all the more. Somehow I love Lawrence and Coralyn even more; they are just a bit more precious. Little things like giggles and singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" and reading Goodnight Moon for the hundredth time aren't so little any more. Everyday routine things like making breakfast and cleaning up one mess after another and writing an email to a friend aren't so mundane now. Special things like sledding down a hill or making snowman bread are even more extraordinary. I am learning not to take life for granted, but to make the most of every single day.