There's a Peanuts strip where Lucy and Linus have just finished a chicken dinner, and Lucy is explaining the wishbone.

"This is a wishbone, Linus. We both make our wishes and then pull it apart. Whoever breaks off the biggest part gets his wish."

"Do we wish out loud?" Linus asks.

"Of course we wish out loud. If you don't wish out loud, the wish-answerer won't know what to bring you."

Lucy goes first. "I wish for a new doll, a new bicycle, four new sweaters, some new saddle shoes, a wristwatch, and about one hundred dollars."

Then it's Linus's turn. "I wish for long life for all my friends. I wish for peace in the world. I wish for great advancement in the fields of science and medicine, and…"

By then Lucy is throwing the wishbone away in disgust. "You seem to have a knack for spoiling everything!"

I suspect most of us have a little Lucy and a little Linus in us.

And if we're honest, a lot of our praying sounds more like Lucy. We wish out loud, so the wish-answerer will know what to bring us. A list.

It's worth noticing how Jesus taught us to pray: "Our Father in heaven… Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors." (Matthew 6:9, 11–12)

Our. Us. We. There isn't a single "I" or "me" in the whole prayer. Even when we ask for bread, we're asking for everyone's.

That's the Linus way of praying. And maybe Lucy is right. It does have a knack for spoiling things.

It spoils our small wishes by making our hearts bigger.

Who belongs in your "us" today?

Prayer: Loving God, you know how often we come to you with our lists. Thank you for hearing us anyway. Enlarge our hearts. Teach us to pray the way Jesus prayed: for our friends, for our neighbors, for a world that needs your peace. And give us the mind of Christ, who looked not to his own interests, but to ours. Amen.

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In her biography of Leonardo da Vinci, Antonina Vallentin tells about the years he spent painting The Last Supper on the wall of a monastery in Milan.

Apparently, da Vinci spent many hours just sitting in front of that wall. Not painting. Just looking. Thinking. Praying, maybe.

Some of the monks noticed, and they began to resent what they called his "idle periods." They accused him of wasting time.

Leonardo's answer? "When I pause the longest, I make the most telling strokes with my brush."

I think we could learn something from that. So many of us rush from one thing to the next. And when we do stop, we fill every empty moment with a screen.

Early in Mark's gospel, Jesus spends an entire evening healing the sick. The whole town is crowded around the door. Then Mark tells us, "In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed." (Mark 1:35)

It doesn't take long for his disciples to come hunting for him. "Everyone is searching for you!" they say.

In other words… you're wasting time.

Today I pray that God give you the grace to pause. 

May you find, in the stillness, the presence of the One who gives you life. 

And when you return to your work, may your stokes be more telling, your vision clearer, and your life more fully rooted in grace.

Prayer: God of grace, in our busy days, lead us to time apart. Time to rest. Time to be still. Time to renew our souls in your presence. And through that time, bring us healing, new insight, and restored life. Amen.

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Years ago, the English writer Rupert Sheldrake was asked what single change he would recommend for the new millennium, one change that could make a difference in the world. His answer: every tourist should become a pilgrim.

I've thought about that a lot. Some of the world's most beautiful and historic places are being overrun. We're loving them to death.

Not long ago, we had the privilege of visiting our daughter, who's living in Japan. It was an amazing trip. But in hindsight, I know I didn't always get it right. There were plenty of times I was the obnoxious tourist. Chasing the perfect picture. Not speaking the language. Even driving on the wrong side of the road… once. Maybe twice.

And I found myself wondering: Are you a tourist, Joe, or a pilgrim?

So what's the difference?

Maybe it's this. A tourist passes through a place. A pilgrim lets the place pass through them. A tourist looks at the people. A pilgrim meets them, with reverence and respect. And a pilgrim travels expecting that God will show up, not only at the destination, but all along the way.

The psalmist wrote, "Happy are those whose strength is in you, in whose heart are the highways to Zion." (Psalm 84:5)

In whose heart.

You don't need a plane ticket to be a pilgrim. Just a certain kind of heart. The drive to work. The grocery store. The waiting room. The people you'll meet today.

May you and I walk through this life as pilgrims rather than tourists. And, may our eyes and hearts be attuned to Christ deep within all that has being.

Let us pray: God of all creation, grant us grace that we might approach life with awe and reverence. Create in us an expectation of meeting you in the wider world—in culture, in landscape, and in people. And as we glimpse your presence, as we see your hand at work, may we give thanks and praise. In Christ’s name, we pray. Amen.

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In Will Daylight Come?, Richard Hoefler tells about a young boy named Johnny who was visiting his grandparents. They gave him a slingshot, and he spent the morning practicing in the woods, but he couldn't hit a thing.

On his way back to the house, he spotted Grandma's pet duck. On an impulse, he took aim and let the rock fly. For the first time all day, he hit his target. The duck fell dead.

Johnny panicked. He hid the duck in the woodpile—and then looked up to see his sister Sally watching. She had seen it all. But she said nothing.

After lunch, Grandma said, "Sally, let's wash the dishes." And Sally said, "Johnny told me he wanted to help in the kitchen today. Didn't you, Johnny?" Then she leaned over and whispered, "Remember the duck!" So Johnny did the dishes.

Later, Grandpa asked if the children wanted to go fishing. Grandma said, "I'm sorry, but I need Sally to help make supper." Sally smiled. "That's all taken care of. Johnny wants to do it." And again she whispered, "Remember the duck." So Sally went fishing, and Johnny stayed home.

After several days of doing his chores and Sally's, Johnny couldn't stand it anymore. He went to Grandma and confessed that he had killed the duck.

"I know, Johnny," she said, and she gave him a hug. "I was standing at the window and saw the whole thing. Because I love you, I forgave you. I just wondered how long you would let Sally make a slave of you."

Now, Sally sounds like she belongs in the mafia! But there's something true in this story.

Sometimes we let our past make slaves of us. We carry old guilt around for years. We let it boss us, shame us, even define us. And somewhere inside, a voice keeps whispering, "Remember the duck."

But notice whose voice that is. It isn't Grandma's. She saw everything from the window. She had already forgiven him. All that time, Johnny was working off a debt that had already been paid.

Paul put it this way: "There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus." (Romans 8:1)

No condemnation. Not after you've done enough dishes. Now.

Maybe there's something from your past that you've been carrying for far too long. Something you've confessed. Something you've made amends for. Something God has already forgiven… but you haven't quite forgiven yourself.

You don't have to keep paying a debt that Christ has already paid.

Prayer: Gracious God, you have seen it all, and you love us still. We bring you our past mistakes and failures. Silence the voices that keep us bound. Help us receive your forgiveness, make amends where we can, and rest free in your grace. Amen.

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In one Calvin and Hobbes strip, Calvin walks into the living room, where his dad is sitting in his chair, reading.

"I've concluded that nothing bad I do is my fault."

"Oh?" says Dad.

"Right! Being young and impressionable, I'm the helpless victim of countless bad influences! An unwholesome culture panders to my undeveloped values and pushes me to malfeasance. I take no responsibility for my behavior! I'm an innocent pawn! It's society's fault!"

Dad is totally unimpressed. "Then you need to build more character. Go shovel the walk."

In the last panel, Calvin is out shoveling snow. "These discussions never go where they're supposed to go."

Like Calvin, when things fall apart, most of us are tempted to look for someone else to blame. I catch myself doing it all the time.

It's as old as the garden. When God asks Adam what happened, Adam points at Eve: "The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me fruit from the tree, and I ate." (Genesis 3:12) Notice he manages to blame God, too. Then Eve blames the serpent.

But just a moment before that, Adam tells us why. He was afraid. So he hid.

That's what blame is, most of the time. Fear. If it's my fault, then I'm exposed. So we hide. And we point.

But notice what God does. Before anyone points a finger, God comes walking in the garden, calling out, "Where are you?" And before it's all over, God makes clothes for Adam and Eve and dresses them himself.

That's grace.

And it means we don't need Calvin's defense. We can tell the truth about ourselves, because the One we're telling has already come looking for us.

What might you be free to own today?

Prayer: Gracious God, when we're afraid, we hide, and we point fingers. Come looking for us anyway. Give us the courage to tell the truth about ourselves, and the grace to know we are forgiven. Where we have hurt others, help us make it right. And in the midst of life's joys and troubles, let us know without a doubt that you are with us, and that you are faithful. Amen.

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