Down through the centuries, the Savior has repeatedly lifted the fallen from the holes they've dug for themselves one shovel scoop at a time. After His grand rescue, the Redeemer does not always seal that hole shut behind us. He does not force us into relationship or bully us into repentance. Instead, He leaves us with a choice: follow Me or fall again.

Scholars seem to agree that Jesus drove a Honda, but he didn’t talk about it publicly. “For I did not speak of my own Accord” (John 12:49, NIV). So there you have it: a Honda. I don’t know exactly who first made this startling discovery, but I learned about it on the Internet, so it must be true.

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Some time ago, I committed a quote by Amy Carmichael to memory: “If the praise of man elates me and his blame depresses me; if I cannot rest under misunderstanding without defending myself; if I love to be loved more than to love . . . then I know nothing of Calvary love.”1

He isn’t growing us into superstars; he’s growing us into servants. Growing Slow is a school of patience in which we are nurtured into spiritual maturity. Growing Slow is a daily choice to see where God is already working and then the conscious decision to join him there. Sometimes it’s heavy and it’s hard and the rain won’t let up for a second. But instead of running from the rain, you need to step right out in it, letting it wash your eyes so you aren’t blind to the beauty that’s still here. And it is. It’s still here.

My prayer regimen is a small act of surrender, a practical way to deliberately pull my gaze from myself to my Savior — a lesson I learned years earlier on long car rides to news assignments but have now begun to put into daily practice. Eyes cannot look in two different directions. I want mine on Jesus — not on yesterday’s failures or successes, not on today’s agenda, and definitely not on the world’s scorecards.

People in Haiti eat dirt because it gives their starving bodies a false sense of satisfaction. But mud pies don't fill. They merely mask real hunger. [...] I saw the mud pies as a metaphor for the life of any Christian who has ever looked to something or someone other than God for fulfillment.