A few weeks ago at a men’s bible study, the guys around my table were sharing prayer requests. One of the guys at my table, I’ll call him Tom, said, “I just want to be in deeper communion with Christ.” He had been paying attention to Sunday morning preaching, in which the pastor had encouraged everyone, no matter where we were in our walk with Christ, to take a step deeper. Tom has been a believer for a long time, teaches our men’s group, and has a daily devotional discipline.
So I asked, “What do you mean by that?” (BTW, that’s always a good first response. Get them to tell more of the story.)
Tom replied, “I want a deeper connection. I want a conscious connection with the Lord all day long. I read and pray in the morning, and then I get to work, not really thinking much about him. I want to do better.”
That’s a noble goal. But is it possible? Is it possible to consciously have God on the front burner of your heart, mind and soul twenty-four seven? Isn’t what monks attempted to do? Didn’t they removed themselves from all worldly distractions so that they could pray throughout their waking hours?
Well, I’ll tell you right now, I can’t do it. And neither can you. And that’s okay. Really it is. Let me explain why.
Let’s use the model of sheep and a shepherd. The sheep know the voice of the shepherd and follow him. They follow him to pasture, to water, and back to the sheep pen before evening. In the meantime, they eat. They bleat. They wander around the pasture. They make lambs. And through it all, I’ll bet they don’t think much about the shepherd.
But the shepherd thinks about them. The shepherd leads them, watches them, and protects them. He’s the shepherd. That’s his job. And if he’s doing his job, then the sheep can be…sheep.
Get it? If God is on duty twenty-four seven, if God never slumbers nor sleeps, if the Lord is our shepherd, then we can be his sheep. We can trust him so deeply that we can eat, drink, and enjoy our work without a care in the world. (Ecclesiastes 5:18).
You know what? That’s deep.




Today would probably be my last visit. The last time I saw J. he didn’t look too bad. He had lost some weight, had lost some strength and had to use a walker. The cancer was there, but he didn’t purse treatment. He’d had ninety-one good years, fifty-five of them with an amazing wife. A life well-lived.
The call came pretty late last night, about 10:45. I was driving, and felt my phone buzz in my pocked, but didn’t listen to the message until after I got home. “She said she thinks he’s dying.” I only live about a mile away and I didn’t want them to be alone, so I headed over to the apartment.