A 10 foot piece of pine, almost 2 inches thick by 8 inches wide, lay diagonally across the edge of the fenced in yard, wide side lying half against the grass, half anchoring the edge of a triangular piece of landscape material. Killing the grass in preparation for planting a garden spot, the broad board had been exposed to the elements for weeks, judging from its out of sync dimensions. One long edge lifted up and twisted, as if reaching for the sun. The other edge curled under, almost buried in the black fabric. Once a light brown, it was now a dry gray.

As I walked by, I imagined it speaking to me: "Do you see me lying here, all dry and twisted? I know I need to be out here by myself, but I’d have much preferred to be part of a grand building! A school, where children could learn of God’s great world. Or a home, where I’d have supported the load of the roof above a wide window. Or a church, where I could have been part of the roof rafters soaring to the sky! If I’d been tied into other rafters and studs, I’d be straight and true and, all covered up, I’d still be a virgin brown. I’m sad, here in the grass, alone in the sun. But thanks for noticing me. Maybe God will do something with me yet."

Father, you use all of us, even those of us who feel isolated, warped, and dried out. Thank you for your great creativity.

I’m not a jogger. And yet, in Wheaton a few weeks ago, I walked among them. At a conference at Wheaton College, I took my early morning walk just northeast of downtown, among many splendid homes. Enjoying the unusual shrubbery around one such house, I heard a voice behind me: "on your right." A bit startled, I felt the rush of wind as a jogger, blonde pony-tail swinging, swept by. I stepped up my pace a bit. I’m in the company of joggers, I am! In this high class college town!

The experience reinforced a key motif in my life: How did I get so far? When I couldn’t get up on the rings in high school gym class, my mother said I was a "physical flop." I never played softball or any other sport. The one time I played a bit of pick-up football, I nearly broke my neck. And yet, here I am, in the early morning, among homes designed by architects, walking among athletes.

When God gets hold of our lives, we often find ourselves in places we never thought we’d be. We have a child when never thought we’d want to. We find joy in our single life, even though we’d expected to be a couple. We rest in a deep peace because we see how far Jesus has brought us and we trust him to take us home.

Jesus, we need your peace, ever more deeply in our lives. Bring us to the places you want for us, places of joy and hope and faith.

Walking in an upscale neighborhood, I rounded a corner to see a house under construction. Across the street was an elegant federal design brick house, with large elms surrounded by hostas and lilies. Next door was a stucco and half-timbered chalet enhanced by an arbor festooned with clematis. The undone house sat on a corner expanse of beige clay. The bare landscape, littered with pieces of house-wrap and stacks of grayed wood, looked like an unmade bed in Martha Stewart’s house. I wondered how the "Marthas" of the neighborhood felt. Were they patient with the process of building, even though it seemed to be taking longer than usual? Did they silently mutter to themselves as they passed the eyesore on their way to the city to work? Or had they banded together to file a lawsuit to force completion–no unmade beds in their houses!

Then I thought of the people I knew whose lives are "under construction." Those who falter at the social graces, who dress oddly, or who struggle with anxiety or depression. Am I patient with them, even though they take longer than I think they should to "get it together?" We all take the time it takes to get ourselves together. Some of us never get as "together" as we hope. Do we mutter to ourselves about that person who irritates us with chatter? Worse, do we band together to ostracize him?

Where do we find grace and compassion for the "undone" people among us?

Jesus, you specially sought out those who were on the fringes of society. Please give us your compassion.