There’s a jar that sits on Kelvin’s desk. It’s a plain old mason jar, the same kind the holds jams and jellies, jewelry and quarters, hard work and determination.
But that mason jar in front of Kelvin? It holds dreams. Prayers. Little scrolls of hope, tossed in there on a Tuesday afternoon when it’s raining outside and the gas tank is on empty and there is nothing in the fridge for dinner.
We both walk by that jar every day and think nothing of it. Kelvin spends hours in front of that jar, working, typing, conference-calling. He sits and he works in the presence of hallelujahs.
But we still walk by that jar every day and think nothing of it.
That jar holds the proof of answered prayers, over and over again.
That jar holds hope, in it’s sweetest and simplest form.
That jar tells me, tells you, that He is a good King. He is a good Father.
And that’s the thing that I forget. That we all forget. Probably every day. We look around and we see the bad and we see the ugly and we no longer see the little miracles. We fail to see all of the small but masterful workings of the King, because we’re too distracted by the mess.
We lose our faith. We lose our hope. And we don’t see our mason jar anymore.
There’s this song by NEEDTOBREATHE.
Last week, at Red Rocks, I watched 10,000 people stand in the setting sun and sing the lyrics, and all I could think of was that jar.
“God of mercy, sweet love of mine,
I have surrendered to Your design.
May this offering stretch across the skies,
And these hallelujahs be multiplied.”
I watched 10,000 lift their hands and close their eyes and raise their hearts. I watched them fill their jars.
I watched as they surrendered to His design.
Over the years, I’ve watch those tiny little messages, those tiny little prayers, make a bigger and bigger pile in my jar.
Testament to my own surrender to His design.
And every day, there’s this small part of me that doesn’t want to unfold those messages and read them again. A part that doesn’t want to be distracted by His consistency. A part that wants to hang on to the fear, the disillusionment, the anger.
Because when things are messy and ugly and hard it’s easier to blame the King than it is to acknowledge His faithfulness in the middle of it.
But it doesn’t work. Because even in the middle of the beautiful mess, I can still remember some of the prayers I’ve placed in that jar.
Peace for my dad.
Healing for my mom.
A baby for my sister.
A friend for me in Colorado.
A baby for a friend.
A proposal, a marriage.
Can I tell you something?
The King has delivered. On EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.
Those prayers? Those hopes?
He has turned them into hallelujahs.
Maybe He hasn’t done it in the way I wanted him to. Maybe He hasn’t done it in the amount of time I thought he should. But if the King did things the way we thought he should, than I’m not so sure he’d be the King anymore.
And that’s the whole point, isn’t it?
“God of mercy, sweet love of mine, I have surrendered to your design.”
And so that jar sits on our desk.
And I don’t walk by anymore. Not without seeing it for what it really is.
Those aren’t just prayers.
He said he would. And He will.