Devotional Writings

Small Wooden People

by Max Lucado

The Wemmicks were small wooden people. Each of the wooden people was carved by a woodworker named Eli. His workshop sat on a hill overlooking their village. Every Wemmick was different. Some had big noses, others had large eyes. Some were tall and others were short. Some wore hats, others wore coats. But all were made by the same carver and all lived in the village.

And all day, every day, the Wemmicks did the same thing: They gave each other stickers. Each Wemmick had a box of golden star stickers and a box of gray dot stickers. Up and down the streets all over the city, people could be seen sticking stars or dots on one another.

The pretty ones, those with smooth wood and fine paint, always got stars. But if the wood was rough or the paint chipped, the Wemmicks gave dots. The talented ones got stars, too. Some could lift big sticks high above their heads or jump over tall boxes. Still others knew big words or could sing very pretty songs. Everyone gave them stars.

Some Wemmicks had stars all over them! Every time they got a star it made them feel so good that they did something else and got another star. Others, though, could do little. They got dots.

Punchinello was one of these. He tried to jump high like the others, but he always fell. And when he fell, the others would gather around and give him dots. Sometimes when he fell, it would scar his wood, so the people would give him more dots. He would try to explain why he fell and say something silly, and the Wemmicks would give him more dots.

After a while he had so many dots that he didn't want to go outside. He was afraid he would do something dumb such as forget his hat or step in the water, and then people would give him another dot. In fact, he had so many gray dots that some people would come up and give him one without reason.

"He deserves lots of dots," the wooden people would agree with one another.

"He's not a good wooden person."

After a while Punchinello believed them. "I'm not a good wemmick," he would say. The few times he went outside, he hung around other Wemmicks who had a lot of dots. He felt better around them.

One day he met a Wemmick who was unlike any he'd ever met. She had no dots or stars. She was just wooden. Her name was Lulia.

It wasn't that people didn't try to give her stickers; it's just that the stickers didn't stick. Some admired Lulia for having no dots, so they would run up and give her a star. But it would fall off. Some would look down on her for having no stars, so they would give her a dot. But it wouldn't stay either.

"That's the way I want to be," thought Punchinello. "I don't want anyone's marks." So he asked the stickerless Wemmick how she did it.

"It's easy," Lulia replied. "every day I go see Eli."

"Eli?"

"Yes, Eli. The woodcarver. I sit in the workshop with him."

"Why?"

"Why don't you find out for yourself? Go up the hill. He's there. "

And with that the Wemmick with no marks turned and skipped away.

"But he won't want to see me!" Punchinello cried out.

Lulia didn't hear. So Punchinello went home. He sat near a window and watched the wooden people as they scurried around giving each other stars and dots.

"It's not right," he muttered to himself. And he resolved to go see Eli.

He walked up the narrow path to the top of the hill and stepped into the big shop. His wooden eyes widened at the size of everything. The stool was as tall as he was. He had to stretch on his tiptoes to see the top of the workbench. A hammer was as long as his arm. Punchinello swallowed hard.

"I'm not staying here!" and he turned to leave. Then he heard his name.

"Punchinello?" The voice was deep and strong.

Punchinello stopped.

"Punchinello! How good to see you. Come and let me have a look at you."

Punchinello turned slowly and looked at the large bearded craftsman.

"You know my name?" the little Wemmick asked.

"Of course I do. I made you."

Eli stooped down and picked him up and set him on the bench. "Hmm, " he spoke thoughtfully as he inspected the gray circles. "Looks like you've been given some bad marks."

"I didn't mean to, Eli. I really tried hard."

"Oh, you don't have to defend yourself to me. I don't care what the other Wemmicks think."

"You don't?"

"No, and you shouldn't either. Who are they to give stars or dots? They're Wemmicks just like you. What they think doesn't matter, Punchinello. All that matters is what I think. And I think you are pretty special."

Punchinello laughed. "Me, special? Why? I can't walk fast. I can't jump. My paint is peeling. Why do I matter to you?"

Eli looked at Punchinello, put his hands on those small wooden shoulders, and spoke very slowly. "Because you're mine. That's why you matter to me."

Punchinello had never had anyone look at him like this--much less his maker. He didn't know what to say.

"Every day I've been hoping you'd come," Eli explained.

"I came because I met someone who had no marks."

"I know. She told me about you."

"Why don't the stickers stay on her?"

"Because she has decided that what I think is more important than what they think. The stickers only stick if you let them."

"What?"

"The stickers only stick if they matter to you. The more you trust my love, the less you care about the stickers."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"You will, but it will take time. You've got a lot of marks. For now, just come to see me every day and let me remind you how much I care."

Eli lifted Punchinello off the bench and set him on the ground.

"Remember," Eli said as the Wemmick walked out the door. "You are special because I made you. And I don't make mistakes."

Punchinello didn't stop, but in his heart he thought, "I think he really means it."

And when he did, a dot fell to the ground.

THE ROOM

by Joshua Harris

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found
myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features
save for the one wall covered with small index card files.
They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author
or subject in alphabetical order.
But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and
seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different
headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to
catch my attention was one that read "Girls I Have Liked".
I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I
quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the
names written on each one.

And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.
This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog
system for my life. Here were written the actions of my
every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory
couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled
with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening
files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and
sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so
intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if
anyone was watching.

A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I
Have Betrayed". The titles ranged from the mundane to
the outright weird. "Books I Have Read", "Lies I Have
Told", "Comfort I Have Given", "Jokes I Have Laughed
At". Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things
I've Yelled at My Brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at:
"Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have
muttered Under My Breath at My Parents". I never
ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were
many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I
hoped.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had
lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my 16
years to write each of these thousands or even millions of
cards? But each card confirmed this truth.
Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with
my signature. When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I
Have Listened To", I realized the files grew to contain
their contents. The cards were packed tightly,
and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of
the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of
music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file
represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts", I felt a
chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch,
not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I
shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that
such a moment had been recorded.

An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought
dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards!
No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!"
In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't
matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I
took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I
could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and
pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I
tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot.
Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-
pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore "People I
Have Shared the Gospel With".

The handle was brighter than those around it, newer,
almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not
more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could
count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep
that the hurt started in my stomach and shook through me.
I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from
the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves
swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever
know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No,
please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I
watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read
the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in
the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I
saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to
intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read
every one?

Finally, He turned and looked at me from across the
room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was
a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered
my face with my hands and began to cry again.

He walked over and put His arm around me. He could
have said so many things. But He didn't say a word.
He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files.
Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and,
one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each
card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could
find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him.
His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was,
written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus
covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently
took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began
to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He
did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard
Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He
placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I
stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was
no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

The Blessing

Once there was a young boy who lived with his father in a cottage deep in the forest. His father worked him hard from sunrise to sunset and still almost every evening he would hear his father say the same thing: "Poor me! Poor me! I will die a sad old man because you are a fool and will never amount to anything."

But the boy was not a fool, in fact, he showed a lot of wisdom for his age, and he had a generous heart besides. One day, after helping an old widow stack some wood, he was about to go home when she stopped him and placing her hand on his head spoke these words: "You are a reflection of the face of God. The world is brighter for the joy you have given me this day. I bless you my child!"

The boy stepped back, amazed: "What was that?"

"Why, it was a blessing my child! Haven't you ever received a blessing before?"

Back at home he asked his father: "Papa? Why do you curse me? Why do you not bless me?"

"What a ridiculous question! Because it is against my nature to bless and I will not do what feels so unnatural to me.  What a ridiculous question. Poor me! Poor me! I will die a sad old man because you are a fool and will never amount to anything."

"Oh." said the boy, and he felt sorry for his father, but that night he decided that no matter how uncomfortable it felt, he would become the kind of person who blessed others. And so he did.

The boy grew to be a man, left the forest and built a home for himself out in the meadowlands. In time had a family of his own. He was still haunted by the curses of his father, and it would make him sad for days at a time, but he had decided to bless, so even though he felt sad, almost every evening, he would call one of his children to himself, lay his hand upon their head and speak these words: "You are a reflection of the face of God. The world is brighter for the joy you give me this day. I bless you my child."

One night he had a dream in which he saw his father and heard him saying over and over: "Poor me! Poor me! I will die a sad old man because you are a fool and will never amount to anything."

And it upset him so much he woke up, got out of bed, and went out into the backyard. He stood there by the trees in the moonlight and was so angry his hands became fists as he spoke out loud to the wind:  "What's the point in being someone who blesses? I'm still so haunted by these curses of my father! Well, maybe I should curse as well!"

And he kicked the ground as hard as he could which shook loose a stone.  He picked it up to throw and just then the wind became very strong and he thought he heard a voice:  "Do not discard your father's heart!" 

He looked at the trees and then at the rock in his hands. The voice called again:  "Do not discard your father's heart!"

"Who are you?" 

"I am the Father of every son and daughter and I tell you, the stone you hold in your hand is like the condition of your father's heart!" 

He looked at the rock. He could tell it was badly misshapen, that it had broken off from a larger rock and had many cracks and flaws within. 

And then again the voice:  "You can try to change this rock. You can press it until your fingers bleed, but you will not succeed in changing the rock! Neither will you succeed in changing the heart of your father by force or manipulation. Hold your father's heart gently within your own and pray for him. You have no idea what forces shaped this rock. Neither do you know the forces that shaped the heart of your father. Hold your father's heart gently within your own and pray for him." 

"When did his heart become like this?"

"When he chose to curse instead of bless. But do not become proud...Your heart would look just like this, if I had not blessed you as a child."

"I only remember the old woman."

"The voice was hers, but the words were mine." 

"Then why didn't you bless my father when he was a child?"

  "I bless every one of my children. But I never force them to bless in return. In eternity you will have no questions. For now, it is enough that you decide to bless and not curse. Hold your father's heart gently within your own, and pray for him"

"Father of every son and daughter, bless my father."

And as soon as he spoke these words, the wind died down and everything became peaceful in the countryside and in the heart of the young man. He went back inside, put the rock in a safe place, laid down and went right to sleep. He had the best night sleep he'd had for a long time. And from then on whenever he recalled one of the curses of his father, he genuinely prayed a blessing on his father, and in time began to experience true healing and a strong peace within.

One evening there was a knock on the front door and as he had raised his children to do, they welcomed in a blind beggar, sat him down at the kitchen table, and gave him some food to eat. The young man walked in and immediately recognized it was his own father. But he didn't reveal his own identity. He listened to the old man speak. And the old man talked about how his son had abandoned him, how he had lost his eyesight, and how he'd been forced to beg in a world where life was hard. Just then his son spoke up: "Grandfather! You're welcome to stay here with us!"

"But I have no money to pay you."

"Oh, we don't need any money; all we ask is that as long as you stay with us, you speak only blessings. -- What's the matter?"

"It...it’s against my nature to bless!"

"Grandfather, I can tell by your hands that you have worked your whole life. So, begging must be against your nature as well, but see, it has brought you here to us!"

The old man couldn't argue this point, so he agreed to stay, but it was weeks before he spoke a word - it was so against his nature to bless.  When he finally did, you could hardly hear him: "What's that Grandfather?"

"I said, bless you for taking an old man in from the cold. I wish my son had turned out like you, but he was a fool and..."

"Ah! Grandfather, only blessings!"

"Well, I wish my son had turned out like you! Bless you!"

Wasn't bad for a first blessing! And a week later he spoke another one and it was a little smoother. And the next day he spoke two - and they were a lot smoother. Then he began to bless every day -- many times in a day. He really got into it! You could say that blessing became – second nature to him.

And the more he blessed, the more he smiled. And the more he smiled the more his face softened. And the more his face softened, the more his heart softened and the more his heart softened, the more joy he began to experience; a different kind of joy than he had known before.

They lived happily for years until one winter the old man fell ill and was near death. As his breathing grew labored, his son sat on the bedside and asked: "Grandfather, is there anything I can get for you?"

"No one can bring me what I most need at this hour."

"Please Grandfather, anything! What would you like?"

"I should like to see my own son once more to give him my blessing. As he was growing I gave only curses. I told him it was against my nature to bless. And, as you can see, I have learned to bless too late..."

Then his son leaned closer and whispered: "Papa! Papa it’s me, your own son... I am here! It is not too late! God has seen fit to bring us together these last years...It's not too late! I'm here... I'm here!"

And they embraced. A moment later the old man straightened up, stretched out a trembling hand, laid it upon his son's head, and spoke these words: "You are a reflection of the face of God. Though I cannot see you with my eyes, I see you with my heart and the mercy you have shown me these past years is like a brilliant light, dispelling all shadow as I pass from time into eternity. I will die a happy, happy old man, because I have learned to bless and so...my son... I... bless you."

And with these words, his hand fell back down to his chest and he died with this beautiful smile on his face. Later that night the young man took the stone out of the place he had put it years before and he sat at the kitchen table by candlelight. Turning it over and over in his hands, a single tear fell onto the rock and it split in two. Inside was a priceless stone; smooth to the touch and sparkling in beauty. Just then the wind became very strong outside and he got up to close the shutter, but then again he heard the ancient voice: "Eternity shines brighter for the joy you bring me this day. And I bless you my child."

Then the wind died down and everything became peaceful in the countryside and in the heart of the young man.

What Father is Like

What really is God's attitude toward a Christian?

Most Christians have a warped view of God. We do not view Him as a loving, caring Father. Instead we believe in a God who is critical, punishing, or distant. These views of God come from family background, religious traditions that don't understand grace, or pre-Christian experiences with God. We need to allow God to reparent us in the true image of who He is.

The following "What is Father Like" Scriptures have been very helpful to many people in our church. The Word of God has a unique ability to go deep into our soul and transform our thinking. Print these Scriptures, read them once a day for 30 days, and let the Word of God reparent you into a new view of the Father.

Here is what Father is really like. Key phrases are highlighted in red. Jesus' words are used in some places, because Jesus said, "If you have seen me, you have seen the Father" (John 14:8-9):

Isaiah 54:10:
Though the mountains be shaken
and the hills be removed,
yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken
nor my covenant of peace be removed,”
says the LORD, who has compassion on you.

Matthew 7:11:
If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!

Matthew 11:28-30:
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

Mark 6:34:
When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd. So he began teaching them many things.

Luke 6:35b-36:
But love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back. Then your reward will be great, and you will be sons of the Most High, because he is kind to the ungrateful and wicked. Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.

Luke 15:20,22,23,31 (Parable of the Prodigal Son and the Loving Father):
So the son got up and went to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him. And the father said to his servants, "Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate." "My son," the father said, "you are always with me, and everything I have is yours."

Luke 18:7-8:
And will not God bring about justice for his chosen ones, who cry out to him day and night? Will he keep putting them off? No! I tell you, he will see that they get justice, and quickly.

John 14:18:
I will not leave you as orphans, I will come to you.

John 16:27:
Jesus said, "The Father Himself loves you because you have loved me and have believed that I came from God."

Romans 8:15
For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.”

Romans 8:32:
God who did not spare his own Son, but gave Him up for us all—how will the Father not also, along with Christ, graciously give us all things?

Romans 8:38-39
For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 15:7
Accept one another, then, just as Christ has accepted you, in order to bring praise to God.

Galatians 3:26:
You are all sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus.

Galatians 4:4-7:
But when the time had fully come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under law, to redeem those under law, that we might receive the full rights of sons. Because you are sons, God sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, the Spirit who calls out, “Abba, Father.” So you are no longer a slave, but a son; and since you are a son, God has made you also an heir.

Ephesians 1:4-8:
For the Father chose us in Christ before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in His sight. ...