Why do we gather to sing week after week, and why should we sing even more? God has saved his people, and all of creation joins in exulting in him.

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Paul’s supernatural gratitude came from his wholehearted love for God and his work among the Corinthian church. How can we become thankful like him?

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Imagine stopping a stranger, man or woman, on the street to ask, “How would you define modesty?” Chances are, their conception begins and ends with clothing: “Clothing that isn’t too showy.” “Not wearing tight, revealing clothing.” “More clothing, less skin.” The laundry list goes on, with clothing written all over it.

Now imagine querying a believer. Does Christian modesty center on necklines and dress length? Do words like showy, tight, revealing, and skin fill our definition? Certainly, when it comes to biblical modesty, clothing matters. Proverbs, Paul, and Peter make as much plain. But so too does Scripture spell out why clothing matters.

Clothing isn’t the beginning and end of biblical modesty. Rather, clothing is a sign of biblical modesty. Consider how, in each of the following resources, what we wear points to the posture of what is “very precious” in God’s sight: our hearts (1 Peter 3:4).

In this 2016 interview, John Piper takes a question on how pastors can encourage modest clothing at the pool. Amazingly, Piper doesn’t so much as mention swimsuits in his answer — not even once. Why not?

Piper argues that while rules have a place in the Christian life, they cannot be the starting place. We want our churches to swim with saints who joyfully, freely dress modestly at the pool and everywhere else. More and better restrictions don’t create such a people. Whole-Bible, Christ-exalting teaching does. By the Spirit’s power, such teaching does more than remodel the closet. It strengthens the soul.

Until Scripture (not society) is our counselor and God (not sin) is our treasure, modest dress either won’t matter to us or will matter for the wrong reasons. Our hearts must cry, “Heeding you, honoring you, serving my neighbor above myself — all these are far better than looking good, than getting attention, than asserting my will!” Only then will our hands grab for particular hangers, and do so happily. By God’s design, God-centered preaching has the power to create this joy in ways “Thou shalt not wear” cannot.

Piper ends by exhorting pastors to work with church staff, ministry leaders, and parents to create a culture of modesty. Together, they can best promote the countercultural sense that modest is synonymous with beautiful. Leave the world to snub a modest wardrobe as “frumpy.” Christians know what the Creator of this world says. And his word is truth (John 17:17).

In this 2021 article, Mary A. Kassian opens with a teenage tale of seventies-style “hotpants,” extremely short shorts often crafted from velvet or satin. When she came home with her first pair — elated over her fluorescent, flowery, fabulous purchase — her parents put a quick stop to her enthusiasm. The trend lacked modesty. Kassian reports “bristling” at the word.

As she bristled, she also wondered why modesty seemed mostly a woman’s matter, and a matter of women’s clothing. Citing how visually stimulated men tend to be, churches can reduce modesty to the temptation-less closet. Of course, Kassian says, the Bible does instruct women to dress modestly (1 Timothy 2:9–10). But that instruction lacks an itemized list of “Wear this” and “Don’t wear that.” So, what happens when we focus modesty on feminine clothing items? What do we miss?

Men, for one. In 1 Timothy 2:9, Paul uses the Greek word kosmios to describe how a godly woman presents herself: She appears “modest” or “respectable.” But in the very next chapter, Paul likewise wields the word kosmios to instruct elders: They must be “respectable” or “of good behavior” (1 Timothy 3:2 NKJV). Clearly, God cares that all his people — women and men — exhibit modesty.

Modesty-as-a-woman’s-wardrobe excludes men, and Kassian says it neglects the heart of biblical modesty: the heart. Do we see our small, sin-stained selves properly before our great, holy, and gracious God? Then we will bow reverently, modestly before him. We will boast in him — not in our status, not in our wealth, not in our clothes. All that we are and all that we have is a gift (1 Corinthians 4:7). The megaphone belongs to his excellencies, the fullness of which we find in Christ (Colossians 1:19). Modesty says, “Him we proclaim” (Colossians 1:28).

Such reverent, heart-level modesty will also speak in its clothing choices. But as Kassian warns, Christians must still root our discussion of what (and what not) to wear in spiritual realities. To this end, she ends the article with three poignant questions to ask of our heart as we consider our dress.

In my 2024 article, I also encourage Christians to ask questions regarding modesty — answerable questions. Too often, we try to distinguish modest from immodest dress by asking, “Would it be wrong if I wore this?” But pose that question to a biblical author, and you’ll get little response. As we’ve already seen, specific wardrobe regulations are few and far between in Scripture. Now, wisdom principles — wisdom principles abound.

Rather than thumbing through racks (rather hopelessly) repeating, “Is this wrong?” we can ask a wiser question of our clothing: “Is it helpful?” Will donning this shirt or those pants profit my faith, or will the outfit make me fidget for glances and compliments? Likewise, do others benefit from the clothes I tend toward, or might I needlessly stir up envy and lust? Depending on our context — our past, our personality, our temptations — our answers will differ. But so long as we are honest with ourselves, answers there are.

And glory to God and joy there will be, for the modest heart that presents itself in modest dress.

What will God weigh on judgment day? John Piper opens Romans 1:28–2:11 to show that our deeds reveal whether we belong to Christ.

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Growing up in a nominally Christian household, I caught my first glimpse of the gospel reading The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. At seven years old, I lay belly-down on my pink shag carpet, breathless as Aslan saved Eustace Scrubb from his dragonish form. I wasn’t raised in the church, so I had no language for the gospel truth C.S. Lewis portrayed in that scene, but I knew I had read something wondrous.

Thereafter, I delighted in weaving stories. Dreaming up faraway lands exhilarated me, and I relished how words could bristle with sharp edges or flow as smoothly as water. Most of all, through writing I strived to capture that elusive joy I’d first experienced in Narnia.

Then I grew up — and dove into the world of statistics and vital signs, laboratory values and chemical pathways. During medical school, when exhaustion seeped into my bones, I’d sometimes let my mind wander to magical places, but in short order the next patient would arrive in the emergency room. With a snap of my white coat, I’d brush away fantasy and focus on the real world. Perhaps you, too, have set aside whimsical stories for the more pressing demands of adulthood.

I only remembered my daydreams again — and learned to cherish and steward them — when my son and I journeyed through Middle-earth.

The Return of the King

When the COVID pandemic struck in 2020, my seven-year-old son struggled with questions about God. Every time I donned scrubs for a night shift, he worried I’d return home sick with the virus. “Why would God allow this to happen?” he’d ask. “Is God even real?”

To guide him, my husband and I walked him through studies of Job and John 11, meditating on God’s faithfulness in suffering. Gradually, Scripture took hold and brought him back into the light. And then a reading of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Return of the King brought these truths into brilliant relief.

One night before I drove to the hospital, my son and I read about the siege of Minas Tirith. Enemy forces swarmed the battlements of the free people. Gloom and despair hung about the fortress like a fog. All seemed desolate, lost, hopeless.

Then the Riders of Rohan galloped down the plains to liberate their kinsmen, and the scene changed: “for morning came, morning and a wind from the sea; and darkness was removed” (The Lord of the Rings, 838). Tears misted my son’s eyes, and we talked about how we too had assurance of the morning. Although 2020 appeared bleak, our Savior would return. Dawn would break. And Jesus would make all things new (Revelation 21:5).

As I drove along the highway afterward, a long-forgotten doorway — a wardrobe — opened in my mind. I finally understood the wonder I had experienced that day on my pink shag carpet. My wanderings through Narnia had given me my first glimpse of the gospel, and my son’s journey through Middle-earth had sharpened his vision of heaven.

Suddenly, stories didn’t seem frivolous anymore.

Glimpses of the Gospel

Beyond offering mere childish entertainment, stories shape minds and hearts, linger in the imagination, and depict virtues that we can grasp, savor, and turn in our hands. In fact, Tolkien, the father of modern fantasy literature, believed that the best stories thrill us because they resonate with gospel truth. In a conversation with Lewis one evening while they strolled through Oxford, Tolkien compared stories to prisms: Just as a prism splits a beam of white light into its separate wavelengths, so also stories reflect fragments of divine truth. In his biography, Humphrey Carpenter summarizes Tolkien’s thinking:

Just as speech is invention about objects and ideas, so myth is invention about truth. We have come from God, and inevitably the myths woven by us, though they contain error, will also reflect a splintered fragment of the true light, the eternal truth that is with God. Indeed, only by myth-making, only by becoming a “sub-creator” and inventing stories, can Man aspire to the state of perfection that he knew before the Fall. (J.R.R. Tolkien: A Biography, 151)

Myths, Tolkien argues in his essay On Fairy-Stories, delight us because they echo elements of the gospel. “The peculiar quality of ‘joy’ in successful Fantasy can be explained by a sudden glimpse of the underlying reality or truth. . . . It may be a far-off gleam or echo of evangelium in the real world” (77–78). He further describes Christ’s resurrection as the ultimate “eucatastrophe,” or happy ending, toward which all great stories point:

The Birth of Christ is the eucatastrophe of Man’s history. The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation. This story begins and ends in joy. . . . There is no tale ever told that men would rather find was true, and none which so many skeptical men have accepted as true on its own merits. (78)

In other words, good stories enthrall us because they point us to the ultimate happy ending. As the Author of life, God is the storyteller who has penned the most magnificent tale of all time: the story of a fallen, broken world; a fallen, hopeless people; and the astonishing Savior who laid down his life for them. Because we are his image-bearers, we have the ability to weave stories so that others might see reflections of him in each happy ending.

Created to Create

This is good news for grown-ups caught daydreaming. Although we may dismiss them as juvenile amusements, our daydreams can be the earliest seeds of God-honoring stories. In fact, the loveliest stories often originate from the godly stewardship of images that burst into the imagination. Take Lewis for example:

All my seven Narnian books . . . began with seeing pictures in my head. At first they were not a story, just pictures. The Lion all began with a picture of a Faun carrying an umbrella and parcels in a snowy wood. . . . At first I had very little idea how the story would go. But then suddenly Aslan came bounding into it. (Of Other Worlds, 42)

Similarly, Andrew Peterson’s The Wingfeather Saga began with a sketch of a map. And Tolkien’s The Hobbit sprang to life from a single sentence that interrupted his thoughts as he graded papers: “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.”

I experienced something similar the night my son and I read about the Riders of Rohan. At three o’clock in the morning, as ventilators sighed throughout the ICU, a picture of a dragon with its head in a Crock-Pot full of chili popped into my thoughts. After rounds, when all the patients were stable, I sat down with a piece of printer paper and a pen. Nine months later, those scribblings morphed into the first book of The Dream Keeper Saga.

Rather than distractions to stuff away, our daydreams can be instruments in God’s glorious hands. Because God made us in his image (Genesis 1:26), our hearts pulse with an urge to create. Singer and songwriter Michael Card explains, “We are driven to create at this deep wordless level of the soul because we are all fashioned in the image of a God who is an Artist” (Scribbling in the Sand, 39). John Piper, too, reflects on this calling:

Imagination may be the hardest work of the human mind. And perhaps the most God-like. It is the closest we get to creation out of nothing. . . . The imagination must exert itself to see it in the mind when it is not there. We must create word combinations, and music, and visual forms that have never existed before. All of this we do because we are like God and because he is infinitely worthy of ever-new verbal, musical, and visual expressions.

Dear Daydreamer

How do we take up this calling to create for God’s glory? How do we steward the images, words, and music tumbling through our minds when deadlines, taxes, spilled bottles, and a plethora of other responsibilities require our attention?

Dear daydreamer, when your imagination meanders through new realms, take heart. When you translate what you see and what you imagine into words on a page, you’re not wasting time — you’re participating in God’s workmanship. When you chase after the images in your mind and pull from them lovely shadows, you’re tapping into a gift that only the Creator can give.

So, pay your taxes. Meet your deadlines. Clean up the spill on the floor. But then take up a pen, call to mind dragons and lions, and allow the story to sweep you up in its breadth and scope. Pause to admire glimmers of the gospel piercing through the gloom. When done with joy, writing is caught up in worship. And even when the activity seems trivial or childish, when you write for joy in him, your words can shape hearts — just as Lewis’s and Tolkien’s stories touched mine. So, read, share, and celebrate great stories. And if so moved, write them yourself.

If God is sovereign, why should we pray? Pastor John encourages us to seek God with confidence in his power and plan for our lives.

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Did the incarnation change history forever? John Piper shows from Hebrews 9:26–28 how Christ’s coming marked a new era in God’s story.

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I love spontaneity. I treasure unplanned, unexpected moments of joy with my family, with colleagues at work, with fellow pastors and members at our church, even with friends at the ballfield. Most of all, I cherish the sweet moments of surprising joy, with my Bible open, in communing with God.

I’ve come to learn over the years that spontaneity is often misunderstood. I myself have misunderstood it. But the hard knocks of stubborn reality can be a good teacher. By nature, I’m not someone who values discipline and routine. I despise dead ritual and lifeless liturgy. But my love for spontaneity has steadily drawn me over time to recognize, and appreciate, how the power of habit can serve spontaneous joy rather than replace or suffocate it.

Here’s the hard truth for those of us who love spontaneity: We will experience very few, if any, precious moments of spontaneity with our children or spouse if we have not made a habit of being together. These special, unplanned quality moments emerge in the space of planned, arranged-for quantity time together. The same is true with colleagues at work and fellow Christians in our church. If we don’t have planned, scheduled times of being together, we will not experience the joys of deep communion.

The same is true in seeking to have soul-feeding, heart-warming daily communion with the living God.

Planned Spontaneity with God

Joy in God’s presence disappears when I don’t make a habit of pursuing his presence. Daily communion with the living God doesn’t just happen as we go about our daily lives. Setting our minds on things above doesn’t just happen. God means for us to take some initiative and put in a little effort to do the mind-setting and heart-calibrating, and in those arrangements God loves to bless his people with surprising showers of his grace that have all the joy of the best spontaneity.

To get practical, consider five simple aspects of how you might orient, and make arrangements, for the joys of daily communion with God.

1. Have a Plan

It was no accident that Jesus rose early. Through the centuries, the general testimony of faithful saints has been that the quiet of the morning is far and away the best time to enjoy focused time with God. One way I think about it is that I want God’s voice, in his word, to be the first voice I hear each day. Most will find out over time that it is worth it to get off your screen the night before, get to bed on time, and get up early to meet with the living God.

A good plan includes not only a time but a place, which I mean in two senses: in the world and in the word.

• In the world means the physical location in which you’ll open your Bible and pray. For me, I want an uncluttered desk or table.
• In the word means a planned place to read in the Bible day after day.

I do not recommend opening the Bible at random, or just bouncing around each day to whatever feels interesting in the moment. That kind of spontaneity will prove crippling, not life-giving. Having some kind of Bible-reading plan helps to bring balance in the long term and clarity about where to go each morning. Find a time-tested reading plan, and take each day’s assigned readings as God’s gift to you that morning for his feeding of your soul.

2. Find the Pace

I suspect many mornings of Bible reading are ruined by rushing and impatience. Modern life can be so hurried. We have endless options of things to do and still just 24 hours in the day. So, we hurry. We hurry through meals, hurry on the roads, hurry to scroll through our feeds, hurry when we read articles and books, often just skimming, because we feel like we’re always running out of time. But hurry ruins Bible reading.

Let your daily season in God’s word be your first stance against the tides of hurry. Slow down when you open the Bible. Find the pace that accords with nourishing your soul for the day. God’s word is not fast food. For me, this means I need enough time to lose track of time. I need to find the pace that frees me to follow rabbit trails and check cross-references and have space to try to understand Scripture in the world of Scripture. What previous and later scriptures sound like this one, or use the same categories and language and terms and images?

3. Remember to Pause

Here I want to highlight the importance of not just reading but meditating. As you read slowly, find some place to pause and linger over some striking truth, some unexpected ray of God’s goodness, some glimpse of his majesty.

In meditation, you pause and ponder a truth, roll it around on the tongue of your soul, seeking to not only understand it but enjoy it, or feel the weight of it. Which leads, then, to addressing God (in prayer) as his word has addressed us and gone deep in us in meditation.

4. Polish with Prayer

Meditation is a bridge between Bible reading and prayer. Instead of doing your Bible reading over here, and then pivoting to pray lists over there, let your Bible reading lead to meditation, and meditation then lead to prayer. My general arc each morning is to (1) begin with Bible, (2) move to meditation, and (3) polish with prayer.

To meet with God is not only to hear his words in the Bible, but also to speak back to him, in response to his word, in prayer. It’s a relationship. We call it communion. First, God speaks in his word, and we listen deeply and take it all the way in through meditation. Then, amazingly, God wants to hear back from us. In Christ, we have his ear. He means for us now, in light of what he says in his word, to address him in praise, thanks, confession, and supplication.

5. Enjoy a Person

Fifth and finally is the person, whose name is Jesus. Meeting with God, in his word, is no mere task or activity. It’s not mainly an exercise in learning. It is meeting with a person, who is not only God but also man like us. To see Jesus — by the Spirit, through the word — is to see the Father. To know him is to know God. To enjoy him is to enjoy God. To feed your soul on him is to have true life.

Bible reading and meditation and prayer are means to an end. They are God’s means of grace to the great end of knowing and enjoying Jesus as the Pearl of Great Price (Matthew 13:45–46), as the great Treasure hidden in a field and found in joy (Matthew 13:44), as the Surpassing Value worth counting all as loss to have (Philippians 3:8).

Your most pressing need is not to master the Bible but to be mastered by God in Christ, through his word, day after day, for a lifetime.

Why should Christians wait confidently to the end? Because not only has God equipped us with many gifts, but he will preserve us in his faithfulness.

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Your life is like a series of rooms connected by the hall of Time. Behind you stretches a long line of past places, rooms you’ve lived and loved in, rooms you’ve suffered and rejoiced in, some you would give everything to reenter, others you would give everything not to reenter, none of which you can reenter. Before you, the hallway branches in a hundred directions, presenting a parade of rooms you might move through, some you plan to get into, others you desperately want to avoid, all of them hazy and uncertain.

In this series of rooms, the only one you can live in is now. And yet, if you’re anything like me, you often try to live anywhere but the present. I tried to capture the power of this absurd impulse in a poem:

The door is cracked to elsewhen,
     Ajar and wooing you astray
With heaps of golden oncewhens
     And dreams that never stay.

Recall the vault of past good,
     But beware its siren song,
Which lures from the Here and Now
     With memories embalmed.

Lotus Eaters know too well
     Those long-fondled treasures.
Leave them for the sunny isle
     Of living, present Pleasures.

The future seems a canvas blank
     On which to scrawl my will,
A fiction I would dwell in,
     If Time’s winds were ever still,

But only Now is sacramental,
     Where forever meets my story;
This Moment is a burning bush,
     A Gift of grace and glory.

Like stone, the past is petrified;
     The future flits away.
But in the present of the Present,
     God draws near Today.

If we want to truly live, we must practice the discipline of being present. The past is a trap. For now, the future is a fiction. God only presents us with the present.

The Door to Elsewhen

Why is the past so attractive to us? Why do we have whole industries built around the lure of nostalgia? Why does Google Photos house over nine trillion images of memories embalmed? Surely in part because the past is familiar to us. We know it; we’ve been there. We’ve lived in those rooms. They smell like childhood; they’re packed with trophies; they’re full of memories of God-given pleasures. We were thinner then, or prettier, or healthier, or more spiritual, or had more time . . . or . . . or . . .

Many of us spend our whole lives banging our heads against those doors, trying to lay hands on those heaps of golden oncewhens. We schedule class reunions, scroll through old pictures, hoard mementos of these long-fondled treasures. Like the Lotus Eaters in The Odyssey, we can become so intoxicated by the past that we don’t live in the present. Or like Miss Havisham from Great Expectations, we can set all our clocks to one immovable moment and rot away in the morass of “what if.”

We often want the present to be what it used to be, but a river is never the same twice. Once we’ve crossed the threshold of those rooms, we can’t go back. We can see but never touch, remember but never reenter. Of course, we must heed God’s relentless command to recall the vault of past good, but only so the memory can affect how we live in the present, inspiring faith, kindling courage, ruining us to the allures of sin. God does not promise to give back the past. He has too many other good things to give, too many other blessings to bestow, too many other merciful hardships for us to endure.

Besides, the past is seldom as good as its siren song makes it out to be. Solomon cautions us, “Say not, ‘Why were the former days better than these?’ For it is not from wisdom that you ask this” (Ecclesiastes 7:10). Often, “the glory days” were just as perplexing, just as full of hardship, just as baffling as these days, but what we experience as a whisper, memory replays as a shout. Wisdom rejects this naive nostalgia, knowing that providence weaves the threads of life together so that each stitch and knot has a fitting place, beautiful in one particular time (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

Solomon warns about the past because he knows there is no better way to spoil living, present Pleasures than to put them in the dock with the past as judge and jury. Too often, we reject the goods God wants to give us Here and Now because we reach to have the ones he gave us then. When our hands hold the past with white knuckles, we can’t receive God’s new-every-morning mercies. C.S. Lewis flags the dangers of this lust for encore:

On every level of our life — in our religious experience, in our gastronomic, erotic, aesthetic, and social experience — we are always harking back to some occasion which seemed to us to reach perfection, setting that up as a norm, and depreciating all other occasions by comparison. But these other occasions, I now suspect, are often full of their own new blessings if only we would lay ourselves open to it. God shows us a new facet of the glory, and we refuse to look at it because we’re still looking for the old one. (Letters to Malcolm, 34)

Or as Solomon says, “Better is the sight of the eyes than the wandering of the appetite” (Ecclesiastes 6:9). If we are not willing to let the past be the past, to let yesterday’s blessings become faith-fueling memories and not embalmed mummies, we will never learn to live the abundant life our Lord wants to give us today.

A Fiction Yet to Be

The endless rooms of the future also prove unfit to dwell in. In fact, in many ways, they are worse. At least the past has solidity. The way is shut, but we know what happened. But the future is a fiction. For a temporal creature like man (it surely is very different for God), the future is a mirage: lovely to look at, impossible to touch; always coming, never arriving. Even eternity (with God or without) we will experience as a succession of present moments. The future seems a canvas blank, on which to scrawl my will, but no matter how hard I chase after it, Time’s winds keep it flitting down the path just out of reach.

There are, of course, fitting ways to think about the future. God often calls our attention to what he promises to do in the days to come. We should long for the time when we will see him face to face and enjoy being present in his presence forever. And sometimes it is our present duty to plan for the morrow. But we can no more live in the future than we can the past. Pascal issues a devastating warning to anyone who tries:

Let each of us examine his thoughts; he will find them wholly concerned with the past or the future. We almost never think of the present, and if we do think of it, it is only to see what light it throws on our plans for the future. . . . Thus we never actually live, but [only] hope to live, and since we are always planning how to be happy, it is inevitable that we should never be so. (Pensees, 36)

Scheming to be happy in God is not the same as being happy in God. Hoping to live is not the same as living. Plotting out the rooms to come is not the same as abiding. Often, the future is merely a distraction from the present duty or pleasure. As Screwtape points out, “[God] wants men to be concerned with what they do; our business is to keep them thinking about what will happen to them” (The Screwtape Letters, 34).

But there’s a darker side to the future than mere distraction because sin thrives on the fiction of the future. Sin’s promises (which it never keeps in the present) depend on a fanciful time to come. Screwtape again: “Nearly all vices are rooted in the future. Gratitude looks to the past and love to the present; fear, avarice, lust, and ambition look ahead” (77). Sin offers dreams that never stay.

Satan loves a man who tries to live in elsewhen — a fool whose eyes are on the distant horizon (Proverbs 17:24) — because you can’t act in the future (or the past). But his minions fear a man who truly lives in the present “because there, and there alone, all duty, all grace, all knowledge, and all pleasure dwell” (79).

The Present of the Present

Your life is a series of rooms. But the only one you can live in is Now — This Moment. We buck against these temporal limits by grubbing up the past or trying to impose our will on the future, but wisdom teaches us to embrace how God designed us. Now is the only room he gives us in which to be holy and happy.

If you want to be holy now, you must be wholly now. All of our God-given duties impinge on the present. The past is no help. No amount of past faithfulness will keep you from sin (think of David). No amount of past wisdom will keep you from being a fool (think of Solomon). No past experiences of spiritual mountaintops will keep you in the faith (think of Judas). And the future is still a fiction that will have its own highs and lows (Matthew 6:34). We do or don’t do, sin or don’t sin Now.

Only Now is sacramental; God gives grace only for the current cross. Thus, our King teaches us to pray, “Give us this day our daily bread” (Matthew 6:11). Like manna, yesterday’s stock is gone, and you cannot hoard any for tomorrow. His mercies are new every morning. Reader, what does God expect of you today? That’s what he’ll fit you for.

And as Pascal points out, now is the time to be happy in God. This Moment is a burning bush. God invites us to enjoy his presents and experience his presence in the present. After wrestling with how fast the past flees and how uncertain the future is, Solomon concludes,

Behold, what I have seen to be good and fitting is to eat and drink and find enjoyment in all the toil with which one toils under the sun the few days of his life that God has given him, for this is his lot. Everyone also to whom God has given wealth and possessions and power to enjoy them, and to accept his lot and rejoice in his toil — this is the gift of God. For he will not much remember the days of his life because God keeps him occupied with joy in his heart. (Ecclesiastes 5:18–20)

Solomon shifts our attention from the products of our work (either anticipated in the future or hoarded up in the past) to the process of our work. Only in the present process — “enjoyment in all the toil” — does God keep man “occupied with joy in his heart.”

If you want to be happy and holy and truly live, learn the discipline of being present. Let the past go; let the future worry about itself. Put down your phone; lift up your eyes. There’s no better (or other) time than now to attend to God and this Gift of grace and glory. This is our lot.

Like stone, the past is petrified;
     The future flits away.
But in the present of the Present,
     God draws near Today.