Here are my notes on, Six Hours One Friday, By: Max Lucado.
I hope your hurricane misses you too. But in case it doesn’t, take the sailor’s advice. “Anchor deep, say a prayer, and hold on.” And don’t be surprised if Someone walks across the water to give you a hand.
In this book we are looking at three. Futility, failure, and finality. The three Fs on the human report card. The three burdens that are too big for any back, too heavy for any biceps. Three burdens that no man can carry alone.
As I parked and turned off the engine, my big girl became small again. And it was a voice of a very little girl that broke the silence. “Daddy, I don’t want to get out.” I looked at her. The eyes that had been bright were now fearful. The lips that had been singing were now trembling. I fought a Herculean urge to grant her request. Everything within me wanted to say, “Okay, let’s forget it all and get out of here.” For a brief, eternal moment I considered kidnapping my own daughters, grabbing my wife, and escaping these horrid paws of progress to live forever in the Himalayas. But I knew better. I knew it was time. I knew it was right. And I knew she would be fine. But I never knew it would be so hard to say, “Honey, you’ll be all right. Come on, I’ll carry you.”
“Your complaints are not over the lack of necessities but the abundance of benefits. You bellyache over the frills, not the basics; over benefits, not essentials. The source of your problems is your blessings.” José gave me a lot for my dollar; he gave me a lesson on gratitude. Gratitude. More aware of what you have than what you don’t. Recognizing the treasure in the simple— a child’s hug, fertile soil, a golden sunset. Relishing in the comfort of the common— a warm bed, a hot meal, a clean shirt.
There aren’t very many similarities between Franciszek Gajowniczek and Max Lucado. We speak two different languages. We salute two different flags. We know two different homelands. But we do have three things in common. We both had an angel set us free from a prison. We both had a Jewish Teacher die in our place. And we both learned that what we already have is far greater than anything we might want.
If we are not teaching people how to be saved, it is perhaps because we have forgotten the tragedy of being lost! If we’re not teaching the message of forgiveness, it may be because we don’t remember what it was like to be guilty. And if we’re not preaching the cross, it could be that we’ve subconsciously decided that— God forbid— somehow we don’t need it.
A man is never the same after he simultaneously sees his utter despair and Christ’s unbending grace. To see the despair without the grace is suicidal. To see the grace without the despair is upper- room futility. But to see them both is conversion.
When my oldest daughter, Jenna, was not quite four years old, she came to me with a confession. “Daddy, I took a crayon and drew on the wall.” (Kids amaze me with their honesty.) I sat down and lifted her up into my lap and tried to be wise. “Is that a good thing to do?” I asked her. “No.” “What does Daddy do when you write on the wall?” “You spank me.” “What do you think Daddy should do this time?” “Love.” Don’t we all want that? Don’t we all long for a father who, even though our mistakes are written all over the wall, will love us anyway? Don’t we want a father who cares for us in spite of our failures?
How can you be satisfied with existence once you’ve lived with purpose?
It’s an inexplicable dilemma— how two people can hear the same words and see the same Savior, and one see hope and the other see nothing but himself.
