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On the night of a bad day, I wonder if people truly change. If we’re all just out here screwing each other up or if there is, as I’ve been taught, a capacity for a better way.
The angry encounter peace? Can the yeller stop yelling?
And then, this:
Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?
I used to think this was an old verse about material goods, about how meaningless it was to buy objects void of permanence. You can’t take it with you, and all that. I used to think this was a simple reminder that we’re wasting precious hours adding another chunky knit sweater to our cart, or fretting over our 10-year plan.
And yet, when I re-read it, later mulling it over at the kitchen sink scrubbing steak from the pan, I think it might be about tomorrow, sure, but also yesterday.
