I was reading about Mary this morning, about her being “heavy with child” when the census took her to Bethlehem with Joseph. What do you know? God convicted me. Ouch.
Boy do I ever complain about the little things. I handle the big things pretty well. For instance, this sudden state-to-state move we’re about to make? I got it. No problem. Put it in gear and drive on. But the fact that we will probably spend three weeks in a hotel? That bugs me. That irks me. That makes me want to look at God and say, “Uh, we’re doing your will. Shouldn’t this be smoother than that?”
And then I read about Mary, heavy with child. God didn’t make it easy on her, did he? He sent her on a long, arduous journey while she was pregnant enough to burst. Not only that, He sent her on this journey at a time when every hotel in the vicinity was full, and the only place to give birth to her baby–HIS son–was in a nasty old stable.
Nope, He didn’t make it easy. Why not? I don’t have an answer for that. But it sure does put three weeks in a hotel into perspective, huh?