Conducive

Conducive: (adj) making a certain situation or outcome likely or possible.

There is a rumor that’s been going around for almost two thousand years–that the three greatest forces on Earth are faith, hope and love.

It persists.

There have been extravagant attempts to extinguish this trio and replace them with work, money and power, but in the end, there they are–standing tall.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Faith, hope and love.

But there are certain things that are conducive for these three to thrive. If you don’t have them, then it may certainly seem that they’ve gone away, at least for a season.

Faith requires a questioning love. That’s what is conducive to its growth. Questioning because that’s the only way we can put our faith to a true test, to see if it will hold the water necessary to contain the hope we all need.

But faith does not work without love, and I’m talking about the kind of love that appreciates those who launch out and try new things without fear.

Now, hope needs to have a chance to be acted out with a good plan. This is what is conducive to its well-being. Too many committees snuff hope out simply because a cynical spirit refuses to believe that either God or human beings can give their very best in the crunch. I guess we’re stuck with “us” and Him.

Finally, love requires that balance of affection and commitment to be conducive to our real lives. Too much affection and we become overly dependent on the appreciation of others. Too much commitment and we soon forget what it’s like to be inflamed and engorged in passion.

So as you can see, simply extolling faith, hope and love does not help much if we’re not willing to create an atmosphere which is conducive to their breathing.

 

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Chore

Chore: (n) a routine task, especially a household one.

I suddenly realized that there is no happy word to describe work.

“Labor.” That sucks.

“Effort.” Well, that takes effort

“Struggle.”

Even the word “employment” is constricting, brings a frown to one’s face.

How do we expect to ever move forward in our consciousness when everything seems to be a chore? We didn’t like chores when we were children, so are we going
to wake up one morning having accumulated enough birthdays that we will become intrigued with doing repetitious tasks?

And if we don’t like doing these “events,” what’s to guarantee that the mechanic who’s repairing the airplane doesn’t get bored and take a shortcut?

If we don’t like doing the things we’re supposed to accomplish, won’t we eventually just do them poorly?

And once mediocre becomes normal, normal is certainly dangerous.

How can we re-train ourselves to believe that work is not a chore and that chores do not need to be repetitious, but rather, gain glamor and gleam by being enhanced with new possibilities?

This is not the season to insist on tradition. The work force in America needs a revolution–a revival, if you will–of the passion that originally made us believe we wanted to do what offered us a paycheck.

Don’t ask me to do my chores.

I will rebel, go to my room and listen to the music you don’t like.

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Bustle

j-r-practix-with-border-2

Bustle: (v) to move in an energetic or noisy manner

Speed kills.

It’s a simple statement but true.

Generally speaking, we convince ourselves that by acting energetic and moving along at a breakneck clip, we convey passion and purpose. Actually, we’re just burning unnecessary flame to stoke a fire.

This has taken me years and years to understand. I have often placed myself in an atmosphere with those who bustle and hustle and insist on using more muscle. It ends up being a nervous, frustrating event, permeated with anxiety. The byproduct is always exhaustion.

I know we believe that at the end of our work we should be tired–but nowhere in any book of quality or holiness is it suggested that fatigue is the reward for fruitful effort.

The prize spoken of in these volumes is joy. We should be joyful when we finish what we set out to do.

If we’re frustrated, grouchy, sporting a headache, or testy, we probably have tried to run when walking was available, and bounce when rolling would have been just as efficient.

Here is an axiom: slow down, do better things, feel great.

Actually, when I started believing that everything I did in life was supposed to produce joy, I not only simplified the pace, but I found that I embraced the endeavor so much more–and I learned how to do it more quickly. I got just as much done in much less time without becoming frantic.

Do not try to impress me by talking about your bustle. Such “raciness” only lends itself to crashes.

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Basket

Basket: (n) a container used to hold or carry thingsDictionary B

I have never been particularly fond of work.

I do prefer work that I make up instead of chores that are made up for me. But like every other God-fearing American, I enjoy money.

So when I was a kid–about twelve–my dad, for a very brief time, grew strawberries on our little farm, with the intent of picking them, selling them and procuring an extra income.

Nobody in our family knew how difficult it was to pick strawberries. The plants do not have the decency to grow tall enough to reach up to you. No, you have to go down to get them on the ground.

My dad wanted to sell a pint of strawberries for a quarter. He offered me a nickel for every pint of strawberries I picked.

So I picked and I picked and I picked–and every time I brought him a pint to examine, he said it was not quite full.

At the end of the first day, I had only picked two pints, earning a dime. So overnight, practically in my dreams, I came up with a plan.

Unknown to my father, I carried a roll of toilet paper with me into the strawberry patch, and filled the bottom of my basket halfway with toilet paper, making sure that when I picked the strawberries, they covered the toilet paper so that it would take half as much to achieve a pint.

That night I not only received great praise for picking more baskets–eight in all–but proudly walked away with 40 cents.

I pulled this off for two days until people who were purchasing the strawberries began to complain to my parent about being cheated out of product by being given bathroom issue.

My father was furious.

I don’t know whether he was more unhappy because of the complaints of the people or because I was such a cheat.

But I learned that day that a basket is a basket and never will cease to be a basket.

If you find the basket is too small, then you need to get a larger basket.

And, as in the case of my strawberry picking, if you find the basket is too big, rather than cheating, you must acquire a smaller basket.

 

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