Maybe the men awaited Jesus as he turned a bend in the path. Or perhaps they appeared from behind a grove of trees or a cl.u.s.ter of rocks. Though we don't know how they came, we can be sure what they yelled. "Unclean! Unclean!" The warning was unnecessary. Their appearance drove people away. Ulcerated skin, truncated limbs, lumpy faces. People avoided lepers. But Jesus pursued them. When he heard their cry, he told them, "Go, show yourselves to the priests" (v. 14).

The lepers understood the significance of the instructions. Only the priest could reverse the stigma. To their credit the lepers obeyed. To the credit of Jesus they were healed. As they walked, they dropped their crutches and discarded their hoods. Their spines began to straighten, skin began to clear, and smiles began to return. The ma.s.s of misery became a leaping, jumping, celebrating chorus of health.

Jesus watched them dance their way over the horizon. And he waited for their return. And he waited. And he waited. The disciples stretched out on the ground. Others went to look for food. Jesus just stood there. He wanted to hear the reunion stories. What did your wife say? How did the kids respond? How does it feel to be healed? Jesus waited for the ten men to return and say thanks. But only one of them came back.

One of them, when he saw that he was healed, came back to Jesus, shouting, "Praise G.o.d, I'm healed!" He fell face down on the ground at Jesus' feet, thanking him for what he had done. This man was a Samaritan.

Jesus asked, "Didn't I heal ten men? Where are the other nine? Does only this foreigner return to give glory to G.o.d?" (vv. 1518 NLT) Even Jesus was astonished. You'd think that neither fire nor hail could have kept them from falling at Jesus' feet. Where were the other nine? It's easy to speculate.

Some were too busy to be thankful. They planned to express thanks. But first they needed to find family members, doctors, dogs, parakeets, and neighbors. Just too busy.

Some were too cautious to be thankful. They guarded against joy, kept their hopes down. Waited for the other shoe to drop. Waited to read the fine print. Waited to see what Jesus wanted in return. What's too good to be true usually is. They were cautious.

Others were too self-centered to be thankful. The sick life was simpler. Now they had to get a job, play a role in society.

Others were too arrogant. They never were that sick. Given enough time, they would have recovered. Besides, to be grateful is to admit to being needy. Who wants to show weakness when you have an image to protect?

Too busy, too cautious, too self-centered, too arrogant . . . too close to home? If this story is any indication, nine out of ten people suffer from ingrat.i.tude. Epidemic proportions. Why? Why the appreciation depreciation?

I may have discovered the answer on a recent trip. I was flying home from the Midwest when a snowstorm delayed my arrival in Dallas. I raced to the gate in hopes of catching the final flight of the night for San Antonio. The airport was in a state of contained turmoil, everyone dashing to a gate. The airlines had already loaded extra pa.s.sengers on my plane. With all the charm I could muster, I asked the attendant, "Are any seats left?"

She looked at her computer screen. "No," she replied, "I'm afraid . . ."

I just knew how she was going to finish the sentence: "I'm afraid you'll have to spend the night here." "I'm afraid you'll need to find a hotel." "I'm afraid you'll have to catch the 6:00 a.m. flight to San Antonio."

But she said none of these. Instead, she looked up and smiled. "I'm afraid there are no more seats in coach. We are going to have to b.u.mp you up to first cla.s.s. Do you mind if we do that?"

"Do you mind if I kiss you?" So I boarded the plane and nestled down in the wide seat with the extra legroom.

Color me thankful.

Not every pa.s.senger was as appreciative as I was. A fellow across the aisle from me was angry because he had only one pillow. With the attendants scrambling to lock doors and prepare for the delayed departure, he was complaining about insufficient service. "I paid extra to fly first cla.s.s. I am accustomed to better attention. I want another pillow!"

On the other side of the aisle, yours truly smiled like a guy who had won the lottery without buying a ticket. One pa.s.senger grumbled; the other was grateful. The difference? The crank paid his way into first cla.s.s. My seat was a gift.

On which side of the aisle do you find yourself?

If you feel the world owes you something, brace yourself for a life of sour hours. You'll never get reimbursed. The sky will never be blue enough; the steak won't be cooked enough; the universe won't be good enough to deserve a human being like you. You'll snap and snarl your way to an early grave. "A proud man is seldom a grateful man, for he never thinks that he gets as much as he deserves."1 The grateful heart, on the other hand, sees each day as a gift. Thankful people focus less on the pillows they lack and more on the privileges they have. I attended a banquet recently in which a wounded soldier was presented with the gift of a free house. He nearly fell over with grat.i.tude. He bounded onto the stage with his one good leg and threw both arms around the presenter. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" He hugged the guitar player in the band and the big woman on the front row. He thanked the waiter, the other soldiers, and then the presenter again. Before the night was over, he thanked me! And I didn't do anything.

Shouldn't we be equally grateful? Jesus is building a house for us (John 14:2). Our deed of ownership is every bit as certain as that of the soldier. What's more, Jesus cured our leprosy. Sin cankered our souls and benumbed our senses. Yet the Man on the path told us we were healed, and, lo and behold, we were!

The grateful heart is like a magnet sweeping over the day, collecting reasons for grat.i.tude. A zillion diamonds sparkle against the velvet of your sky every night. Thank you, G.o.d. A miracle of muscles enables your eyes to read these words and your brain to process them. Thank you, G.o.d. Your lungs inhale and exhale eleven thousand liters of air every day. Your heart will beat about three billion times in your lifetime. Your brain is a veritable electric generator of power. Thank you, G.o.d.

For the jam on our toast and the milk on our cereal. For the blanket that calms us and the joke that delights us and the warm sun that reminds us of G.o.d's love. For the thousands of planes that did not crash today. For the men who didn't cheat on their wives, and the wives who didn't turn from their men, and the kids who, in spite of unspeakable pressure to dishonor their parents, decided not to do so. Thank you, Lord.

Grat.i.tude gets us through the hard stuff. To reflect on your blessings is to rehea.r.s.e G.o.d's accomplishments. To rehea.r.s.e G.o.d's accomplishments is to discover his heart. To discover his heart is to discover not just good gifts but the Good Giver. Grat.i.tude always leaves us looking at G.o.d and away from dread. It does to anxiety what the morning sun does to valley mist. It burns it up.

Join the ranks of the 10 percent who give G.o.d a standing ovation. "Give thanks for everything to G.o.d the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ" (Eph. 5:20 NLT).

You don't have to name a child after G.o.d, but then again, you could. Or you could draft a letter listing his blessings or write a song in his honor. You could sponsor an orphan, buy an appliance for a needy family, or adopt a child just because G.o.d adopted you. The surest path out of a slump is marked by the road sign "Thank you."

But what of the disastrous days? The nights we can't sleep and the hours we can't rest? Grateful then? Jesus was. "On the night when he was betrayed, the Lord Jesus took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it" (1 Cor. 11:2324 NLT).

Not often do you see the words betrayed and thanks in the same sentence, much less in the same heart. Jesus and the disciples were in the Upper Room. Sly Judas sat in the corner. Impetuous Peter sat at the table. One would soon betray Jesus; the other would soon curse him. Jesus knew this, yet on the night he was betrayed, he gave thanks. In the midst of the darkest night of the human soul, Jesus found a way to give thanks. Anyone can thank G.o.d for the light. Jesus teaches us to thank G.o.d for the night.

He taught eight-year-old Daniel to do so. My friend Rob cried freely as he told the story about his young son's challenging life. Daniel was born with a double cleft palate, dramatically disfiguring his face. He had surgery, but the evidence remains, so people constantly notice the difference and occasionally make remarks.

Daniel, however, is unfazed. He just tells people that G.o.d made him this way so what's the big deal? He was named student of the week at school and was asked to bring something to show his cla.s.smates for show-and-tell. Daniel told his mom he wanted to take the pictures that showed his face prior to the surgery. His mom was concerned. "Won't that make you feel a little funny?" she asked.

But Daniel insisted. "Oh no, I want everybody to see what G.o.d did for me!"2 Try Daniel's defiant joy and see what happens. G.o.d has handed you a cup of blessings. Sweeten it with a heaping spoonful of grat.i.tude.

"Let me introduce you to my sons," Joseph would tell people. "Come here, G.o.d Made Me Forget and G.o.d Made Me Fruitful. Where did I get those names? Well, have a seat, and let me tell you what G.o.d did for me."

CHAPTER 10.

Now, About

Those Family

Scandals and

Scoundrels

Family wounds are slow to heal.

I hope your childhood was a happy time when your parents kept everyone fed, safe, and chuckling. I hope your dad came home every day, your mom tucked you in bed every night, and your siblings were your best friends. I hope you find this chapter on family pain irrelevant.

But if not, you need to know you aren't alone. The most famous family tree in the Bible suffered from a serious case of blight. Adam accused Eve. Cain killed his little brother. Abraham lied about Sarah. Rebekah favored Jacob. Jacob cheated Esau and then raised a gang of hoodlums. The book of Genesis is a relative disaster.

Joseph didn't deserve to be abandoned by his brothers. True, he wasn't the easiest guy to live with. He boasted about his dreams and tattled on his siblings.1 He deserved some of the blame for the family friction. But he certainly didn't deserve to be dumped into a pit and sold to merchants for pocket change.

The perpetrators were his ten older brothers. The eleven sons shared the same dad, dinner table, and playground. His brothers were supposed to look out for him. Joseph's next of kin were out of line. And his father? Jacob was out of touch.

With all due respect, the patriarch could have used a course on marriage and family life. Mistake number one: he married a woman he didn't love so he could marry one he did. Mistake number two: the two wives were sisters. (Might as well toss a lit match into a fireworks stand.) The first sister bore him sons. The second sister bore him none. So to expand his clan, he slept with an a.s.sortment of handmaidens and concubines until he had a covey of kids. Rachel, his favorite wife, finally gave birth to Joseph, who became his favorite son. She later died giving birth to a second son, Benjamin, leaving Jacob with a contentious household and a broken heart.

Jacob coped by checking out. When Joseph bragged to his brothers about their bowing to him, Jacob stayed silent. When Jacob got wind that his sons had taken the sheep to graze near Shechem, the spot of prior conflict, did he spring into action to correct them? No, he sent Joseph to get a report. He sent a son to do a father's job.

Obstinate sons. Oblivious dad. The brothers needed a father. The father needed a wake-up call. And Joseph needed a protector. But he wasn't protected; he was neglected. And he landed in a distant, dark place.

Initially, Joseph chose not to face his past. By the time he saw his brothers again, Joseph had been prime minister for nearly a decade. He wore a chain of gold eagles on his neck. He bore the king's seal on his hand. The blood-bedabbled coat of colors had been replaced with the royal robe of the king. The kid from Canaan had come a long way.

Joseph could travel anywhere he wanted, yet he chose not to return to Canaan. a.s.semble an army and settle the score with his brothers? He had the resources. Send for his father? Or at least send a message? He'd had perhaps eight years to set the record straight. He knew where to find his family, but he chose not to contact them. He kept family secrets a secret. Untouched and untreated. Joseph was content to leave his past in the past.

But G.o.d was not. Restoration matters to G.o.d. The healing of the heart involves the healing of the past. So G.o.d shook things up. "All countries came to Joseph in Egypt to buy grain, because the famine was severe in all lands" (Gen. 41:57). And in the long line of folks appealing for an Egyptian handout, look what the cat dragged in. "So Joseph's ten brothers went down to buy grain in Egypt" (42:3).

Joseph heard them before he saw them. He was fielding a question from a servant when he detected the Hebrew chatter. Not just the language of his heart but the dialect of his home. The prince motioned for the servant to stop speaking. He turned and looked. There they stood.

The brothers were balder, grayer, rough skinned. They were pale and gaunt with hunger. Sweaty robes clung to their shins, and road dust chalked their cheeks. These Hebrews stuck out in sophisticated Egypt like hillbillies at Times Square. When their time came to ask Joseph for grain, they didn't recognize him. His beard was shaved, his robe was royal, and the language he spoke was Egyptian. Black makeup extended from the sides of his eyes. He wore a black wig that sat on his head like a helmet. It never occurred to them that they were standing before their baby brother.

Thinking the prince couldn't understand Hebrew, the brothers spoke to him with their eyes and gestures. They pointed at the stalks of grain and then at their mouths. They motioned to the brother who carried the money, and he stumbled forward and spilled the coins on the table.

When Joseph saw the silver, his lips curled, and his stomach turned. He had named his son G.o.d Made Me Forget, but the money made him remember. The last time he saw coins in the hands of Jacob's older boys, they were laughing, and he was whimpering. That day at the pit he searched these faces for a friend, but he found none. And now they dared bring silver to him?

Joseph called for a Hebrew-speaking servant to translate. Then Joseph scowled at his brothers. "He acted as a stranger to them and spoke roughly to them" (v. 7).

I'm imagining the tone of a night watchman aroused from his midnight nap. "Who are ya? Where do ya come from?" The brothers fell face-first in the dirt, which brought to Joseph's mind a childhood dream.

"Uh, well, we're from up the road in Canaan. Maybe you've heard of it?"

Joseph glared at them. "Nah, I don't believe you. Guards, put these spies under arrest. They are here to infiltrate our country."

The ten brothers spoke at once. "You've got it all wrong, Your High, Holy, and Esteemed Honor. We're salt of the earth. We belong to the same family. That's Simeon over there. That's Judah . . . Well, there are twelve of us in all. At least there used to be. 'The youngest is now with our father, and one is no longer living'" (v. 13 HCSB).

Joseph gulped at the words. This was the first report on his family he had heard in twenty years. Jacob was alive. Benjamin was alive. And they thought he was dead.

"Tell you what," he snapped. "I'll let one of you go back and get your brother and bring him here. The rest of you I'll throw in jail."

With that, Joseph had their hands bound. A nod of his head, and they were marched off to jail. Perhaps the same jail where he had spent at least two years of his life.

What a curious series of events. The gruff voice, harsh treatment. The jail sentence. The abrupt dismissal. We've seen this sequence before with Joseph and his brothers, only the roles were reversed. On the first occasion they conspired against him. This time he conspired against them. They spoke angrily. He turned the tables. They threw him in the hole and ignored his cries for help. Now it was his turn to give them the cold shoulder.

What was going on?

I think he was trying to get his bearings. This was the toughest challenge of his life. The famine, by comparison, was easy. Mrs. Potiphar he could resist. Pharaoh's a.s.signments he could manage. But this mixture of hurt and hate that surged when he saw his flesh and blood? Joseph didn't know what to do.

Maybe you don't either.

Your family failed you. Your early years were hard ones. The people who should have cared for you didn't. But, like Joseph, you made the best of it. You've made a life for yourself. Even started your own family. You are happy to leave Canaan in the rearview mirror. But G.o.d isn't.

He gives us more than we request by going deeper than we ask. He wants not only your whole heart; he wants your heart whole. Why? Hurt people hurt people. Think about it. Why do you fly off the handle? Why do you avoid conflict? Why do you seek to please everyone? Might your tendencies have something to do with an unhealed hurt in your heart? G.o.d wants to help you for your sake.

And for the sake of your posterity. Suppose Joseph had refused his brothers? Summarily dismissed them? Washed his hands of the whole mess? G.o.d's plan for the nation of Israel depended upon the compa.s.sion of Joseph. A lot was at stake here.

There is a lot at stake with you too. Some years ago a dear friend of mine was called to the funeral home to identify the body of his father, who had been shot in the middle of the night by his ex-wife. The shotgun blast was just one in a long line of angry outbursts and violent family moments. My friend remembers standing near the body and resolving, It stops with me. (And it has.) Make the same resolve. Yes, your family history has some sad chapters. But your history doesn't have to be your future. The generational garbage can stop here and now. You don't have to give your kids what your ancestors gave you.

Talk to G.o.d about the scandals and scoundrels. Invite him to relive the betrayal with you. Bring it out in the open. Joseph restaged the hurt for a reason. Revealing leads to healing. Don't just pray, Lord, help me forgive my father. Unearth the details: G.o.d, Daddy never wanted to be a part of my life. He didn't even come to my birthday parties. I hated him for that.

Or: Every day I came home from school to find Mom drunk, lying on the couch. I had to make dinner, take care of baby brother, do homework on my own. It's not right, G.o.d!

Difficult for certain. But let G.o.d do his work. The process may take a long time. It may take a lifetime. Family pain is the deepest pain because it was inflicted so early and because it involves people who should have been trustworthy. You were too young to process the mistreatment. You didn't know how to defend yourself. Besides, the perpetrators of your pain were so large. Your dad, mom, uncle, big brother-they towered over you, usually in size, always in rank.

When they judged you falsely, you believed them. All this time you've been operating on faulty data. "You're stupid . . . slow . . . dumb like your daddy . . . fat like your mama . . ." Decades later these voices of defeat still echo in your subconscious.

But they don't have to! "Let G.o.d transform you into a new person by changing the way you think" (Rom. 12:2 NLT). Let him replace childish thinking with mature truth (1 Cor. 13:11). You are not who they said you were. You are G.o.d's child. His creation. Destined for heaven. You are a part of his family. Let him set you on the path to reconciliation.

Joseph did. The process would prove to be long and difficult. It occupies four chapters of the Bible and at least a year on the calendar, but Joseph took the first step. A cautious, hesitant one but a step nonetheless. After three days Joseph released his brothers from jail. He played the tough guy again. "Go on; scoot back to-what was it, Kansas? Colorado? No, Canaan. Go on back. But I want to see this kid brother you talk about. I'll keep one of you as a guarantee."

They agreed and then, right in front of Joseph, rehashed the day they dry-gulched him: "Then they said to one another, 'We are truly guilty concerning our brother, for we saw the anguish of his soul when he pleaded with us, and we would not hear; therefore this distress has come upon us'" (Gen. 42:21).

Again, they did not know that the prince understood Hebrew. But he did. And when he heard the words, Joseph turned away so they couldn't see his eyes fill with tears. He didn't speak for a few moments, lest the lump in his throat turn into sobs unbecoming of a tough official. He stepped into the shadows and wept. He did this seven more times.2 He didn't cry when he was promoted by Potiphar or crowned by Pharaoh, but he blubbered like a baby when he learned that his brothers hadn't forgotten him after all. When he sent them back to Canaan, he loaded their saddlebags with grain. A moment of grace.

With that small act, healing started. If G.o.d healed that family, who's to say he won't heal yours?

CHAPTER 11.

Revenge Feels

Good, But

Then . . .