“Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”    – Matthew 18:3

I had a play date with my friend, Ham, recently. Every few months, we hang out to watch dinosaur videos on YouTube, launch ping pong balls at each other in the basement, and debate how long Godzilla would last against T-Rex. Our outings give his home-schooling mom a respite and sharpen me in my new grandfather role. I’m told Ham approaches his “Tio Steve” time with great anticipation.

His mom, Erika, dropped him off at Mr. Gatti’s Pizza, handed me his car seat, and wished me luck. Our itinerary included a pizza buffet, a one-hour journey to Gatlinburg (listening to dinosaur noises on YouTube along the way), and a couple of hours at a 30,000-square-foot arcade! At 1:00 p.m., though, my immediate need was food, and a plate with seven pieces of pizza atop a bed of salad awaited me.

I’ve prayed before most of the few dozen meals I’ve eaten at Mr. Gatti’s through the years. With a ravenous appetite and the scent of pizza engulfing my bowed head, my “Mr. Gatti’s prayers” are succinct—usually under seven seconds. But on this day, Ham offered to bless our food.

My buddy Ham’s prayers are neither succinct nor trite. This one lasted three minutes. He thanked God for the food which, frankly, met the minimum requirement for a Mr. Gatti’s prayer. He then asked God to “help all the people in this restaurant to come to know Jesus.” As I contemplated that utterance, he added, “And God, please be with that man sitting over there who is having trouble breathing. He’s on a machine.” As Ham continued, I opened my right eye. Sure enough, across from us near the salad bar, an elderly man ate pizza and breathed machine-supplied oxygen through his nose.

I hadn’t noticed the elderly man or any of Mr. Gatti’s patrons. They were just a generic conglomeration of humanity—a mass of strangers having lunch. So focused on the feast awaiting me, I didn’t contemplate their relationship with Jesus or the condition of their souls. I paid them no mind. 

Ham, a 7-year-old, not only noticed the diners collectively and individually but prayed for them. The note from the margin reads: Watch the children around you. You might just learn from them.

“Now when Job’s three friends heard of all this evil that had come upon him, they came each from his own place, Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite. They made an appointment together to come to show him sympathy and comfort him. And when they saw him from a distance, they did not recognize him. And they raised their voices and wept, and they tore their robes and sprinkled dust on their heads toward heaven. And they sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great.”  – Job 2:11-13                                                                             

Job’s friends should have stopped there. They rightly traveled to him to show sympathy and comfort in his time of need. For seven days and nights, they were content to be present with him in silence. What they didn’t realize was that their presence was enough. In subsequent chapters, we find them talking foolishly—misadvising, misunderstanding the meaning behind his suffering, and not being all that helpful. They should have kept quiet.

Mere presence is underrated. When it comes to the suffering of a friend, family member, or even a stranger, we want to do something about it. I like the way author Debbie Hall puts it: “Presence is a noun, not a verb; it is a state of being, not doing. States of being are not highly valued in a culture that places a high priority on doing. Yet, true presence or ‘being with’ another person carries with it a silent power—to bear witness to a passage, to help carry an emotional burden, or to begin a healing process. In it, there is an intimate connection with another that is perhaps too seldom felt in a society that strives for ever-faster ‘connectivity.’” 

The silent power of just being with someone—have you felt that? You don’t try to explain the meaning behind their tragedy. You don’t offer a 5-point plan for them to move beyond their grief. You don’t tell them how their miscarriage, divorce, or illness is just like something you experienced years ago. You just sit there. You listen. You let them grieve. Maybe you offer a hug or a shoulder to cry on. You’re present.

Allow me to apply the principle to funerals. Write this down: Always go to the funeral. Always. I say that as someone who dislikes funerals to my core. In my ideal world, the only funeral I would attend would be my own. I don’t like community mourning—I’d prefer to grieve alone in the corner of my closet. I don’t know what to say to the next-of-kin, especially when the deceased was not a person of faith. It’s awkward at best… and sad. The two hours of sobbing remembrances for someone I hardly knew are tedious. I don’t even like putting on a coat and tie. Still, whenever possible, I go to the funeral.

Why? Because it’s not about me! To become more like Jesus, I need to act more like Him and less like myself. I need to follow His Word rather than my instincts. Regardless of inconvenience, I need to carry the burdens of others (See Galatians 6:2).

As writer and poet Deirdre Sullivan puts it, “Do the right thing even when you don’t feel like it. Make the small gesture, even if you don’t have to and definitely don’t want to. I’m talking about things that represent only inconvenience to me, but the world to the other guy. You know, the painfully underattended birthday party, etc. In my humdrum life, the daily battle hasn’t been good versus evil. It’s hardly so epic. Most days, my real battle is doing good versus doing nothing.” 

I think she’s on to something. It’s unlikely I will wake up tomorrow with an insatiable desire to rob a bank, lie to my spouse, or murder someone. Oh, I’ll be tempted by things, for sure. And I’ll sin, but you probably won’t hear about it. It won’t make the news. Most of the time, my evil ways are discreet. But, like Sullivan, my greater battle—my bigger temptation—is apathy. I see a need and don’t meet it. I have an opportunity to serve or encourage or get involved and I don’t take it. Too often, I’m unwilling to even be… present.

When a friend is in crisis, should you go? Should you intrude on a loved one’s personal phase of grief? Unless specifically told otherwise (and maybe even then), go! Just go. Just be there. Go to the funeral. Go to the bedside. Go to the disaster zone. Whenever possible—wherever there are hurting, grieving people—be there. If torn on whether to go, go. Don’t hesitate to be with someone in need, even if there’s nothing you can “do” for them. Err on the side of being there. 

John 3:30 states, “He must increase, but I must decrease.”                      

For Jesus to increase, I must decrease. 

I must also be present.

So, I’ll say it again: Go to the funeral. 

During our Saturday morning devotional, I told our assembled disaster response team, “Do not elevate projects over people. We’re here to serve and connect with human beings—to show them the love of Christ, to offer encouragement and hope. Although we’re cutting up a lot of trees this week, we’re not in the tree business. We’re in the people business. Downed trees are the means to the end. So, let’s focus on people.”

For once, I took my own advice. The person I would try to encourage today and, as it turns out, be encouraged by, was Stephanie Peterson of Valdosta’s Blossom Bee Removal. This amazing elementary school Ag teacher, mother, and bee expert agreed to extract a beehive from the hollow of a downed tree that our team had pulled from a roof at Georgia Christian School. Her willingness to help came with a caveat: “I’ll need someone to cut open the tree with a chainsaw… but I have an extra XL bee suit.” Yikes!

Carving up an active beehive with a chainsaw in 90-degree heat seemed high-risk and ill-advised. Sort of like climbing into the cockpit of an F-16 with a fighter pilot named “Bubba”—something I had done at nearby Moody Air Force Base 30 years earlier. Or swinging from a waterfall vine in Maui. Or walking from Georgia to Maine. Unfortunately, leaving a downed tree full of 60,000 or so bees in a schoolyard also involves risk. So, Stephanie and I agreed to meet at 11 a.m. to try to save the hive and not die in the process.

As she helped me don a suit last worn by Buzz Aldrin during the Gemini 12 mission, I worried about the gaps around my ankles. “Yeah, you might feel a few stings down there,” she said. “But it’s not too painful.” I heard those exact words from a Tucson gastroenterologist in 2017 before my first colonoscopy… I didn’t believe him either. But I otherwise trusted Stephanie—she was licensed, certified, experienced, and as sweet as… wait for it… honey. She was also gracious in fielding the scores of questions Fob W. Honeypot would throw at her throughout the day. 

As we cut open the hive, sucked bees with a vacuum, and hunted for the queen, I learned or was reminded of some things:

1. Every honeybee has a job to do, and each role is important to sustain the hive. Stephanie pointed out workers who nurse the brood and janitors who clean the hive. They serve the queen, who lays lots of eggs and produces chemical scents to regulate the unity of the colony. The drones, bless their hearts, exist for the opportunity to mate with the queen, continue eating, watch sports on TV, and then die. The queen gets most of the attention, of course, but each bee is vital to the survival of the hive. The same is true in disaster relief operations—we need leaders who provide vision and make decisions, but also our cooks, administrators, tool guys, and volunteer laborers. Together, we form a cohesive team that accomplishes the mission. The same is true for the church. In God’s eyes, the preacher is valued no more or less than the church janitor, the communion preparer, or the A/V person. In 1 Corinthians 12, Paul writes about how the various parts of the body (the church) make up a complete whole. Each has a valuable role. We don’t need the knee to be an elbow. We don’t need five ears. We don’t need the ankle to feel unappreciated, or the nose to look down on the armpit. In the church and in a honeybee colony, we just need everyone to pitch in and do their part.

2. Elderly “forager” bees are also vital to the hive’s survival. Stephanie said that near the end of a worker bee’s life, her role switches to foraging. When they are three to six weeks old, depending on the season, workers will leave the colony during daylight hours to forage for food. They’ll travel up to five miles from the hive, guided by the sun, gathering pollen and nectar. By doing so, they are not just sustaining the hive, but sustaining our ecosystem and food supply. Once foraging begins, these selfless bees are nearing the end of their life. All the flying will quickly wear out their wings and they are unable to repair damaged wing tips. In a final act of selfless service, the foragers die serving the colony. Elderly Christians, listen to me: we need you to serve your church and your community, as best you can, until the very end! While your specific roles will vary based on health and other factors, you don’t need to sit around bemoaning the fact you can’t do what you once did. Instead, do what you can. Finish strong because your colony—the church—needs you. Forage until your wings fall off and God calls you home!

3. Solutions are sometimes only revealed in our stillness. After 45 minutes of carving up the tree trunk, examining honeycomb, and siphoning bees, the hive was irate and swarming. Worse still, we hadn’t located the queen, putting our goal to relocate her and the colony in jeopardy. “Let’s take a break and sit in my air-conditioned truck,” Stephanie suggested. Dripping with sweat from every pore, I nodded and shed my protective suit. Inside the truck, she said, “They’re confused right now. We’ve turned their lives upside down. We need to give them time to reconstitute. You see, it’s all about the queen. Once they settle down and pick up her scent, they’re going to rally around her. When we return and find the crowd, we should find the queen.” Not surprisingly, Stephanie was right. Once we returned, refreshed, we located a crowd of bees on a piece of honeycomb nestled inside a cut of wood off to the side. After a few minutes of moving the pile around with her index finger, Stephanie shouted, “I found her! Yes!” Sure enough, the oversized queen with her yellow abdomen came into view, and Stephanie quickly captured her in a little bee box. Based on Stephanie’s excitement, I knew this was the most critical step. But we achieved that goal not through activity but rather momentary inactivity. We sat passively in the truck and let the colony settle. Solutions to our most pressing problems may sometimes be revealed not by working harder but rather when we take time to “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).

4. Invasive species will kill a hive. After removing a section of honeycomb, Stephanie pointed at a tiny dark object and commented, “Look, a small hive beetle. Not good.” She explained that since the bees’ stingers can’t penetrate the beetle’s shell, the best they can do is push the intruder to the outer edge of the honeycomb and hope for the best. A moment later, Stephanie examined the next layer of honeycomb and said, “Look here, this is even worse… small hive beetle larvae. They’re burrowing into the comb, eating brood, honey, and pollen. An infestation like this is going to cause the hive to “slime out” and die or at least force the bees to find a new home. We got here just in time!” Once again, I saw a spiritual application. We may be tempted to allow Satan, the intruder, to occupy a small space on the outskirts of our homes and lives. With that foothold established, he’s positioned to tempt us into more and more sin—the larvae. Our unchecked desires “give birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death” (James 1:15). Friends, we can’t allow Satan—the small hive beetle—to take occupancy in our lives and destroy our families and ourselves.

5. We serve an eternal King and are headed to an eternal home. Despite the best efforts of tens of thousands of worker bees and caring bee enthusiasts like Stephanie, the queen’s days are numbered. She will eventually die and be replaced. The beehive that she and her colony worked so hard to establish and maintain is also temporary. One day, some storm, disease, exterminator, bear, or beetle will kill it. The beehive, like everything else we can see, is temporary (2 Cor. 4:18). I’m thankful that Jesus is our eternal King, seated at the right hand of God (Col. 3:1). I’m also grateful that He has prepared an eternal heavenly home for Christians, and that one day He’s returning to take us there (John 14:2-3).

After another hour of vacuuming bees, Stephanie loaded her equipment along with the queen, her entourage, and several pieces of honeycomb. Two hours later, at her third bee extraction of the day, she called to ask if I could stop by with the chainsaw to assist her in saving another bee colony. I agreed because Stephanie is the kind of person you want to go the extra mile for. I so appreciate her enthusiasm, her love of nature, and her willingness to take me on as a chain-sawing, bee-whispering apprentice, if only for a day.

The more I learn about honeybees—their teamwork, communication, purpose, and design—the more impressed I am with their Creator. Wherever there is design in the universe, there must be a Designer. When I witness honeybees and all the other amazing creatures roaming our planet, I’m reminded that we serve an awesome, creative, wonderful God.

“Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth.” – John 3:18

In a new study published in the Journal of Experimental Psychology, researchers demonstrate the power of small acts of kindness. They conducted experiments involving different acts of kindness, such as offering someone a ride home or covering the cost of someone’s cup of coffee. In one experiment, study participants at a Chicago ice skating rink gave other skaters hot chocolate for free. Later, both parties were asked to rate how much the gesture was worth. The givers consistently undervalued how much the hot cocoa meant to the recipients. The small acts of kindness—the little things—turned out to be huge.

In a 2022 paper published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, researchers reached a similar conclusion. They found that we tend to underestimate the power of reaching out to friends, family, and colleagues. According to the authors, a quick call or text can make a big difference in the life of the recipient. Once again, the research suggests that little things are big.

My experience over the past 24 hours bears that out. Three friends of mine have done some seemingly small things. They aren’t seeking recognition, but you need to know about them. And we need to “go and do likewise” (Luke 10:37).

First up is Miss Anna, a disabled, wheelchair-bound widow from our congregation. Although I don’t know Miss Anna’s financial situation, I’m confident her heart is far larger than her bank account. Last night in the church lobby, she motioned for me. That sometimes means she’s about to get onto me for not being loud enough during a sermon or Bible class. “Use your outside voice,” Miss Anna often implores. “You know I can’t hear.” But last night, she had nothing to say. She simply handed me an envelope with cash inside and patted my hand. Miss Anna heard about our upcoming disaster relief trip to Valdosta and felt compelled to give. A big heart will do that to a person. And big, giving hearts are noticed by Jesus, as we learn from the story of “a certain widow” with two small coins in Luke 21. Little gestures—little things—are big.

This morning, another dear friend, who happens to be my oldest son, was called in to help a hospital-bound child who needed to be measured and fitted for a tricky, custom brace. The interesting part of this story is that Jason, due to an awful bout with Lyme disease, hasn’t done prosthetics or orthotics in nearly two years. He was brought “out of retirement” to advise the official provider who lacked experience to handle the intricate case. Jason interrupted day trading—his new career—to help a child in need. If you think that small act of kindness isn’t a big deal, you’ve never been a hospital-bound child needing a brace to walk. Little things are big.

Later this morning, while covering Science at a local Christian school, I wandered to the front office in search of a cup of coffee. You must understand that I love coffee. Like good books, high-end running shoes, and Jesus, coffee is essential. Without the soothing, caffeinated beverage, I operate at 40%. To survive Anatomy and Physiology this morning, I desperately needed a cup. I asked Miss Sheila, the high school secretary, if there was any chance there was a drop or two of leftovers from this morning.

“I’m so sorry, Steve, we didn’t make a pot this morning,”

“No worries,” I lied. “No big deal. I’ll be fine.” 

Truth be told, without coffee, I planned to stab my temple with an Erlenmeyer flask and crawl into a fetal position inside the biosafety cabinet. But Miss Sheila didn’t know that. I hid my desperation. Forty-five minutes later, while clutching the flask, I heard a knock on the door. I opened it to find a smiling Miss Sheila with a large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in her outstretched arms! For me! I mean, who does that? Who goes to the trouble to have coffee delivered to a lowly sub? That’s absurd! Her “small gesture” was also the highlight of my day! Little things are big.

Amit Kumar, a psychology professor at UT Austin and one of the authors of the Journal of Experimental Psychology study, says we limit our actions because we routinely misjudge their impact on others. He writes, “Not knowing one’s positive impact can stand in the way of people engaging in these sorts of acts of kindness in daily life.”

Why do little things have such a big impact? For that answer, we turn to Mymento, a seller of unique gifts. The company suggests four reasons why a small gesture feels like something big:

1. It reminds us that we’re being thought of. Whether the gift we receive is material or immaterial (e.g., time, conversation, etc.), it makes us feel important and reminds us that we mean something to someone else. Miss Anna’s financial gift will be small as a percentage of the total needs of the disaster victim who receives it. But it will come in a card with an encouraging Bible verse. The person who receives it will know that a Christian from Tennessee—someone they’ll probably never meet—is aware of and doing something about their dire situation. They are being thought of, and that realization generates hope. As prisoner Andy Dufresne put it in The Shawshank Redemption, “Hope is a good thing. Maybe even the best of things. And good things never die.”

2. It shows us that people care. The young man who received the custom brace this morning may or may not be old enough to appreciate that people care. But I bet his parents do! After this morning, they know the hospital cares. They know the orthotist cares. And if you know anything about Jason, you know he cares for people to a fault. God gave that man an XL heart.

3. It demonstrates that people are paying attention. This morning, I appreciated that Miss Sheila was paying attention. (In fact, few things inspire me to write a blog during the first NFL game of the year!) Something as simple as a cup of coffee put a smile on my face. As I blissfully sipped the warm beverage, I couldn’t help but wonder how many “small things” this big-hearted school secretary notices and addresses throughout the day. 

4. It gives us something to hold on to. I have a large collection of family Bibles. In fact, the word is out in our family that “when you die, your Bible—at least one of them—goes to Steve.” These gifts mean little to anyone outside our family. I wouldn’t get much for them on eBay. But they mean the world to me. My mom has left this world, but I have her memory and her Bible. Both are gifts I hold on to.

So, what do we make of little things? I’m beginning to think they don’t exist. What if, in God’s eyes, our little acts of kindness are huge—epic actually? What if the better measure is not the size of the giver’s act but the impact on the recipient? That changes everything.

Here’s the challenge: When in doubt, send the encouraging text. Make the phone call. Mow the neighbor’s yard. Offer the donation. Make the brace. Let the stressed-out single mom cut in line. Offer the last chocolate chip cookie to your sibling. And, if you see an old guy wandering the halls with a dazed look, clutching an Erlenmeyer flask, get that man some coffee stat! 

Little things? They’re huge!

“In all things I have shown you that by working hard in this way we must help the weak and remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he himself said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’” – Acts 20:35

Earlier this summer, several friends and I had the opportunity to leave our comfortable, middle class American lives and return to Honduras, where 52.4% of souls live in poverty and 13.3% in extreme poverty. We hoped to make a difference, maybe change a life or two. By now I should have known, it would be our lives that would be changed.

Among various projects, we set out to build a house for Marta, a 42-year-old single mom, and Amiel, her precious 4-year-old daughter. (The name Amiel, quite fittingly as you’ll see, is of Hebrew origin and means My People Belong to God.) The young girl and her mom had been abandoned by Amiel’s biological father and were living in a small, primitive dwelling—a place you might store a riding lawnmower and a few tools. Marta struggles to make ends meet by buying and selling American clothes and cleaning people’s homes. Like many in Honduras, this family owns next to nothing.

Throughout the day, our team interacted with little Amiel, and two of our younger ladies spent considerable time with her. As the only Honduran child on the job site, she was thrilled to be the lone recipient of various toys, snacks, candy, and attention. Our loud hammering was interrupted throughout the day by the 4-year-old’s delightful cackling, as she blew bubbles and swung on a makeshift swing.

Toward the end of the build, as we were nailing the final few nails and gathering our tools, I felt a tug on my leg. Little Amiel was making the rounds, giving each missionary a calf-level hug. That alone would have been enough—just seeing a small child express appreciation for our efforts.

But Amiel wasn’t finished. She reached into her bag of goodies—pretty much everything she owned in the world—and pulled out a smaller bag of candy that had been given to her earlier in the day. She wanted me to have it. I felt a lump in my throat and wiped my eyes. Although she had, to my knowledge, little to no direct exposure to Jesus’ teachings, she was embodying the point of today’s passage. Giving something back, even though she owned so little, brought her joy—it blessed her.

Chilean author Isabel Allende writes, “You only have what you give. It’s by spending yourself that you become rich.” Though just four years old and living in poverty, Amiel discovered that day what it means to be rich, and in doing so, taught us all a valuable lesson.

Amiel, Amiel, a name so fitting—your people belong to God.