Diary of a Vegas Vacation: Entry Three, Housekeeping & Fishnets

Days two and three sort of blend together.  I woke up on day two with the street preacher still fresh in my mind, and an unusual, ministerial energy that I hadn’t felt before.  Like there was purpose today and something was going to happen; like maybe I was supposed to make something happen.  I intended to use part of my interruption-free time to work on some other writing projects that I had been moving too slowly on and sat down at the desk in our hotel room (I don’t mind saying it was a NICE hotel room) to do just that.  I ended up beginning this series instead. 

As I was wrapping up the first post it was around lunch time and I decided I would take my laptop somewhere with Wi-Fi and post the first entry while I had lunch.  As I was saving and closing down, housekeeping came to the door.  I smiled at her and assured her it was ok to come in, I would be leaving in a few minutes anyways.  Her name was Olivia and her smile and demeanor were friendly and confidant and not at all subservient or like she had to pretend I was better than her.  I was glad for that; I hate it when people act like that with me.  And I felt that this was something.  I decided to strike up a conversation.  An oddity for me since I hate conversation because I feel so inept at it, but this day was anointed and I planned to press in and find out why.

As I packed up my stuff to head out I made small talk (which I don’t generally know how to do, so it MUST have been God) and asked how long she had worked at the hotel.  She had worked there since August.  She had been blessed to get the job with no prior experience after the printer she worked at let her go after many years of service.  She had developed fibromyalgia and so they had found a reason so as not to incur extra benefits costs.

Her biggest worry was her oldest son.  Her 24 year old son had started doing drugs some time back.  It started with marijuana, and she had learned that it had progressed to heroin.  She had a hard time not blaming herself and wondering what she had done wrong.  She had tried everything but the boy didn’t really want help yet.  She had taken him to a treatment center but he left after only four hours. 

Brian (that is her son's name), had two little girls who are old enough now to know that something isn’t right with daddy, and his girlfriend (the children’s mother) has given up on him.  The thing that Olivia found to be both perplexing and an assurance was that Brian had always been the one most in the Word and knew his Bible inside and out.  He had taught her everything she knew about faith and had been the one to make her faith strong.  And yet here he was now telling her to stop praying for him, that God wasn’t going to help; that he was already lost, had sold his soul and now had to worship Satan. But it also meant that he had a foundation.  He knew the truth.

Her church, Victory Church, had a strong recovery program with a smart pastor.  He was there for her to lean on and was helping her to realize that nothing would help Brian until he wanted help.  But she should keep praying and not give up.  She wished she could get to church more but weekends were the busiest time for the hotels.

I knew her room quota and schedule were probably tighter than UPS’s and I didn’t want to get her in trouble, so rather than pray with her there I assured her that I would pray for both her son and her fibromyalgia (which the doctors had said in 2009 was so bad she wouldn’t be able to use her hands much longer (but look at her now, praise God).  So I parted company with Olivia.

To get where I was going I had to leave the hotel and head up to a pedestrian overpass to cross Las Vegas Blvd.  These bridges were spacious, wide and full of people pedaling things.  On these bridges, as well as on every street corner, were people promoting the bars and clubs.  They did so by trying to hand out drink coupons with pictures of naked girls provocatively posed.  Only about half of these promoters where male.  Many of the females were short, squat little old ladies.  Maybe somebody’s grandmother.  But there were younger girls, too.  And they were usually dressed for the part. 

As I came to the other side of the bridge I started down the escalator.  But as soon as I stepped onto it my mind finally registered the girl I had just walked by and seen purely in my peripheral vision.  I didn’t notice her until it was too late to stop, and turning back would have made me look creepy.  But once she registered, the image was clear.  She had been standing next to the escalator leaned up against the bridge rail, one foot up against the wall behind her like some gunslinger in a clichéd western.  She was young, mid-twenties maybe, with long, straight dark hair down to the middle of her back.  She had on aviator sunglasses, was holding a fake police baton, wearing a fake badge, a police-looking bikini top, black bikini bottoms, fishnet stockings and mid-calve boots.

As soon as she registered in my mind (Vegas is kind of keep-your-eyes-to-yourself kind of place unless you want to get taken for something), I realized I missed an opportunity for another something. It was quite windy out and the temperature was just barely on the positive side of comfortable for me in a long sleeved shirt and sweater.  Had I seen her sooner I would have asked jovially, “Aren’t you cold?”  In my mind I could see the smile.  It would be the same one all the girls wore.  It would be full of well-practiced genuiness.  Not flirtatious, but with warmth and seemingly sincere happiness to see you.   Vegas girls could make money as smile consultants, teaching service staff around the country how to flash that smile.   She would have answered honestly enough. “A little.”  “How long do you have to stand out here?” I would have asked next.  And she’d have answered.  “What do you do in December?”  Answer.  “How long have you lived in Vegas?” Answer.  “Are you going to school or something?  Must have an important goal to be standing out here freezing like this.”  This is how the conversation would begin, and I would have learned her story.  What it was that made her do what she did.  No little girl says that when she grows up she wants to stand on a crowded walk-way in next to nothing, getting ogled, mentally undressed, and probably ‘accidentally’ groped by guys ‘accidentally’ getting jostled into her by the crowd. Maybe it was the only way she could find to pay for school.  Maybe her parents had shuffled her out of the house as soon as she turned 18.  Maybe she got pregnant at 16 or 17 and her parents had thrown her out and now she had a kid at home to feed.  Maybe she ran away from home, to get away from the abuse, and found that exploiting her only known asset was the only way for her to survive.  I would have learned all those things about this otherwise anonymous girl, who was standing on the Vegas strip and hoping that this would be as far as she would ever have to go in using her body to make money.

How much would she have appreciated that conversation?  A conversation that was about her as a person.  A conversation that didn’t begin “hey baby,” or end with “When you gettin’ off tonight?”  A conversation with someone who looked her in the eye the entire time and then moved on, no motives.  What kind of hope might that have left her with?  There were many girls like her along the strip, but it was only her that I had had a strong conviction that I needed to start a conversation with.  A something missed.

In the end the day played out pretty much like that.  I had places to be that evening and I needed to get back and get ready.  I should have had more than one Olivia that day but I missed the other opportunities.  The day had been anointed but I wasted that anointing.  Not too big a deal; it happens from time to time.  Especially when it’s for something totally new to you (like talking and conversing).  Upon reflection I know that I didn’t give in to my wife asking me to go with her – I had given in to God.  Upon reflection I know that the disappointment a couple months before at deciding not to go was really that feeling you get when you have just made a decision that was opposite what God was telling you to make.  Upon reflection I know that it was a vacation that was not supposed to be a vacation.

They say that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.  But something about Vegas didn’t stay there.  Something about Vegas nags at me, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.  Jesus looked out at the crowds and said that “the harvest is so great, but the workers are so few.” (NLT.  Matt. 9:37 [or, if you don’t like Matthew, Luke 10:2; but who doesn’t like Matthew?]).  For three days I walked Las Vegas Blvd and saw so many sheep in need of a shepherd, and none in sight.

Diary of a Vegas Vacation: Entry Two; The Street Preacher

On our first night here, after all the convention stuff was out of the way, my wife and I decided to walk to one of the other hotels that I remembered visiting.  I had wanted to show her some of the novelties that these places are famous for.  Tonight I wanted to show her the little show the statues put on at Caesar’s Palace.  It’s kind of neat.  In one of the shopping centers in the hotel is a statue of Caesar and some other people and at appointed times they come to life and move and talk to each other and the crowd, and the ceiling (which is beautiful anyway) changes colors and scenery and stuff. Of course it’s been so long that I couldn’t find it so after walking around the casino for a bit we decided to head back.  (I mean, it’s interesting but it’s not THAT interesting).

On the way there (it was a walk of about a block.  A very large block), there was a street preacher.  He was like every other street preacher we’ve all seen.  He had stationed himself on the corner of the Bellagio property, next that resorts famous fountains.  People flock to see the Bellagio’s fountains do their little dance so it’s not a bad location. (Not that there IS a bad location on the Vegas strip). He had someone with him who held the “Jesus is coming back soon sign”, while he had his portable sound system, pacing the corner repeating over and over again that everybody there needed to repent of their sins and believe on Jesus.  True enough.

As we walked by him on our way to Caesar’s Palace a young couple, nicely dressed, walked quickly by, arm in arm.  As they walked by him the young woman turned her head and yelled, “You’re an A#@-$&le.”  And then her companion, as if he was her parrot, echoed, “Yeah, you’re an A#$-#$le!”  I thought THAT was little harsh.  He hadn’t seemed to be doing anything that would qualify him as anything more than annoying. 

On our way back from Caesar’s palace we passed him again.  He was still saying the same thing, apparently the only bullet point – the only sentence – in his sermon:  Repent of your sins, and believe on Jesus Christ.  He was a normal looking person.  Clean cut, late thirties or early forties, clean clothes, a t-shirt and cargo shorts and tennis shoes.  Not yelling at all, just speaking calmly through his microphone.  However the person who had stopped to engage him this time was not at all normal looking.  He was a few inches taller than me, and a few inches thinner (which is to say he was very thin), and had chosen for his outfit this evening a police uniform.  But not just ANY police uniform.  No, this was a “naughty” police uniform with shorty-shorts and a halter top for which he had not the breasts to do it justice. I’m going to go out on a limb and say he was probably gay, even though he obviously had no fashion sense whatsoever.

So here is this street preacher with one line to his schtick, and a cross-dressing gay guy.  As we walked up within hearing distance I heard the gay guy yell (he wanted to make sure everyone could hear him as he debated the street preacher), the he was being insulted for something he had no control over.  And it is true that he had no control over it.  I mean lets face it: some people are born with good fashion sense and some people aren’t.  But I found it a bit hard to believe that he had actually been insulted.  Street Preacher only had one line, after all, and he didn’t seem to be getting into the specifics of what people had needed to repent of.  More than likely Gay Guy had simply assumed an insult because the Street Preacher was talking about Jesus, and Christianity is virtually an implied insult to his kind. 

So Gay Guy, gesticulating dramatically and ridiculously (I think at one point I might have seen him use jazz hands) and yelling so everybody can hear how logical and right he is, is saying he has been insulted and asking “Is THAT Jesus??” And Street Preacher responds, without drama or much inflection to his voice that “the only thing you have control over, sir, is to repent of your sins and believe on Jesus.”  To which Gay Guy responds that Street Preacher has no response “because you have… NO… LOGICAL … ARGUMENT!” (jazz hands!)  And with that my wife and I were back on the other side of the street and no longer within hearing distance.

I only heard a small portion of the exchange, but what I heard was significant, and the whole scene stuck with me.  I’ve always been conflicted about the street preacher 'calling'.  On the one hand, I believe more street level ministry is needed.  A majority of Jesus’s ministry was street level ministry.  On the other hand, they make me cringe.  The attitude of those that defend them remind me of the chain emails that go around with a nice story and picture of Jesus that tell you that if you’re not a shamed of him you’ll forward the email.  I NEVER forward those emails.  I know who I am, and what I have, in Christ and I don’t feel the need to prove it by forwarding an email simply because I don’t want to fall into the category of people who say they love him but then never do anything to evangelize for him.  And I don’t feel the need to approve of the street preacher simply because we are brethren in Christ and it’s expected of me.  I’m sure I am simply saying what most of us are at least thinking.

So yes, I find it uncomfortable to pass these people in the street.  I’m sure most of us do.  But not for “fleshly” reasons.  Not because I’m too shy to be public about my faith.  Not because I’m in Vegas and don’t want to hear about Jesus while on vacation in sin city.  I cringe because of what I see them doing to people.  I used to be where Gay Guy was. Well, not in a naughty outfit not meant for my gender.  I used to be the atheist laughing at the lack of logic in the Christian argument.  I used to be the guy throwing the criticisms at those who believe.  Maybe not publicly like Gay Guy was.  But I was in that place.  I know what pushed me away from Christ and I know what pulled me toward him.  And Gay Guy had a very good point: was THAT Jesus?

No, it wasn’t.  I’m not going to say that Street Preacher wasn’t called to do what he was doing.  That’s not for me to judge.  In fact, God probably did tell him to go do what he was doing.  And I applaud his courage.  He was taking a real beating out there but he kept at it, and remained calm.  But I don’t believe the message he was giving was the one God sent him to that corner with.  And that mistake is indicative of so much of the Christian message in so many places and in so many forms. 

Was repentance a valid message?  Absolutely, and Jesus himself preached it.  But it’s not all that Jesus preached.  He knew how to gauge his audience and tailor his message to their needs.

You see, Gay Guy was being told that HE needed to repent of HIS sins.  And what he’s wondering when he hears that is why HE needs to repent of HIS sins.  HE’S never sexually abused anybody, the way he was sexually abused growing up.  HE’S never beat people, the way his father beat him; the way others have beat him and left him lying and crying in back alleys because they found him disgusting and less than human.  In his mind he’s being told to repent of the 'horrific' sin of going against cultural norms in his choices of attire and companionship.  Don’t get me wrong - I’m not defending his lifestyle, I’m simply trying to give a glimpse into what he’s thinking when someone who knows nothing about him tells him he has to repent.  Too many times we see people where they are without bothering to see where they’ve been.

The people that Street Preacher is talking at on a corner of the Las Vegas strip are, in many cases, people who have been through terrible things and are living the way they are because the fantasy world of Las Vegas provides a salve for their wounds. What Street Preacher should have said to Gay Guy is that God is very fond of him.  What he should be telling the passers-by is that Jesus loves them beyond measure.  That Jesus is sorry for what they’ve been through, and is ready to walk them through it when they are ready for healing.

Proverbs 26:9 says “A proverb in the mouth of a fool is like a thorny branch brandished by a drunk” (NLT).  He’s going to hurt himself and those around him.  Love can just as easily be preached in a one line street sermon as can judgment.

Diary of a Vegas Vacation: Entry One

             Funny how quickly your mortality can get all in your face all of a sudden.  Like when the plane you're on suddenly dips, fish tails to the right and pops back up and corrects itself slightly to the left.  Why am I on an airplane?  Let me back up just a few hours.

            My wife had been scheduled to go to an industry conference in Las Vegas for the past few months.  We had thought that it might be a nice little vacation for both us if we could swing the money for my plane ticket.  But we thought it was too much to spend, and decided against it. But as the date got closer my wife starting asking me if I was sure I shouldn’t go.  She’s a very intelligent, capable and independent women.  But somewhere inside is still the small town girl I married 15 years ago, and the looming specter of Las Vegas was making her a bit nervous.  I grew up in large, busy suburbs and actually lived in Vegas about 20 years ago.  That, and the simple fact of her husband being with her would make her more comfortable.  So on the morning of the day she had to leave I finally gave in.  It was last minute but we got a really good deal on a flight so I got packed.

            We had to take separate flights but they were to arrive about the same time.  Hers was direct, mine had a connection in Houston.  The last time I flew was Christmas and as we taxied towards the runway I finally admitted to myself what I had only suspected those ten months ago:  I don’t like flying anymore.  I used to when I was a kid.  But I didn’t have a whole lot of sense when I was a kid.  Now I could comprehend the irrational physics of moving a metal tube through the air at several hundred miles per hour 34,000 feet above the ground.   So here I am on this plane getting ready to take off and the captain informs us that there is a line of “significant” weather moving just on the outskirts of Houston.  So here I was, flying through “significant” weather on the outskirts of Houston, keeping my best poker face on for the benefit of the woman next to me who was pretending to sleep, but was actually praying more fervently than even I was, since we boarded.

            It wasn’t death itself that made me nervous.  Being dead is the easy part.  It was the prospect of how getting that way might come about that was a little nerve wracking.  But even that wasn’t my primary concern.  It was my kids.  What would they do without a father?  What if today was to be a day of freak accidents and sad, impossible-to-believe Reader’s Digest stories and both mine AND my wife’s plane went down?  Then what about my kids?  Who would they end up with?  Would there be a fight between the families?  I’ve seen the pain of children mourning parents – how would they cope with that through life?  Would they know how much I loved them, or just remember the conflicts?

            All of this was very irrational because I knew very well that I was not going to die today.  But fear has a way of creeping in and paranoia strikes deep.  And it doesn’t help when the stewardess comes on to tell you to buckle up and that she has been order to sit down and buckle up because of some upcoming severe turbulence.  And then plane does its little dance as described earlier.

            But all that aside, what is really striking (and what I started out wanting to talk about) is how we think when suddenly faced with the fact that we are not given forever.  Jesus uses the parable of the bridegroom to warn us that we never know the hour at which he might come back and that we should therefore always be prepared.  I was amused at the way I was running over in my mind the times in the past week or two that I had fallen short of the glory of God and how I would suddenly do anything to make it right again.  I was thinking about the times I was a little harder on the kids than I should have been, analyzing whether or not I spent enough time with them or had always seemed to be too busy for that game of soccer.  Wondering how long it takes a plane to fall 34,000 feet and if that would be enough time for a quick call to my kids, or to leave a last message for them all on my wife’s voicemail.  I was worried about whether the people I loved knew I loved them and how much.  Just a few hours earlier death was nowhere to be seen.  I had plenty of time to correct myself, and strengthen the bonds with my family.  And all of a sudden (however irrational it might be), time was not a certainty.  My house was not in order and I was not prepared for the bride groom.  I had used the oil in my lamp carelessly, and was earnestly begging for more.

The moral of the story: take a bus.

Roots

There is a particular spot in my back yard, about a 10 x 15 foot area that my wife and I would like to someday turn into a little patio area.  Right now it’s an overgrown mess.  Tall, hardy weeds; tough, little weedy shrubs; various grasses and all sorts of other annoying vegetation call the place home. Trying to keep this area under control is a lot of work.  No matter how many times I cut it all down it keeps coming back, often times bigger and hardier than before.  And if I fail to stay on top of it for too long it becomes a solid weekends worth of work.

One of the keys to getting rid of certain things like tall weeds, shrubs and other things is to get at the roots.  If all you do is cut down what’s above the surface, leaving the roots alone, then the thing is bound to grow back.

My battle with this piece of landscaping is similar to the enemy’s battle with us.  His ultimate goal is to destroy our relationship with God.  To do that he keeps hacking away at our blessings.  Does it ever seem like whenever something good happens to you that you hardly have time to enjoy it before something happens to it, or something stressful pops up in direct relation to it?  Those are the garden shears of the enemy.  And, just like I have to be with my landscaping, he has to be on top of them all the time, lest they grow and bear more fruit than he can handle.  It may not be what anybody wants to hear – but he’s not going to let up.  But the good news?  He can’t ever get at your roots, if your roots are Jesus Christ.  Which means those blessings will keep coming back to annoy the enemy.  As long as you don’t let him discourage you into letting go of those roots, then he can never achieve his ultimate goal of killing your relationship with the Father.

UNLIKE my landscaping problem, our blessings are not weeds they are flowers. Nor is the enemy the gardener.  He’s just a thief in the garden who has no legal right to be there. The gardener is you.  Expected me to say God, didn’t you.  It is true that there would be no flowers in the garden, or even a garden at all, if not for the grace of God.  But God gave us the responsibility of tending the garden.  We can plant the seeds of our blessings by ardently following after Him.  (…I will not let you go unless you bless me – Gen 32:26).  We can water and fertilize our blessings, and make them to be hardy plants resistant to the enemy’s shears, with prayer.  Prayer can insulate and protect our blessings the way piles of leaves insulate flowers against the frost.  Prayer keeps the weeds that would choke our flowers at bay the way fertilizer with weed control works in the natural.  Why?  Because prayer is the active nurturing of our relationship with Jesus Christ, who provides the right amount of rain and sun for the garden we are tending.  It strengthens the roots.  And the flowers are really just the visible manifestation of the strength of our roots.  If we protect our roots then we will always have flowers in our garden.  (Here on Earth you will have many trials and sorrows.  But take heart, because I (JESUS) have overcome the world. – John 16:33 [Parenthetical emphasis added]).

I Got Stung In the Face by a Bee

Well, a hornet, really.  I was doing some work on our soffits and gutters one Saturday.  In one particular spot where I had to do a lot of work, they had made a large nest just inside the rafter.  So while I worked I had tools in one hand and a fly swatter in the other, repairing my home and doing battle.  I only got a couple; my hand-eye coordination was no match for their dogfighting skills. 

When I climbed down the ladder to go work down at the other end of the house I thought I was safe.  After all, most creatures return to their business after the threat has left.  Humans are the only animals that understand the concept of vengeance.  Or so I thought.

Fifteen minutes later I climbed down the ladder on the end I had moved to and took a couple of steps toward my back door.  All of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, an orangish blur swoops down from the skies and smacks me just below my right eye.  It wasn’t until I felt the first sting that I realized that I had not just been hit, but that it had actually latched on to my face.  It seemed like my arms would not coordinate properly as I flailed wildly, trying to smack it off of my face.  (It’s not so easy to convince your body to hit itself in the face).  By the time it was all over he’d gotten me about four or five times.  All in the same spot since he never left my face .  I’m still not sure if I managed to knock him off, or if he figured he’d owned me enough and nonchalantly flew off and returned home, no doubt to the enchanted buzzing of his infatuated female admirers. 

Reeling in pain I staggered into the house and sent my wife to the store for some wasp spray, while I dabbed my cheek (about 1 ½ below my eye) with Hydrogen Peroxide.  As I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, reflecting on how my day was turning into a scene from a Chevy Chase movie, I decided I couldn’t be mad at the wasp.  He was only protecting himself and his family.  If I could recall all the times in my life that I stung someone I’m sure I’d find I was protecting myself.  Protecting my pride.  Protecting myself from getting too close or emotionally attached. Protecting my opinion or what I presumed to be my rights.  The list could go on and on. 

And as I sprayed down the wasp nest, obliterating it and anything close to it that moved, I reflected on what I had heard said once before:  that people who hurt, are hurting people.  Was I hurting whenever I stung someone?  I think it’s safe to say I was.  And if that is true for me then I have to allow that it might be true of others who have stung me.  And so I need to show grace.  Even when – especially when – I am in the greatest amount of pain.

Dirt

     “Do you have something in the oven?”  My wife asked me one Saturday morning.

     “Yes”.

     “What are you making” She had that expectant half smile, thinking that I was maybe making something good for breakfast.
     “Dirt.”  The half smile disappeared and was replaced by a half quizzical, half unsurprised (because it was, after all, me) look.
     “Dirt?”
     “Well…mud, really.  But I’m hoping it will turn into dirt.”
     “By now,” she said, “I should know better than to ask; but… why?”

The reason was that I needed dirt for an illustration for a sermon I was giving the next morning.  We had just started preaching a series on growing through adversity; growing through being sifted, in other words. So in this illustration I was to take some dirt (very useless dirt that won’t grow anything – which my yard is full of), put a handful of larger rocks in it, then sift it through one of my mesh strainers from the kitchen.  And lastly, go by a new mesh strainer.  After the sifting there would be two piles:  A pile of useless dirt in which nothing could grow, and a pile of rocks.  I would point out that which pile we land in depends on our response to the seasons of sifting in our lives.  I would point out the uselessness of the dirt and go on about that for a bit; then I would point out the significance of a rock.  That people used to build alters out of rocks, that David brought down Goliath with a rock, that Simon was given the name Peter (Petra) which means rock, that Christ describes faith as a rock on which he will build his church, etc. etc.  I would then present the audience with a choice:  Do you want to be dirt, or do you want to be a rock.  It is completely up to us.

 Unfortunately it had been raining all night.  Although the illustration was for the benefit of the audience, I was learning a lesson by getting it ready.  The Holy Spirit had given me the idea for the illustration late in the week before.  But I didn’t act on it.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it (yeah, yeah - I know). There had been plenty of sunny days between then and now, and I knew it was likely to rain over the weekend.  When it started raining Friday night I thought, “Ehh, don’t really need the illustration anyways” (yeah, yeah - I know). Of course when I woke up Saturday morning the Holy Spirit burdened my heart with the illustration to the point that I couldn’t relax with my coffee until I had gone outside and gathered enough dirt.  

Except there wasn’t any dirt.  There was only mud.  So I thought about how mud becomes dirt: by being baked in the sun’s heat.  Well I couldn’t simulate the sun, but I could simulate the heat.

“Won’t that just make it a brick?”  asked my wife.  I hadn’t thought about that.  Surely there was more to making bricks than just baking simple mud.  Right?  Maybe, just to be safe, if I slow baked it, instead of trying to dry it too fast, it would keep it from hardening into a brick.  So I set the oven to 200 degrees.  About twelve hours later I pull it out of the oven.  It had dried! Into a brick.  So know I had to find something (I ended up using a screw driver) to break it into chunks, and then grind the chunks back into dirt with my hands. In the end it was a time consuming, messy process that could have been avoided had I just done what I was supposed to do in the first place.  So the lesson here is this: things – life in general – are easier when we do things God’s way the first time.