Insight for Today
A Daily Devotional by Pastor Chuck Swindoll

As I mentioned yesterday, as stimulating and invigorating as change may be—it is never easy. And when it comes to certain habits that haunt and harm us, change can be excruciating. But it isn't impossible.

When you boil life down to the nubbies, the name of the game is change. Those who flex with the times, refuse to be rigid, resist the mold, and reject the rut—ah, those are the souls distinctively used by God. To them, change is a challenge.

The Cave of Adullam was no Holiday Inn. It was a wicked refugee camp . . . a dark vault on the side of a cliff that reached deeply into a hill. Huddled in this clammy cavern were 400 losers—a mob of miserable humanity. They came from all over and wound up all together.

"Don't sweat the small stuff." Somebody said that to me the other day. It helped . . . momentarily. I needed reality's nudge. Being casual on the outside but a fairly thorough and disciplined soul within, I sometimes need to be reminded that few people will even notice the thing I'm camping on.

While I was away for a couple weeks of vacation many years ago, I read a book by David Elkind describing the staggering number of teenagers who lack the adult guidance and support they need to make a healthy transition into adulthood.

Like potatoes in a pressure cooker, we twenty-first century creatures understand the meaning of stress. A week doesn't pass without a few skirmishes with those "extrinsic agents" that beat upon our fragile frames.

Instant replays have become old hat. We now expect them in all televised sports. Whether it's a tennis pro's impressive backhand or an NBA center's slam dunk or a heavyweight boxer's smashing jab, we never have to worry about missing it the first time around.

Nobody is a whole chain. Each one is a link. But take away one link and the chain is broken. Nobody is a whole team. Each one is a player. But take away one player and the game is forfeited. Nobody is a whole orchestra. Each one is a musician.

Okay . . . there you stand, getting introduced to someone. How are you going to remember the person's name? Well, you're already of the mind-set that this meeting and the person are very important. You remember that from yesterday, right?

Remembering is a skill. Sure, there are those who have been blessed with a good memory. But they are exceptions. For most of us, remembering is a skill, like speaking in public, singing, reading, thinking, or swimming. We improve at a skill by hard work.

One of the toughest assignments in life is to communicate clearly what happened during a time when emotions were high. People who "fall in love" can hardly describe it. Those who endure a calamity or experience a sudden loss often convey the information in a confused manner.

Who really cared? His was a routine admission to busy Bellevue Hospital. A charity case, one among hundreds. A bum from the Bowery with a slashed throat. The Bowery . . . last stop before the morgue.

Yesterday we began talking about the legal swamp—the tendency of people, and even professing Christians, to march headlong into the mire of courtroom battles, often without any attempt at personal reconciliation.

Law never fails to turn me off. Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't think we need it . . . it's just that it leaves me cold. It frowns and demands. It requires and warns and threatens. With a grim glare, it dares us to forget its rules . . .

It was a cold, blustery January night in 1973. Senator John Stennis, the venerable hawkish Democrat from Mississippi, drove from Capitol Hill to his northwest Washington home. Although older (71), he was still the powerful chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee.

Yesterday we looked at the grim, pitiful life of Samson, a powerful leader whose lust ultimately destroyed him. (Read Judges 16.) Lust is a deadly intruder you dare not entertain for a moment. When lust knocks on your door, you must call on Christ to meet it.

Samson was a he-man with a she-weakness. In spite of the fact that he was born of godly parents, set apart from his birth to be a Nazirite, and elevated to the enviable position of judge in Israel, he never conquered his tendency toward lust.

The Great Plague stretched across London like a thick, drab blanket. It came as a thief in the night . . . unannounced, treacherous, silent. The mortality rate was astounding. Someone came up with the foolish idea that polluted air brought on the plague.

Could it be that you are beginning to feel the nick of falling rocks? Maybe the avalanche has already fallen and you're more than a little desperate. Job is our model for staying faithful when life is reduced to rubble. How'd he do it? Let's take a look.

Job could write about wounds. His words were more than patronizing platitudes and armchair proverbs. He'd been there and back again. He could describe intense inner suffering in the first person because of his own sea of pain.