It was a sunny, sad day in 1982—the day after my husband’s funeral. I had gone alone to Bill’s grave, hardly knowing why. As with Mary Magdalene who visited Jesus’ tomb, the risen Lord was waiting for me. He impressed the words of Philippians 1:21 on my mind, still numbed by Bill’s untimely death from cancer.
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I’ll never forget Jake. His legs seemed too thin and spindly to hold him against the current of the river. His patched and discolored waders looked older than he was. His fishing vest was tattered and held together with safety pins; his ancient hat was battered and sweat-stained; his antiquated fly rod was scarred and taped.
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In some ways humans are inferior to animals. I have seen some incredibly strong men, but never one “as strong as an ox.” Men can run 100 meters in under 10 seconds, but that doesn’t begin to compare with the speed of a cheetah. There are people who have an uncanny sense of direction, but even they can’t explain how migrating swallows can return unerringly to the same place year after year.
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“In a lot of organizations, change is like putting lipstick on a bulldog. There’s a tremendous amount of effort involved, and most times all you get is some cosmetics—and an angry bulldog.” So writes Dave Murphy of the San Francisco Chronicle.
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