Littered throughout my neighborhood are stop signs. In fact, just about 100 feet north of my driveway is one, and a quarter of a mile south is another—both of which I’ve passed hundreds of times over the last 20 years.
While I understand that the octagonal sign says STOP, I seldom feel compelled to do so. Completely. Most often I translate the command into a suggestion to simply slow down and check for inconvenient traffic. It’s embarrassing to admit, but absolutely true (please don’t tell my grandchildren who are learning to drive!).
A rolling stop. A tap of the brakes. Velocity adjusted, but not eliminated.
Thursday is Thanksgiving. A STOP sign.
Across the traffic of life and living, it’s an octagonal sign that suggests a change in speed—an intentional adjustment of velocity. The persistent decision throughout the holiday will be whether I come to a complete stop or merely tap the brakes.
Will I intentionally arrest my thoughts enough to fully and completely engage? Will the volume of cross traffic be irrelevant because I don’t intend to join them?
I’ll be busy. A turkey to grill, a once-a-year meal to help prepare, grandchildren to tackle, a football to throw… but stopped. Not rolling through. Not momentarily available. A full stop. Perhaps even stopped long enough to shift gears. Park, not drive.
A plan for thanksgiving on Thanksgiving. A strategy for laughter and joy.
Vacant moments ready to be filled with immediate opportunity. Notifications off. Fully present. Agile. Nimble. Engaged.
When I stop, I serve. When I serve, I honor those I love. And when I do that, I steward the love of Jesus in a way that brings Him delight… even as it does the same for me.
Happy Thanksgiving. Full STOP.
Not rolling through. Not tapping my brakes. Stopped.
Nourishment for the soul. A feast without calories.
Busy, but stopped. Stopped, but moving in the right direction.
An act of worship. A demonstration of trust. A commitment to love.
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