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The Things Left Undone

When you and I come to the end of our earthly journey or the the end of a season in our lives, what will we leave undone? There is no way we can "do it all," but there is a way to know "what to do" and "when to do it." The Holy Spirit is ever willing to prick our hearts to lead us to change or move us to action. Areas that I have been convicted about – changing, improving, starting, acting on – include publication, organization, simplification, and education. Procrastination of personal promptings from God is a sly trap that leads to never doing what He meant for us to do, be it big or small. Granted, sometimes, He requires us to wait on that prompting to grow. Always, He is preparing us to carry out His appointed assignments for us. Therefore, we need His wisdom to differentiate between the promptings of the Holy Spirit and the good ideas we have of our own because we cannot do everything. Then, we need His power to help us do what is beyond our limited human capacity. With hope, I trust I will be able to share how God changes my life by His Spirit. Things left undone cause regret and hinder rich relationships. I do not want to leave undone the things that GOD wants me to do. I don't want to be too hurried to lift, to touch, to write, to speak, to give a flower, to offer a real prayer. Below is a poem from Streams in the Desert that I needed to read. I hope it will speak to you as well. ~Jeri Lynn


It isn't the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone, Which gives you the bitter heartache At the setting of the sun; The tender word unspoken, The letter you did not write, The flower you might have sent, dear, Are your haunting ghosts at night.

The stone you might have lifted Out of your brother's way, The bit of heartsome counsel You were hurried too much to say; The loving touch of the hand, dear, The gentle and winsome tone, That you had no time or thought for, With troubles enough of your own.

These little acts of kindness, So easily out of mind, These chances to be angels, Which even mortals find They come in night and silence, Each chill reproachful wraith, When hope is faint and flagging, And a blight has dropped on faith.

For life is all too short, dear. And sorrow is all too great, To suffer our slow compassion That tarries until too late. And it's not the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone, Which gives you the bitter heartache, At the setting of the sun.

–Adelaide Proctor

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