One of the occupational hazards of being a pastor is sometimes your words come back to you. Pastors talk a lot. Pastors often give counsel. Pastors instruct, teach, and preach. With all this talking, there are many directives and admonitions given. And so, it is not uncommon for someone to start a conversation with me with the words, “Pastor, you said.”

In the past week, this has happened twice. One was a comment made without recognizing that they were rebuking me, and the other was a direct and clear corrective word. Both were received as precious blessings and profound encouragements.

The first Christmas of the war came five months after the war began. As soldiers sat in their wet and muddy trenches, they anticipated that Christmas day would come and go as so many days before had been spent. However, as darkness fell over the battlefield on Christmas Eve, British soldiers began to hear singing. The German soldiers were singing Christmas carols. The British soldiers heard familiar melodies emanating across the battle-scarred earth where so many had died, and some corpses still lay where they fell. They listened. Some even added their voice to the strange choir. Singing would lead to invitations, and miraculously the soldiers eventually climbed out of their muddy holes and met one another in "No Man's Land," to celebrate Christmas together. There were handshakes, sharing of cigarettes and cigars, and most importantly, a momentary pause in the exchange of gunfire. Diaries and letters to loved ones back home told of makeshift Christmas trees being erected and decorated, soccer games, and other joint activities in stark contrast to the context and location. The momentary relief from the prosecution of war also allowed both sides to collect their dead.

My family has a beloved story about my grandfather’s reaction to my dad taking up running. It was the early 1980s when running was not as popular as it has become today. My grandparents had come to celebrate my dad’s completion of the Callaway Gardens Marathon. When the race was over, my grandfather, who knew nothing about marathons or those who ran them, asked my dad if he had won the race. My dad told him that he had not, nor had he expected to win. Now a little confused about why my father would give such effort and even pay the entry fee to run a race that he did not expect to win, my grandfather asked if he got anything for running? To this question, my dad held up the t-shirt given to the race participants and said, “I got a t-shirt.” Then, my grandfather turned to my grandmother with a smile and said, “I think we have raised a fool.” My grandfather enjoyed a good joke, and he spoke these words with a grin, but I have to believe that though he intended these words as a lighthearted ribbing, they did reveal his befuddlement as to why anyone would suffer through running 26.2 miles just for a t-shirt.

It seems foolish indeed to those watching. One of the more common remarks, made in jest by those who are not runners, is that runners look so unpleasant while running. They say our faces carry the expression of pain and our general demeanor communicates suffering. The question is then asked, why would anyone want to do something that makes you so miserable?

We spend much of our lives talking about our bodies—what hurts, what is failing, what needs treatment, and what is growing weaker with age. Since Genesis 3, every generation has known the painful effects of sin’s curse through sickness, frailty, and death.

But Revelation 21 points us to a day when the former things will pass away. In heaven, God’s people will no longer speak of pain, weakness, or death. With glorified bodies and redeemed hearts, our conversation will be overtaken by the glory of God and the joy of life in Christ forever.