The Language of the Liar

maxlucado.com The Language of the Liar I was living in Brazil. It had been an especially frustrating day getting my car fixed. As I drove off, two devils perched on my shoulders. They spoke the language of the Liar. One was anger; the other self-pity! I rolled down my window when I reached a traffic stop. I saw a boy, probably nine years old. Shirtless. Barefooted. “What’s your name?” I asked. “Jose,” he answered. Two other orphans with him were naked except for ragged gym shorts. “Have you collected much money today?” I asked. He opened a dirty hand full of coins. Enough perhaps for a soft drink. As I pulled out the equivalent of a dollar his eyes brightened and he ran to tell his friends! God sent Jose to me that day with this message: “Max, you cry over spilled champagne. You bellyache over frills, not the basics.” Jose gave me a lot for my dollar… he gave me a lesson on gratitude. from Six Hours One Friday