My doctor put me on a diet. Something about my cholesterol level reaching stratospheric levels. So I have become a devout reader of ingredient labels. I am supposed to avoid high levels of saturated fat, trans fat, cholesterol and taste. So far, I’ve been successful in my quest. My levels are down to a physician pleasing number, at least until they readjust the recommendations again.
In all, the process hasn’t been all that bad. There are only a few foods that I really miss. Actually, only one. French fries. So far, I’ve found nothing that comes close to the taste of a french fry that doesn’t have a month’s worth of fat in each bite. That hasn’t made me stop wanting them. I feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs every time I pass by a McDonald’s. Come to think of it, I’m salivating right now.
I have learned something, though. If I can become this enamored by a fried underground vegetable, how much more should I desire to glorify Christ? If my doctor stops hounding me, don’t stand between me and the nearest deep fryer. Why can’t I have that same longing for serving the Lord? I should. That’s my Thanksgiving prayer. As we give thanks this year for God’s blessing, with every pecan pie I pass, I’m going to remind myself of what the Savior gave up for me. Suddenly that piece of pie seems really insignificant.
2 Corinthians 8:9 (NIV)
For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that you through his poverty might become rich.