I’m in my 50s, and like most people my age, I don’t expect life to end without warning. But let’s be honest—very few of us spend our busy days thinking about dying. We’re running the hurry-up offense of life.
I wake up, grab my soon-to-be-outdated phone and tablet, check emails, texts, and social media. I down two cups of coffee while watching Good Morning America. Bathroom. Shower. Shave. Brush my teeth—reminding me, once again, that I really need to see the dentist. I get dressed, top off my coffee in a travel mug, grab a half-toasted bagel, hunt down my keys, and rush out the door because I’m late. Again.
I work a few hours, head to lunch, and scarf down a burger and fries with a chocolate shake. Mustard lands on my white shirt. Dang. I rush back to the office. More work, daydreaming, and a quick peek at Facebook—just in case I missed something important. Jackpot! A photo of a white female bulldog named Sam, dressed like a bandito—bandana, shades, leather jacket, and a spiked collar. I think, Why do people find it entertaining to humiliate their pets?
The clock finally hits closing time. I gather my stuff, pass by my manager’s office, and catch her giving that classic “you’re leaving on time?” guilt glance. Doesn’t work on me.
On the drive home, I text while singing along to Queen—“Mama mia, mama mia!” Then the head-thrashing begins. Picture it: a middle-aged man having a one-man concert in traffic.
At a stoplight, I catch the eye of a weathered old man in a beat-up pickup. Cigarette in hand, white beard blowing in the breeze, he stares like I’ve lost my mind. I imagine him grumbling under his whiskey-soaked breath, “This country’s going to hell since pot was legalized. Soft-handed punk probably never worked a day in his life.” The light turns green.
At home, I debate between cooking, eating out, or foraging through the fridge. I settle on a frozen thin-crust supreme pizza. If my daughter complains about the black olives, she can pick them off—and I’ll remind her that millions of kids are starving.
I check messages. Nothing urgent. I hug my daughter, kiss my wife, and say, “Pizza’s in the oven. Tell me about your day.”
“Pretty good, but I’ve got homework.”
“Same old, same old.”
“How exciting,” I say with mock enthusiasm.
Another thought strikes: laundry. I toss in a load and take a second shower, using those jet settings that never actually hit the right spots. Afterward, I grab a couple slices of pizza, flip on Netflix or Hulu, and settle in for a movie someone told me I’d love. Halfway through, I pause it to check email.
Then I spot it.
On the brand-new carpet in the dining room—my dog’s multicolored vomit masterpiece. Gagging, I grab cleaning supplies while scolding her:
“All dogs don’t go to heaven!”
She backs away, clueless.
After cleaning up the mess (and realizing she also got into the trash), I log onto Facebook to share my trauma with the world. The post includes every detail, because clearly, people need to know.
A few minutes later, I change my cover photo—gotta show my 2,000 “friends” how much cooler I am today than yesterday. I send a tweet. I dabble on LinkedIn. I even think about reviving my old Google+ account. I start a blog but remember it’s getting late.
Laundry folded, bed made, my wife walks in.
“I’m exhausted,” she says.
I nod, turn on the fan and noisemaker, crawl under clean sheets, and—one last time—check my phone. New comments on the Facebook post:
“Gross.”
“Sick.”
“Did you rub her nose in it?”
“I’d put her down.”
“You’re a better man than I am.”
Enough Facebook for one night.
Now the final decision: Kindle or book? I glance at the hardcover on my nightstand, that ancient 6”x9” tree-killing relic filled with paper and ink. My eyelids grow heavy. I turn off the lamp, whisper goodnight, and close my eyes.
What a day… or was it?
Here’s the point of my madness:
We’re so busy, we’ve forgotten how to truly live.
The mist is thick, and the light isn’t getting through. Something’s got to change. And for me, that change means becoming a Vaporizer.
Let me explain.
In James 4:14, we’re reminded:
“What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.”
Life is short. Unpredictable. Here today, gone tonight. You may be young and healthy this morning, and a memory by sunset. Morbid? Maybe. But ignoring this truth leads to living aimlessly—and without eternity in mind.
So I asked myself:
Am I going to spend the rest of my life like this guy with the out-of-whack priorities?
Not a chance.
How to Become a Vaporizer:
-
Keep your eyes open.
-
Be sensitive to what’s going on around you.
-
Follow your promptings.
-
Don’t give up.
-
Be persistent.
-
And most of all—listen well.
Tomorrow, someone will cross your path for the first and last time. A few minutes of connection is all you’ll get—before they vanish like a mist in the wind.
So engage.
Smile. Make eye contact. Say something kind.
Tip generously.
Help someone change a flat tire.
Call a cashier or server by name.
Start a conversation. Be intentional.
Your own issues will start to disappear when you help clear the mist from someone else’s eyes.
That’s how you become a Vaporizer.
I wasn’t created to live in a self-centered bubble.
God made me for community—to focus on others.
And when I do, He brings out the best in me.
He opens doors to serve, inspires great stories, and builds His Kingdom through ordinary people like me—and you.
Life is too short to stay stuck in the fog.
The mist lifts when you shine the light.
My time is moving fast. But I’ve tuned into the Almighty to help me spot every Vaporizing opportunity that comes my way.
Be Prepared. Be Intentional. Be Ready.
Be Willing. Be Courageous. Be Bold. Be Humble. Be Present.
Once the mist dissipates, the light breaks through. And when you keep the light shining—life gets brighter.
Adios for now.
Comments