When Katie moved in across the street from me, we became fast friends. We rode our bikes together, learned gymnastics together and danced to Whitney Houston songs together.

I attended a private school, and Katie went to the public elementary school with the children in our neighborhood.

One day after school, Katie suggested we ride our bikes to Wal-Mart. After looking at makeup and other fifth-grader stuff, we approached the shampoo aisle. Katie opened a bottle of the thick, golden liquid and spilled it out over some of the other bottles.

On subsequent visits to Wal-Mart, we trekked back to that section. She did the same thing again. Eventually she asked for my participation. And I gave in.

Then the vandalism got worse. In no time, we were dumping snow in blue, federal mailboxes.

The following spring we traipsed around the neighborhood carrying a collection can to raise funds for a charity. Only we kept the money—or at least she did. I didn't want the portion she called mine. I couldn't stand the guilt I experienced after Katie and I stole from people.

That afternoon, I finally opposed her rebellious suggestions. When she started to divide the cash, I declared that it was wrong to steal money from the neighbors. It was wrong to toss snow into mailboxes. It was wrong to vandalize Wal-Mart with shampoo. And I told her I wasn't going to do any of it anymore.

After the confrontation, Katie refused to speak to me. My sleep-over buddy refused to play with me ever again.

We eventually attended the same middle school.

"Church girl is here," one of her friends blurted out when I showed up for science class. Such comments from Katie's pals became routine.

I saw a bumper sticker once that read, "What is popular isn't always right; what is right isn't always popular." By standing up to Katie that day when we stole from the neighbors, I jeopardized plans of some real friendships in middle school.

"Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness," Jesus said, "for theirs is the kingdom of heaven" (Matthew 5:10, New International Version).

Choosing to reform my ways wasn't easy; the consequence was harder still. Since Katie had blacklisted me, I lost the opportunity to make friends. I also lost my chance at middle-school popularity. However, when I got to high school, I made friends with a whole slew of kids. By then, I cared little about what any of my peers thought about me. I learned that it was more important to stand up for what is right. I learned to count the cost.

My good friend Katie taught me that.

Christians, especially those who are young in the faith, often have difficulty grasping the dynamics between the facts of God, faith in Him, and the feelings that come along the way.

A simple and effective way to explain how those elements interact—or don't—is with a train diagram. Three cars—an engine, a coal tender and a caboose—are all that's necessary to deliver a basic understanding of facts, faith and feelings.

The engine, delivering power, represents the facts of God and His Word living in us. The coal tender, fueling the engine, symbolizes our faith in God. The caboose, which cannot pull the train, depicts our feelings.

While traversing this life, we must let God provide the power we so desperately need. As we exercise our faith, God responds with strength to finish the trip. Our feelings are along for the ride. They are what they are—and we can do little to change them—but they cannot offer fuel for the journey, or strength to handle the problems along the way.

I needed a new watch. So when I saw one I was enamored with, I decided to ask for that one for Christmas. All fall I was thinking about and looking forward to receiving it.

Christmas finally rolled around. I opened my first gift. No watch. I unwrapped the next one. No watch again. I opened all my presents. Still no watch! I was very disappointed.

I did acquire some money for Christmas, yet I was torn. I wanted to save the money, but I also really desired that watch. I decided to take the Christmas cash and buy it.

However, the watch I wanted cost more than I could spend. In desperation, I settled for another one. It looked similar to the other, and it fit into my budget. But deep down, I knew it wasn't the best.

About a week after Christmas I visited my aunt, and I proudly exclaimed, "Michelle, have you seen my new watch?"

Her face dropped and she just stared blankly at me. "Marie, when did you get that?" she asked.

"Oh, I just went and bought it the other day," I replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Marie," she said, "Melissa [my other aunt] and I had seen that you really wanted that one watch, and since you didn't get it for Christmas, we ordered it for you. We were going to surprise you with it in January."

I was in shock. I never expected that. And it was at that moment that God seemed to speak so clearly to me: Marie, I desire to give you the very best in life, but you must wait on Me and My timing.

By being so persistent, I got a good watch, but God wanted to give me one even better, and it would've been free. I'm discovering that I need to learn the same lesson in my life—to wait on God and on His timing. If not, He might allow me to have my way. Then I will miss the greater gift—God's best—and that is always worth waiting for.

Robert Robinson wrote the unforgettable words to the hymn Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing. His love for Jesus was deep but not dependable, and at times, his passion for God waned. Sometimes he felt nothing at all for His Lord.

This cold truth troubled Robert. He grappled with it, began to write out his thoughts and feelings, and finally produced a timeless hymn. Come Thou Fount is an autobiographical story of a man so unworthy, so unfaithful, yet always forgiven, coming home to the loving arms of his Lord.

Yet as time passed, Robert wandered farther and farther from God. His actions and attitudes began to darken, and he came to feel that the distance between God and himself had become too great to be reconciled. How could he ever look into the eyes of Jesus again? Robert was miserable, consumed by grief from his own guilt. With the restless heart of Jonah, of the Prodigal Son and of every guilt-ridden soul, he took to the road. Perhaps some distant land would hold the cure.

One day, in the midst of his journeys, a young lady was seated across from him in a stagecoach. She was filled with the joy of Christ and could talk of nothing else. In those days, people used hymnals as devotional books, and she had such a volume in her lap. She said, "Sir, I'd like your opinion of one of these hymns—one that has been such a powerful influence in my life." And she handed his own hymn to him.

Robert found himself confronted by his own words. He tried to hand the book back to her. The realization dawned on her that she was looking into the countenance of a tortured soul.

Robert saw that she knew the truth. "I am the man who wrote that hymn many years ago," he confessed. "I'd give anything to experience that joy again—anything."

The woman was shocked. She pointed to the lines he knew so well. She began to speak gently about the "streams of mercy, never ceasing." She showed him there were no seasons too lengthy, no distance too great for the love of God to find him, comfort him and bring him home again.

That day Robert rediscovered the love he had left behind. I can imagine the joy he felt, because in my own life, that first love is everything. Often people ask me, "How can I pray for you?" I always answer the same: that wherever I go and whatever I do, I will never leave my first love. Ever since I was a young Christian, I made my first priority to hold on for dear life to my intimate, personal relationship with Him.

I knew in the beginning that simply serving God was not enough; I longed to overflow with love and praise for my Lord. If I failed to maintain my first love, my disobedience would undermine all I hold dear. I knew that in time I would disintegrate as a believer, husband, father and businessman. My first love for God is everything to me.

In these recent times I have faced new medical challenges: incurable fibrosis of the lungs, cancer and diabetes. When I pour out my prayers to God and read His Word, I can no longer fall to my knees so easily. But He understands that. He cares more about a sturdy heart than wobbly knees.

I now depend upon an apparatus almost 24 hours each day to help me breathe the oxygen I need. As Job once said, "The Lord gave me everything I had, and the Lord has taken it away. Praise the name of the Lord!" (Job 1:21, New Living Translation). Yes, He has given me so much, all through the years and right up to the present.

But the greatest gift of all, in those wonderful words that Robert Robinson gave us, is a heart that can be tuned to sing high praise. Much of my mobility is gone. I have lost over half of my breathing capacity, and much of the energy to do all that I would like to do for Him. At age 81, I have far fewer days before me than I have behind me. But God has left me with that which I treasure most: the ability to love and praise Him with my mind and emotions every moment that I live on this earth. By the grace of God, I will never take leave of my first love for Him.

We stepped off the airplane in the remotest part of the earth. Other than Snickers and Coke, we were the only Western things the people in Central Asia had seen.

I was leading a team of students who wanted to proclaim the gospel of Jesus to these people. This small city was a far cry from the comforts of home. Every morning I woke up from a rough night's sleep, turned on the hot plate and heated up a bucket of water for my shower.

To get around town I would hop on a packed trolley. If lucky enough to find a seat, I could count on someone standing to hand me anything from a sack of potatoes to a newborn baby. It truly was a foreign world.

Perhaps the most difficult sacrifice had to do with food. There weren't many options: a piece of bread with potato dumplings or bread with fat-filled dumplings. I was sick in one way or another the entire

We talked about not having the things we took for granted back home.

However, from America to some remote town in Central Asia is barely a sacrifice or even an adjustment compared to the trip Jesus made. He left the riches, comforts and beauty of heaven to spend 33 years walking in dirt, being spat upon, even hanging on the Cross in my place. Whenever Christmas rolls around I think of those seven weeks, and realize what a hard and distant place to which Jesus came for me. He must really love me.