I'd never played Monopoly this way before. Having shooed their parents out the door for a well-earned evening out, I turned toward my three grandchildren, all under 5. Month-old Autumn was easy, but her big sisters, generally compliant and good-natured, astounded and confounded me by their screaming and kicking as the door swung closed.

In the throes of tantrums, these girls needed someone with a plan—and I didn't have one. At moments like this, I do a lot of internal whispering, leaning on a practical faith. Seriously challenged, I searched for the calm and tender method that would help these girls get centered. I "Pied Pipered" my way to the family room, little screamers trailing behind me, praying silently as we went. The Lord never challenges me without also providing a way forward. I asked for wisdom, a calming distraction and a loving demeanor.

A stack of games caught my eye. "Shall we play Monopoly?" They caught their breath as I plopped on the floor, baby Autumn still on my arm, and we opened the box. Scrambled pieces told me they'd been here before. Laurel grabbed the Alien (truly alien, not a Monopoly piece); Molly, the "finger" (i.e., thimble). I needed the racer. We began monopoly-izing, screams now whimpers and pouts.

Autumn was fussy, so I snuggled her close, and helped the girls get money, exchange properties and move pieces—none according to Monopoly rules. We took turns with dice and moving around the board. All else was novel. We landed on properties and jail, paying no mind to normal Monopoly methods, trading money and doling out property cards at will.

It was the most soul-soothing, therapeutic game of Monopoly I'd ever played. The Lord was in our midst, giving me the ability, at the end of a very long and tiring day, to think creatively and enjoy these wee girls.

Perhaps, if I'd never had to trust the Lord for greater things, I might not have expected His help with this rather insignificant problem. But for these tired girls and their weary grandmother, the way we redeemed that evening testified to God's supply when Grammy's is short.

Thanks to the Holy Spirit who is "on call" and gives wisdom, an untenable trap became a great evening of togetherness.

Last summer I quickly learned the necessity of sun block. Florida rays burn powerfully, and one afternoon without enough Banana Boat left me stinging but wiser.

Looking back, I see how the sunshine, and even a sunburn, is such a testament to our Creator. The sun is the source of life for our planet; our entire physical existence depends on its consistent provision of light and heat. We go about our day without even realizing its power, unless for some reason, we forget to put on our sunscreen. Then we are painfully reminded of just how the sun can affect us.

Just like the sun, God has this astounding capacity to be both Lord over all creation but also personally involved in each of our lives. It amazes me that the God who controls things like the weather and seasons of the earth is the same God of Psalm 139, who is "familiar with all my ways," and "created my inmost being" (vv. 3,13, New International Version). That is my comfort when I feel most alone and lost; knowing God is forever walking with me. His sunshine lights my path.

Several years ago in Kenya, a friend invited me to stay the night at his family's village. About 14 relatives welcomed us with a huge feast and we told stories under an African full moon until 1:30 a.m. I was put to bed in a cozy, earth-floored hut that I shared with eight newborn chicks. I woke up in total darkness, feeling well-rested, but thinking it must be the middle of the night since not a strand of light filtered into the hut. I fell back asleep, waking several times hoping to see daylight, wondering if I was just restless sleeping a few feet from the family graveyard.

Finally, my friend knocked. "William, are you ready to take breakfast?" he asked. It was almost 10 a.m.

The hut had been completely dark, sealed tight by solid mud walls, with a blanket of grass covering thick, black plastic sheeting on the roof. It would have been futile for me to try to push the darkness out of the hut, but when my friend opened the door, brilliant sunshine flooded the room, evaporating the darkness.

Spiritually, struggles with sin can often mirror the hut's darkness. If we focus on sin, we may find ourselves locked in a hut, trying to push out the darkness. But Jesus and His Word are like the light, and when we immerse ourselves in a relationship with Christ, it penetrates the dark areas and gives us a hunger for what is best. It's simply our job to open the door.