Sometimes, things happen so fast that you barely have time to even think about a reaction. And that's true even when what happens is nothing.

It all started last week when my wife noticed something she hadn't before: on the right side of my ribs was a bump the size of a 25 cent bouncy ball you can get from a machine outside of every grocery store in America. It was bizarre, to say the least, since one would think that someone who's been with me for nine years would have noticed such a thing before. Odder still, I hadn't noticed it either, and I've been me for 27 years. Needless to say, we were curious.

That curiosity turned to a bit of apprehension when we called my doctor and he said he wanted to see me as soon as possible. A few hours later, he looked at it, seemed concerned, and said the following:

'That's not normal - we need an x-ray to see if it's a bone tumor.'

Now, I'm not a doctor; heck, I'm pretty sure I don't even follow the directions on the bottle when I take Tylenol. But I know enough to be pretty certain that the term 'bone tumor' isn't good news. My apprehension turned to fear, and before I knew it, I was asking a handful of my closest friends for prayers.

And then, almost as suddenly as the whole ordeal began, it was over - the next day, my doctor told me it wasn't a bone tumor, and while they didn't know exactly what it was, it's not a big deal. It could be an old injury or an alien life form or anything else for all they know; the important thing is, I'm not dying.

In basically 24 hours, I suppose I should have gone through a roller-coaster of emotions. After all, in just about a day, I went from thinking there was nothing wrong with me to being checked for a potentially life-threatening illness. But the truth is, everything happened so fast that I didn't really have a chance to react. Sure, I made a nervous joke or twelve about my life insurance and how I'd never see the Reds win a World Series again if I only have a few months to live, but the truth is, I simply didn't have time to process anything until the whole thing was already over.

As it turns out, that's how life often goes - one moment everything is fine, and the next, everything has been turned upside down. In the blink of an eye, whether good or bad, everything can change, and that's bad news for those of us who want to take control of every aspect of our world.

I think that's why James cautioned his readers about making grand plans for the future. As he put it, life is like a morning fog - you're here one minute, and not the next. Because of that, we should simply turn each day over to God, and temper all of our expectations with a heavy dose of 'if God wills.' After all, it really doesn't take much at all to make the plans of our lives to go up in a puff of smoke. And, perhaps more importantly, if what we're set on fulfilling our plans, what God may want from us may get lost in the shuffle.

At the end of the day, then, we need to constantly be seeking God's will. In the big things and the little things, the short-term and long-term, God wants us to follow Him, and that looks different for each one of us. The only certainty is that when God plans something for our lives, it'll be different than what we could have come up with on our own.

Even if what He plans includes something that turns out to be nothing.

The lesson, as always: I'm a moron.

It should have been a simple task, and I assured my wife that it would be. For reasons that are much more boring than whatever you can concoct in your imagination, we needed to have two quilts washed at the laundromat, and so, trying to be a helpful sort of husband, I went to do the deed this afternoon. I figured there would be no harm in it; after all, most of my day would be spent studying for bible study this evening, and I can do that at a laundromat just as easily as I can in my office. Unfortunately, I had absolutely no idea what I was getting into.

Things started out innocently enough: I found an empty washing machine, put my quilts in, deposited the appropriate amount of soap, and attempted to pay. As it turned out, though, paying was more difficult than it sounds. Each machine was equipped with a slot for a card that, at first glance, appeared to be a place for a debit card. After my 14th unsuccessful attempt at getting the machine to read my card, however, I discovered that this is not what the slot was for. Instead, it was there for their own laundry cards, which you apparently had to purchase.

With cash.

Which I didn't have.

After being not so pleased to discover this (note: me thinking that their machines took debit cards was, apparently, HILARIOUS in the eyes of the attendant on duty), I got in my car and rushed to an ATM, hoping that nothing would happen to my quilts and soap while I was gone. When I came back, I successfully figured out how to use the washing machine (my fears of the quilt bandits were unwarranted), and I sat back with my new friend Ghostrider (pictured above), optimistically assuming the worst was over.

I was wrong.

My laundry still needed to be dried.

The dryers were, and remain even after the fact, one of the biggest mysteries in the world. It's true - it's up there with the Loch Ness Monster and what exactly Velveeta is made of and why it tastes so much better than real cheese. There were several other dryers that were drying clothes for all sorts of times. One was on for 22 minutes, while another was going for more than a half an hour. Yet when I put my quilts in the dryer and inserted my card, all the machine would give me was 7 minutes of drying time. I pushed every button I could find and stood puzzlingly for several minutes while I considered my options.

Could I ask one of the other laundromat patrons, all of whom seemed to have the body language of an angry honey badger?

Should I ask the attendant, who already assumed I had an IQ of 70 after the unfortunate incident with my debit card?

Or, should I simply re-insert my card every seven minutes, restarting the only allotment of time my dryer would allow me.

Of course, I chose the latter, standing up and restarting the dryer every seven minutes, many of which a middle aged couple who spend the afternoon making out watched me with confused looks on their faces. Eight cycles (or, for those scoring at home, 56 minutes later), my quilts were finally finished, and I left with only one thought on my mind:

Laundromats are harder than they look.

The whole ordeal got me thinking: is this how people feel when they first come into church? I mean, from the outside looking in, I suppose things CAN look a little odd. We sing songs and drink grape juice and take people's money and then a guy like me tells weird stories that all somehow relate to a 2,000 year old Jew. To the uninitiated, I suppose it can be overwhelming.

I guess, then, it's of the utmost importance that we, as the initiated, make things easy for people who aren't. The apostle Paul seemed to think it was a good idea, and if we want people to be able to come to our churches and learn about Jesus, we do too.

After all, the truth is that anything that's new can be difficult - even something as seemingly simple as washing a couple quilts at a laundromat can seem like rocket scince to someone if they don't know what they're doing. And if there's anything that's more important than clean laundry, it's people knowing Jesus.

Even if they feel like morons.

I get it - if you like baseball, you probably already have a favorite team, and if you don't like baseball, you probably have little to no interest in who may or may not win. So make no mistake, this is not an attempt to convince you to begin rooting for the most compelling team left in the current Major League Baseball playoffs.

Instead, I want you to learn from them.

Last week, while the majority of my state was rooting for or jumping on the St. Louis Cardinal bandwagon while they were on their way to a historic trip to the postseason, another team a little farther to the south was doing the same thing. When the month of September began, the Tampa Bay Rays weren't even thought of as playoff contenders. Playing in the American League East, the home division of baseball's two biggest bullies (the Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees), the season was thought to be all but over. A month later, though, the team punched their ticket to baseball's big dance in more dramatic fashion than even the Redbirds, winning the AL Wild Card when their best player hit a home run in extra innings to win it. Truth be told, it was the stuff movies were made of.

But when you look closer, you realize this is much more than just a cool sports story. That player who hit the home run? His name is Evan Longoria, and instead of doing what most franchise players do - making sure he took as much money as possible - he simply took what the team could afford: a 6 year, $17 million deal. And before you laugh at the fact that making nearly three million dollars a year to play a game is a discount, understand: Albert Pujols was 'insulted' at an offer from the Cardinals last offseason that was, literally, TWELVE TIMES the amount of money Longoria gladly signed for. It's fitting, then, that Longoria is the star of the Rays, whose entire team makes less money than the left side of the Yankees' infield.

But it's not just the fact that the Rays are the closest thing sports has to a Mom and Pop Shop; it's that outside of Longoria and a few others, the Tampa Bay Rays are comprised completely of cast-offs and underdogs. Consider:

- Their first baseman was let go last season by the Seattle Mariners, the single worst team in the AL.

- Their closer has been cut by both the Chicago Cubs and Kansas City Royals, who, if you haven't heard, haven't been good in decades (or a century).

- Their catcher, shortstop, second baseman, and two of their three most played outfielders were traded to them by teams who didn't want them anymore.

- Their designated hitter has played for both the Red Sox and Yankees, but was unwanted by both because he was 'washed up.'

And even when Tampa drafts and develops their own players, their team isn't filled with high-priced, highly sought high-egoed youngsters. Three of their four starting pitchers in the playoffs were drafted in the 4th, 8th and 16th round, and their star rookie position player was drafted in the 10th.

Put it together, and these Tampa Bay Rays are a motley crew of players that no one else wanted, led by a star who constantly gets mixed up by the general public with the star of 'Desperate Housewives.' And yet, here they are, battling for a championship.

But more than anything, they're the sports version of God's kingdom.

When Jesus came to earth, He did so to seek and save the lost - the people in this world that no one else wanted or valued. And He sacrificed His life so that God would forgive them of all of their mistakes. In the kingdom of God, then, your past simply isn't important; instead, your future, in Christ, is.

And just like the Tampa Bay Rays, in God's kingdom, no matter who you are, you're important. The church is comprised of every type of person, every skill-set and talent level, and each Christian is just as important as the one next to him or her. We all have a job to do - advance the Kingdom on Earth - and we can't do it without everyone's help.

Here's what this means: you're important. No really - you are. It doesn't matter how much or how little you have to offer, or what you've done in your past, or what you may be struggling with today. It doesn't even matter what anyone in your life thinks of you: in God's eyes, when you're His, you're a spiritually perfect, forgiven person. And you're working towards something much bigger and much more important than a World Series title.

The Tampa Bay Rays started their success earlier this decade when they stripped the word 'Devil' from their name. And since then, they've been the easiest to admire franchise in all of sports. And when Jesus gets ahold of your life and strips away all the darkness and ruin that defines what this world is really about, 'easy to admire' is the understatement of the century. As a part of His church and His Kingdom, you become a part of something enormous:

His team.