In the store that sold sleight-of-hand and magic gizmos, my youngest son held both the Amazing Disappearing Rabbits and the Amazing Disappearing Ink. He faced me with wide brown eyes. "Can't I have both?"

I stood my ground, "Choose one."

"But, Mom, I have major decision disorder!"

"Me, too," I thought. Symptoms include wanting to eat your cake (or chocolate, as the case may be) and have it too … wishing to be fit but punching the snooze button every morning … wanting to be a writer without sitting down to wrestle with the words.

Given the signs of illness, what is the underlying cause? To want a great body and chocolate, or high grades and abundant leisure, or new furniture and a fat savings account. To want patience without the irritations that helps to develop it. To want self-discipline without abstinence. To want to walk in the cool of the garden with my Maker and bite into the apple on the side.

As I write this, Houston is in the midst of preparations for Hurricane Rita. Until a few hours ago, most of the work was halfhearted. In spite of Hurricane Katrina, few of us really expected it to be a big deal—maybe because we didn't want it to be. Not until Rita turned into a category 5 hurricane did we collectively become fixed on preparing for a majar disastor.

So it is with the Christian walk. We fail to see that half-heartedness steals our energy for greater things; it slows our journey to what God wants for us, detours us around it altogether, or finds us unprepared for the crisis. We don't want to believe the bad. And as it turns out, we're wrong.

"Choose one," God whispers to us. "Choose Me above all options." Internally we whine: can't I have both? As if we're choosing teams and He is the last and least desirable player. In fact, God designed the game.

The psalmist says, "Teach me your way O Lord, and I will walk in your truth; give me an undivided heart, that I may fear your name" (Ps. 86:11).