Chosen

The bricks were rough beneath her palms as she hid her hands behind her and tried to press herself into the wall.  Kids squirmed beside her on either side.  Some of them jumped up and down.  Some of them waved.  Some of them called out, "Pick me, pick me!"  But she just stood there, wishing she could melt into the brickwork and disappear forever.

She knew what would happen.  It happened every time.  One by one by one, the other kids' names would be called out.  "Abe!"  "Zach!"  "Sophie!"  They'd go, one to one side, the other to the other side.  Sometimes the captain would decide by himself. Sometimes he'd talk to the rest of the team, heads bent together, glancing up over shoulders to see who was left, trying to figure out who to pick next.

But she would never be chosen.

She was always just left over.

Maybe she should just walk away.  She could pretend she didn't care.  She thought longingly of the book she had left inside.  She should just leave.  But for some reason, the teachers didn't like it when she went off by herself.  She stood, as if nailed to the wall, and sighed.

When there was group work, or in gym class, the teacher always assigned her.  Sometimes her group didn't say much.  Sometimes they rolled their eyes.  But they had no choice.  Neither did she.  If she had a choice, she'd rather work alone than be in a group where they didn't want her.   She supposed that being assigned was better than being left over, but really, it made no difference.  You aren't really a part of a team unless you're there by choice.

And she was never chosen.

She wasn't sure why she was never chosen.  She knew she wasn't the best in the class, but it didn't seem she was the worst, either.  Tara was shorter, and Simon always tripped.  Maybe it was the way she looked.  She knew her clothes weren't the nicest (although she loved the softness of her shirt, and the buttons were so pretty and brown and shiny, and glowed like they had a hidden light inside them).  Sometimes she studied her face in the mirror at night, but it seemed to be an ordinary face to her.  No, there was something wrong with her inside, something that made her the kind of girl that never gets chosen, only left over.

She peeked up from behind her bangs at the captain.  She'd never seen him before.  Maybe he would be different . . . maybe he wouldn't notice that there was something wrong with her.  Maybe he wouldn't do a team huddle and give the others a chance to tell him how awful she was.  Oh, she wished he would choose her!  He looked nice.  He didn't look like the normal captains who chose teams; they were always the most popular kids,  handsome, clever, and funny.  His face was ordinary and his eyes were kind.  She wished he would look her way.  Maybe he would just look up and see her and call -- Stupid!  Stupid!  She cut off her dream and dropped her eyes.  It never happened that way!  It didn't matter who the captain was.  It wasn't the captain, it was her.  Of course no one would pick her.  She was a nasty little girl who wore old clothes and wasn't particularly talented, and had never, never been picked for anything.  She had to be assigned, or she was always left over.

Her hands formed fists behind her, and began to rub against the brick.  It hurt, and she rubbed a little harder.  Maybe if she rubbed hard enough, she'd really hurt herself, and then she would have an excuse to leave. Maybe she could tell herself that she wasn't part of the team because there was something wrong with her, something wrong on the outside where everyone could see.  

Maybe if her hand hurt enough, it would drown out the aching of her heart. . .

Her eyes burned, and her chin jutted out.  She would not cry!  She wouldn't.  They couldn't make her.  She wouldn't let them see how much it hurt to be left standing against the wall.

But oh, how it hurt.  Just once . . . just once, if only . . . except that it wouldn't.  She knew that.  And with the realisation, the starch left her. Her heart broke.  Her head dropped.

Someone called her name.

What?

She was confused.  She looked around, bewildered . . . who had called her?

There it was again!  Her name!  Her very own name.

Trembling now, she looked up.  The captain . . . the captain with the kind eyes . . . he was smiling at her.  How could it be?  Her eyes darted to the left and the right.  There were still kids against the wall -- lots of them -- clambering for attention.  Her eyes flew back to the captain, And he was looking at her.  At her.  "Come on!"  He beckoned her with his hand.  "You're on my team!"

Her legs almost buckled and her heart almost burst as she took the steps.

Toward her Captain.

Chosen.

Deal-Breaker

Have you ever felt like God is doing everything in his power to make life difficult for you?  Like he's trying to convince you that all the things you say you believe about him are actually a joke?  Like maybe he's not really all that good, and he doesn't really love you all that much, and he's not actually going to provide for you?  Have you ever felt like that?

I have.

It's usually when things aren't going so well.

I say, "God, I believe that you are going to provide for me," and I watch as the debts accumulate and the bank account slides further into the red.
I say, "God, I believe that you're good, and that all that comes from your hand is goodness," and I watch as I experience defeat, heartache, loss, and disappointment.
I say, "God, I know that you love me," even while I feel like he is raining blows upon my head, and loneliness whistles through my heart.
I say, "God is working all things for my good," and life gets harder, and things get worse.
I say, "His mercies are new every morning," and the new morning brings more of yesterday's trouble, and a whole bunch of new trouble on top of it.

 How do I hang onto what I  know is the truth when everything I  feel tells me it's all a lie?  And how do I deal honestly with the struggle without crossing the line into disbelief?

Which leads to the question, Do I have a deal-breaker?

Is there something that could happen which would cause me to say, "Ok,that's it, God, I don't believe it anymore.  I thought you were good, but you're not.  I thought you loved me, but you obviously don't.  I thought you were working all things for my good, but clearly you fell asleep at the wheel, and drove my life into the ditch.  Thanks, God, but I'm better off on my own?"

I've been tempted.  I've thought it.  I've wondered.

But then I think, "And then what, Marianne?"  Walk away from Jesus?  Really?  Where would I go?

Where would I go?

The thought of leaving him causes physical pain.  The thought of seriously entertaining that thought makes me feel sick.

Where would I go?

He called me to follow him.  He saw all the kids lined up against the school wall, and he picked the fattest, most awkward kid there, and said, "Marianne, I pick you.  I want you on my team."  There were kids who were smarter, prettier, more talented, able to run faster and jump higher and throw a ball farther, but he picked me.  The strongest, coolest, most talented Captain of the winningest team in the world picked me.

And you know something?  That's all he ever needs to do.  He picked me for his team.  It doesn't matter if I ever play a hero in the game, he picked me for the team.  He picked me, and in doing so, he gained a follower, a follower who, by his grace, will  never ever walk away.

Just writing that brings tears to my eyes.

How do I hang on to what I know is the truth when everything I feel tells me it's a lie?  If I let go, where else would I go?  He picked me.

Is there a deal-breaker?  If I walk away, where else would I go?  He wanted me on his team.  What am I going to do?  Go back to the wall of kids still waiting to be chosen for a team, and hope someone else will want the fattest, most awkward kid?  Hardly.
  
"Many of his disciples said, “This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?"  From this time many of his disciples turned back and no longer followed him. “You do not want to leave too, do you?” Jesus asked the Twelve.  Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and to know that you are the Holy One of God""  (John 6:60, 66-69).

So what do I do when life gets difficult?

He picked me.

There is no deal-breaker.

I follow.

Because he alone has the words of eternal life.

Reasonably Happy

I wonder how happy "reasonably happy" is.

There are times when I am so happy I feel like I am about to explode.  Then there are times when I am so sad and hurt and angry that I feel like my sobs will turn me inside out.  There are times when the two extremes happen in the same day.  And happiness is so elusive and fleeting, while sadness lingers.  How is this reasonable?

Then I wonder if happiness is even what this is about at all, this thing we call life.

Don't get me wrong.  I think we can be happy.  I think happiness is a gift from God.  The Teacher said as much:  "Then I realised that it is good and proper for a man to eat and drink, and to find satisfaction in his toilsome labour under the sun during the few days of life God has given him-- for this is his lot.  Moreover, when God gives any man wealth and possessions, and enables him to enjoy them, to accept his lot and be happy in his work--this is a gift of God."  I don't think the lot of a follower of Jesus Christ is all doom and gloom and misery.

But neither is it all light and sparkles and happiness.

There is a time to be born, to plant, to build up, to gather, to heal, to embrace, to make peace, to laugh, to dance.  But there is also a time to die, to uproot, to tear down, to scatter, to kill, to refrain from embracing, to make war, to weep, to mourn.

And God is God in all of it.  "He has made everything beautiful in its time."  Which means that death, uprooting, tearing down, scattering, killing, standing alone, even war, weeping, and mourning are beautiful -- in their time.  I find that hard to swallow.

But the longer I live, the more I watch the people I love experience the ups and downs of "everything . . . in its time", the more I listen to people talking about how "Jesus will solve all your problems, and will make your life better," the more I become convinced that the pursuit of happiness is a useless endeavour.  Maybe even an ungodly endeavour.  I think that our society has made happiness a god.  And I get sucked into that.  When I'm in one of those moments where I've got more tears than kleenex, I doubt his goodness.  When things are going well, and he answers my prayers, then I get excited.  He loves me.  He loves me not.  He loves me.  He loves me not.  Based on what?  Based on how happy I'm feeling.  After all, I'm pretty sure that he wants me to be reasonably happy.  And when I start thinking that I've been more sad than happy, well, that's not reasonable.  Happiness becomes the scale by which I measure God's love for me.

There is something profoundly flawed about that thinking.

Because God is God in all of it.

Laura Story has an incredible song called "Blessings".  In it, she asks, "What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know You're near?"  (If you haven't heard this song, stop right now, and listen to it here.)  What if?  What if the disappointments, the long silences from heaven, the dark nights of the soul are the very things God uses to draw me near to him?  Are they worth it?  Or am I, in my frantic quest for happiness, going to reject what God has made beautiful in its time, and miss out on a deeper, more profound relationship with him?

The Westminster Confession says.  "The chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy him forever."  My chief end is not to be happy.  My chief end is to glorify God.  To glorify him in life and in death, in planting and in uprooting, in gathering and scattering, in healing and in killing, in embracing and in times when I stand alone, in peace and in war, in laughter and in weeping, in dancing and in mourning.  That needs to be my focus.

When I focus on finding happiness, I become miserable, and God is not glorified.

But what if I lay aside my longing for happiness and, instead, focus on glorifying the God who makes everything beautiful in its time, even when it all feels ugly and horrible to me?  Not because he's going to end my suffering and get me out of this mess and make my life easier -- he might do that, but he might not -- but because he is worthy.  What if? 

"The chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy him forever."

When I focus on glorifying God, I begin to enjoy him.
And that makes me happy.
Even when I'm crying.