The Chosen

I wasn’t chosen.

Now that could be a happy or sad occasion. If, as a kid, I wasn’t picked to be a part of a softball team I was sad indeed. However, if the teacher passed over me and chose some other unfortunate individual for an oral book report, I went limp with relief. And so it went. Chosen for this; not chosen for that. Happy – sad. In other words, life.

My latest chosen/not chosen episode took place in a far loftier atmosphere than an arid, weedy ball field – a judicial building in our small town.

We, the chosen jury pool, dutiful citizens all, huddled together one rainy, cold Monday morning in the Wilbur D. Mills Court House. Yawning, shivering, some of us slightly moist, we each answered “Here” as our names were called by a smiling circuit clerk. May I say all the court officials were super courteous? They were, from the cheerful bailiff who greeted us at the court room door, to the just-mentioned pleasant circuit clerk, to the gentlemanly lawyers, to the soft-spoken judge with an appropriate twitch of humor. Don’t know about the court reporter, she had her hands full and didn’t any pay attention to us. (It occurred to me that our bailiff would outperform Judge Judy’s somber officer any day of the week.)

At the beginning of this adventure, I asked the Lord to do with me as He wanted. Before you admire me too abundantly, I also added a post script that He knew I did not want to do this, but YWBD (your will be done, for those of you unfamiliar with church talk). Plus I felt a little guilty not wanting to participate in the process since I am an American citizen. Still didn’t want to do it, though.

As the dreary morning wore on, 18 potential jurors and alternates moved to front row seats as each was chosen. One of them, a long-time acquaintance, threw me a glance that really looked like a sigh as she rose from her seat. When the final alternate was seated, I exhaled a small whoosh of relief – I hadn’t been chosen! However, underneath the relief, a tiny sprig of disappointment wriggled (to my surprise). I stepped on it immediately and breathed: Thank you, Lord, for sparing me.

Oh, but it wasn’t over yet: one of the selected asked to speak to the judge. He recounted his tale of woe which concerned his mother-in-law. No, not the things he disliked about her, if any; he was supposed to transport her to the airport that afternoon smack in the middle of the trial. His Honor opined that he surely didn’t want to be party to anyone getting in trouble with his mother-in-law and dismissed him from duty.

We, the leftovers, tightened those muscles so recently relaxed and waited with bated breath to see who the next offering might be. Lord I meant what I said: YWBD. But please don’t let them chose me!!

Me! It was me - I mean, it was I! I was chosen as the replacement! Okay, Lord, I’m good with this. I scrubbed past the once-again-relieved fellow waiters to take my place with the selected few.

After 30 minutes or so of both defense and prosecuting attorneys questioning us about prejudices, opinions, etc., it was time to select the final 12 and an alternate. Lord, you know the routine: YWBD. But…!

Many minutes later, just before the clerk called out the name of the 12th juror, I wondered how God would finish this up. Didn’t have long to wait; yep, I would be one of the 12. I was number 12, as a matter of fact. As I sat down in the box, a friend sent me a slightly evil grin from his seat of “unchosenness,” relishing my fate.

In spite of this seemingly done deal, the Lord wasn’t quite done. Just as I settled in and began to feel important and elite and even kind of biblical (Jesus chose 12, didn’t He?), the clerk corrected, “My mistake - Mrs. Woodell is supposed to be the alternate for this jury, not one of the 12.” I changed seats with the lady next to me. I’m still good with this, Lord, even though I’m not biblical anymore. I’m demoted. YWBD.

But the Lord wasn’t done, even yet. After lots of paper shuffling, a little conferring with the attorneys and a word to the judge, Ms. Clerk said, “My bad – Mrs. Woodell isn’t supposed to be the alternate.” Then she spoke these words alight with sunbeams and garlands of roses and cotton candy: “Mrs. Woodell, you are excused from jury duty; you are free to go.”

This time I was the evil grinner as I exited the box.

And don’t try to tell me that God doesn’t have a sense of humor.

Thirsty?

If any man thirst …

Drinking water isn’t an option. A nurse recently called my attention to the scarcity of H2O in my body. She looked at the results of a urinalysis and exclaimed with passion, “You must drink more water!!” I guess it’s true that just because you don’t detect or recognize the signs of thirst doesn’t mean your body isn’t dry.

So it is spiritually. Thousands of people don’t have a detectable yearning for spiritual water, but that doesn’t mean their souls aren’t as parched as my yard in August. If someone does become aware of a soulful emptiness, chances are he or she will try to assuage it with a placebo. You know what a placebo is – a sugar pill or some other totally ineffective “remedy” for what’s ailing you. It’s not the real thing. Sadly, a vast part of our world relies on magic potions instead of the only Cure.

Christians use placebos too. I’ve done it, and may again if I’m not alert to Satan’s deceptions. Those in the world, and we who claim the Lord both may seek exciting diversions/recreations, gather possessions, be completely absorbed in our families, become some of “holic,” or perhaps pursue the perfect romantic relationship - anything to quiet that ache within.

Many Christians may spurn the above tactics, but have a go at self-medication with perfect church attendance, communion, singing in a prescribed manner, or refraining from becoming overly chummy with those outside their “boundaries.” The less-conservative might depend on the weekly spirited praise and worship service as an antidote for their thirst, or close fellowship of like-minded brothers and sisters, or an outside-the-box benevolent or evangelistic mission.

Most of the activities mentioned are A-Okay. Who could argue against a dynamic worship assembly? The Lord’s Supper is a powerful part of Jesus Christ. Who doesn’t want (and need) wonderful fellowship? Nothing wrong with buying a couch. Falling in love will never perish from the earth. We certainly must relieve the misery of the poor. And didn’t Jesus say something fairly important about seeking the lost?

The catch, or hitch in our get-a-long occurs when we try to substitute any of these for the intimate relationship the Lord God longs to have with each of us. No stand-in for this will ever, ever work. I can’t have a meaningful relationship with a cracker and sip of grape juice; same thing goes for the newest and liveliest song. Intimate companionship with others will alleviate my thirst until they have to go home.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want a spiritual sugar pill – I want the Lord!! I don’t want anything that surrounds my God in the way of spiritual trimmings; I want the Center of those accessories!!! The Rock of my salvation. I don’t want the salvation alone – I long for the Source of that salvation. No Gator-ade for me; only the Living Water.

Pray for steadfastness in pursuit of the Savior Himself; pray for a stronger thirst, and pray that none of us settles for a sugar pill.

Encountering God

God is also in the down-to-earth, everyday goings-on of life. I'm so glad!! I realized I was experiencing his presence not long ago while in the midst of a home church meeting. Part of the group is made up of one family: mom, dad, their son, his wife and their baby, and two grown daughters with their respective families.

The Lord has blessed the three young couples with four little boys among them, ages about 4 years to 5 months. Lively, sunny-natured little guys who adore each other, they have a ball at gran and grandad's home. As we grown-ups attacked the food, the three older youngsters giggled with delight (that special joy only close boy cousins share), chasing each other in and around the taller people. Mamas and daddies monitored their speeds and slowed them down when necessary. Every now and then a couple of the men wondered about the activity at their kneecaps; when they looked down, they beheld short fellows in pajamas karate-chopping their patellas. All in fun, no harm done.

The three mamas, dads and the grandparents worked together as a team, corraling and caring for the bundles of energy. I heard, "Do you want me to fix his plate?" or "I can give him his bottle." Kisses and hugs were bestowed randomly and often. If by chance one of the boys fell victim to an owie, comforters were johnny on the spot.

The 18-month old took time out from frolicking to make a sudden stop in front of his grandmother - he mumbled some request in a strange language. She understood it! Turning to his mother, she asked, "Is it okay to give him this?" (Respect. Granmom did not want to ignore parental rules, or even preferences.) Mom nodded okay, and her son flashed a grin that dazzled all close by.

The 5 month old spent the evening being cradled and smooched on by mom, aunts, grandmom and granddad. Anytime relief was needed, many willing hands reached out to aid the baby's mommy. He was content with every one of his adoring relatives!

Correction - sometimes hard to give in a crowd - was handled firmly, and with respect to the children. I didn't hear ridicule, sarcasm, harsh, screaming voices or inappropriate language erupting.

Even though the great-grandparents weren't there this evening, I can't leave them out! They're very much involved in the lives of their children, grandchildren, and great-grans. The two of them gladly help out in times of need, and know their little great-grans well from frequent contact with them. Once at another get-together, I saw one of the granddaughters lean over, kiss her grandmother on the cheek and whisper her thanks for their wonderful help when she was sick. Great-grandmother also teaches their Sunday School class weekly.

I know these families aren't perfect. They suffer stress, anxieties, misunderstandings and other problems just like we all do. They even make mistakes!

However, the point is not whether they do everything right; the point is that God has been invited to live among them. He binds them together in love. And the Lord's influence was so obvious that night as they loved on those kids, on each other, and on those of us who were privileged to watch God in their midst.

Bark and Babies

Frustrated that squirrels were systematically chewing all the bark off her Japanese maples, a lady wrote to an expert for help. "What's going on?" she asked. "The pests don't even eat the bark; they spit it on the ground. They're killing my trees!!"

The expert, in a calm voice that came through the newsprint, soothed the tree owner, assuring her the damage is most likely superficial even though the maples may look seriously wounded. Then she surmised - only a theory, mind you - that expectant female squirrels are the culprits, and, they are gnawing the bark off to relieve their labor pains. Well!

The more I considered this sad situation, the more I pitied those poor lady squirrels. They don't have the benefit of Lamaze instruction. They don't enjoy the option of screaming for an epidural - "AND I MEAN RIGHT NOW!!!!" They can't even grovel for any of that fake pain-reliever, Demerol. And those cowardly daddy squirrels who could be coaching have probably holed up somewhere, smoking cigars until it's all over. These ladies have to go natural-baby-squirrel-birth all the way. So they attack trees.

Now before you laugh out loud, just think for a moment. If you've delivered a baby, don't you remember certain stages of that experience when you might well have chewed some bark had it been handy? Actually ripped it right off a tree?! Then spat it on the ground and dared anyone to say anything? It might be immensely satisfying to add this component to the baby-delivery saga. Maybe we ought to request a few potted trees in the labor and delivery unit.

That Unruly Tongue

If there's one thing my mom and dad would not tolerate, it was bad language. Perhaps they'd been warned by their respective parents that if they wanted to die early in life then just say some naughty words aloud. Whether or not my grandparents' took that perspective I can't say; I know my mother and father did. Especially anathema in our home was dragging God's name through the mouth lightly. "My Lord!" was a commonly heard expression with some, but it better not slip past any lips in our house!

I never heard my dad use one curse word, unless you count "Dast it!!!" That seldom-used expression exploded from him only when something or other was tromping on his last nerve - accompanied by purplish face and clenched teeth. Usually an ornery car was to blame. My mother let one "bathroom" word slip one time when she was extremely provoked (on purpose) by my father. Something to do with him pretending to run into a tree as we motored into the church parking lot.

My folks' aversion to smutty and irreverent talk did not prevent me from indulging in that sort of talk when I was a teen. Some sort of statement to my world, I suppose, about how I was not under anyone's thumb - certainly not my parents'. I was a grown-up, sophisticated lady, er, girl, with her very own potty mouth. I still blush with shame remembering my stupidity.

Eventually, praise God, the stupidity receded somewhat. When I married, I trashed the expletitives, even developed an outright aversion to them. I suppose I thought that since I now considered myself an adult, I ought to act like one. I was free!! Later a more compelling reason harnessed my tongue: if I claimed to be washed in the blood of the Lamb then shouldn't I behave as though I were washed in the blood of the Lamb?

"Hallelujah, my tongue problem has been dealt with!" That's what I thought all those years ago. Ha!! I had only imagined my tongue was at last well-behaved. The Lord let me know quickly that He also had something against g-o-s-s-i-p (which I was still committing). And saying hateful words to my husband. And hurtful things to my children. And illegal use of sarcasm to slyly disparage another person. And judgmental slurs from my superior self's mouth about those not as perfect as I. Not to mention putting a stained glass slant on my words at times (even when I didn't feel that way) so as to sound properly spiritual to others. Oh, me.

Is it a revelation to you that my struggle to allow the Holy Spirit to taste and approve my words before I let them dribble or explode from behind my teeth is still going on? I think not, because you're a people too. I'm resigned that my training process may continue for awhile. Maybe even until my dying day. I fervently pray, however, that the Spirit will grow stronger and more masterful; that my tongue daily become less connected to me, and more attached to Him. I believe that will happen.

LONELINESS

This poem was published in our Sunday morning bulletin - perhaps its sentiments will make us be more sensitive to the lonely in our midst:

Loneliness is like a piano without keys,
Like a violin without strings,
Like a sanctuary without a congregation
Or a choir where no one sings.
Loneliness is like a blade of grass
Growing through a crack in cement.
Loneliness is like a camp ground
Without a single tent.
Loneliness is like a mocking bird
That cannot sing a song.
Loneliness is a feeling
That one does not belong,
Like a pansy in a corn field
Hidden where no one can see.
I know all there is to know about loneliness
Because it lives inside of me. -Unknown

The Man of My Dreams

I want to share someone else's Encounter with God with you today - one of those special persons who is very dear to my heart.

I grew up in a world where honesty was relative - relative to how you were feeling at the moment, or relative to each situation. I learned that I could get what I wanted many times by "bending the truth": by leading people to believe certain things about me that were not true. I so wanted to control the perception of others toward me; I longed for them to love me and to rescue me from what I considered an awful existence.

Because I was the oldest child, I had quite a few responsibilities, one of which was taking care of my younger siblings until my mom got home from work. During those years, I remember craving more one-on-one time with my mother - more attention from her in general. Soon I found that if I made up things, she noticed me!

I began with small untruths, but the stories grew as I matured. By the time I was in high school I really had mastered the art of deception. It was as natural to me as breathing.

The day I turned 18 I acquired a boyfriend (ten years older) who believed all the nonsense I told him about my life and family. I concocted tales that I thought would make him continue to love me - after all, I thought, there's no way he would love the real me - who on earth could? I was an awful person. I dreamed of him as my knight in shining armor, galloping in on a white horse to save the day ... by taking me to his castle far, far away from my real life.

A few years later God got ahold of me and I became a Christian. Still, something was missing. I thought, "These church people are great, but if they got to know the real me they would not want me around." So I continued to search for the man who would fix everything - my functional savior.

One day I was reading my Bible and came across scriptures about Jesus standing at the door, and about God giving me the desires of my heart. They only made me angry. “I’ve committed my life to you” (but not completely) “and you are not giving me the desire of my heart. Why, God? Why?”

Since God really speaks to me through songs, I cried out in my anger and sadness, writing a song to him filled with my frustrations:

Who am I waiting for, and who am I searching for?
Who’s the one to come to fill my needs?
Who am I waiting for and who should be at my door?
Where is the man of my dreams?

I’ve been letting you lead my life
From every thought to every deed,
Now I ask you, Father, can you please tell me
Is there someone out there for me?

I wrote the song in my journal, and would cry often about how God must not love me – he must know the real me. If he really loved me, he would give me what I want when I want it. I would like to say that only seconds passed before I realized how foolish that belief was, but it was over a year.

By this time I was no longer dating, and had begun pouring myself into God’s word. Then one day as I read, God beautifully finished my song:

Quietly I sit reading your word,
I know you can hear me.
And finally, today,
Deep in my heart I can hear you whisper and say:

“My child,
I am the One you’re waiting for; I am the One you’re searching for,
I am the One who died to meet your needs,
I am the One you’re waiting for,
I am standing at your door,
I AM the Man of your dreams.”

I finally got it! And I finally received what I longed for so much – One who would come and rescue me! I had been too consumed with ME to see him.

Two years later God brought a man into my life who loved the Lord just as much as I did, and, who loved the REAL me. So I married him.