Writers In The Storm

I’m not an actress. I don’t even play one on, er-, never mind. Had I the choice, I would have starred in my first roll before the age of seven. By now, of course, I’d have my star on the sidewalk, my signature in cement, and a wing in my mansion to house my Oscars, and such.

But I didn’t, so I’m not, and I haven’t.

If we all had a choice, the world be overrun with famous actresses, rock stars, sporting giants, and — thanks to the current Princess Movement among the under eight crowd — excess female royalty. The whole system would make clean toilets passé. Who, alas, would deign to do the scrubbing?

It’s like starting a business, everyone wants to call the shots, be in charge, make the 30,000 ft decisions. But, first things first. Who’s going to pay for the business cards?

In God’s infinite wisdom, He calls us each to be a part of the body of Christ. I understand my role, more so, now than ever. This blog, my other writing, has helped me define my significance.

I’m not a head. I don’t now, have never, will never speak from a pulpit or position of authority.

I’m not feet. I don’t lead others. I’m not especially good at following. And often, I’m not entirely sure of where I’m going.

I could be a shoulder. Whatever ache someone has had, I’ve had one too.  Maybe not the same one. but I understand pain.

I could be a pinkie. Not leading the charge, like an index, or definitive in function like the thumb, but a pinkie that can work with the crew to get something done.

More likely, I’m something internal, soft-tissued, messy, and expendable.

As long as God loves me, I’m good with that.

Baseball, basketball, school, hanging out with friends-all demand a portion of my son’s time. Playing Halo, Rockband, and Madden also claim spare moments. Well, okay, hours. My rare attempts to join his computer game world usually end abruptly with the simple message of my incompetency-”game over.” I chuckle when I see the proclamation, and quickly abandon my post at the controls to someone more qualified than me-usually a teenage male with an extra gaming gene.

Funny how this comes to my mind as I’ve spent another weekend by a graveside; I’ve mourned at five funerals in eight months. Three of the loved ones were under the age of twenty-two.

The caskets proclaim the shortness of life, how quickly it’s over. Eulogies feel incomplete-they only tell a brief synopsis of a life story, and they’re inadequate to herald the worth of one life. The tear-filled chapels goad me with a sense of urgency to make this life count. And then I’m reminded that I’m completely inept when it comes to making anything count in life. Accomplishments are inadequate. Success measured by the false scale of this world’s standards is worthless. I only have empty hands as I kneel before my Maker.

But His word reminds me there’s more to the story of my life than my faded, dusty moments of glory. Some things about this life are precious to Him. My prayers today are a fragrant aroma to Him. He finds pleasure when He is the object of my devotion, the focus of my heart. He delights in my loyalty, my knowledge of Him, and my obedience to that knowledge. He loves a cheerful giver; He smiles when we share about His goodness. He rejoices over us as His children, simply because we belong to Him-we who name Jesus as our Savior are precious, honored, and loved because Jesus stands before our heavenly Father and calls us His own.

Death swallows up mortality and awakens us to real life, where true treasures are stored up and heavenly rewards are waiting. Just as suddenly as the x-box message flashes across the screen, we’re transported to a place where time stops. Minutes, hours, and days no longer mark life. Opportunities are gone. Earthly riches fade away instantly. The game’s over. And in that moment, the only eulogy that matters is the one Jesus offers to our heavenly Father on our behalf-she believed in Me.