Eli

Last weekend, our soccer team had the privilege of leading the service at one of the surrounding churches as part of our field education. Some of us helped with worship, one preached a sermon for his homiletics course, and still others led the children's time.

And as soon as they were up at front and the storybook was revealed, I settled back into my seat prepared to sit through another heart-warming reading of a Max Lucado book.

You are Special. Although the rendition included laughs, it struck a chord in me that I hadn't realized needed to be struck.

The story of one young boy who finds himself unable to live up to the expectations of the community, covered in grey dots instead of sparkly stars, judged for the things that he cannot accomplish.

A young girl who has none, and to whom none can stick, and a secret revealed.

Every day, I go and see Eli. 

And out of desperation, and yet with trembling and fear this young Wemmick approaches the doorway to the carpenter's shop and pauses a moment.

Then he hears something. A voice. The sound of his maker calling his name.

"How good to see you." And the conversation continues, until the Creator comments on the marks that the Wemmick bears. Ready to defend himself, the Wemmick is surprised to hear Him say, "Oh, you don't have to defend yourself to me, child. I don't care about what the other Wemmicks think." 

Although there are so many lessons that can be gleaned from this book, there are a few lines from their conversation that really stuck with me.

"Because you're mine. That's why you matter to me. Every day, I've been hoping that you would come... the more you trust my love, the less you care about their stickers."

"Just come to see me everyday and let me remind you how much I care."   

And a craving arose in me as the story finished. To meet with my Creator as he had met with his. To view time with God as an escape, a refuge, a place where my priorities are rearranged and where my eyes are opened so that I realize how little value the labels of this world really hold.

So often I view my devotions as something that is scheduled in, something that I occasionally delight in, something I meet with God in, and yet something that I view as have-to-do.

A chance? An opportunity? An escape from this world? Not really.

Today in chapel, our student body president shared something that compounded this message. He shared how so often in his life he found that he had made his faith about the Gospel + whatever. That he felt that if he didn't do enough good works, he would someday be shamed. That there was this striving and reaching for something instead of rest.

Because that's what we're called to do. Rest.

Rest in the fact that our heavenly Father could never love us more than He does at this moment.

Let that sink in.

It's a truth that I so often let fade away into the background and soon I am back to trying to please God with all the good things that I do, all the while failing to realize that He delights in me.

Yes, I continue to do good things, but as an outpouring of the love that He shows me, rather than as a way to be able to be worthy.

And that's the key.

I am not worthy. Never have been. Never will be.

But He has made me worthy.

And how foolish to negate the worthiness of Christ that is now given to me, simply by striving to do it on my own although I know that it has never worked in the past, so why should I think it will work now?

That is why I fail to come. I fail to realize His love. The longing He has for me, not because of my own merit, but because of Christ's.

I want to come as a little child to the office of my Father. To be in awe of all that He is and yet to climb with joy and anticipation into that huge lap and to be cradled in those strong arms. To simply be, and to tell of my sorrows, and to be willing to be reprimanded. To want to stay as long as I can, instead of think of how soon I can escape.

I want to be with Eli.