These Dead Things

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 I don’t remember the man’s name, but he speaks frequently at our school’s weekly chapel service – a young guy from a local ministry who always does a good job communicating with the kids. He started particularly well this particular day with a funny story about his daughter that got all the kids laughing.

But I don’t remember where he went next because my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about the lesson I had coming up next . . . and a million other things. My brain does that. All the time. I think about conversations I had with my daughter last night. And conversations I WISH I had had with my daughter last night. And confrontations from five years ago. And lyrics of the song I heard in the car on the way here. And plotlines from TV shows. And plotlines of plays I might write. And imaginary plotlines of what I wish my life was like right now. And stories I want to tell this friend next time we talk. And explanations and justifications I will give to another friend for this thing I’m doing. And questions I want to ask. And complaints I want to air. And opinions I want to express . . . and this . . . and this . . .

My brain simply ran -- as it is wont to do. Then for a brief second, I woke myself up to dutifully give my ear to the speaker, just in time to hear him utter this earth-shattering gem:

“Are you willing to give up these dead things to be made alive?”

Oh. Oh, my.

Have you ever felt like Jesus just roped you like a rodeo calf and slammed you to the ground to get your attention?

“You. Yes, YOU, Gwen! Are YOU willing to give up these dead things to be made alive? These dead arguments? These dead memories? These dead imaginations? Because I’ve got real life happening around you right now and you’re not there. You’re somewhere else where I didn’t put you. I put you HERE. Right here. Right now. For such a time as this.

“Do you really want to hide inside your mind with all your vain imaginations? Or do you want to be alive? I want to make you alive. And the life I have for you will satisfy you SO much more that the dead re-runs you live through in your brain.

“Do you believe that?”

Sigh. Yes, Lord, I do. I believe you. Help my unbelief.

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