Choose Me

So, I have to be honest today y’all.  I posted a picture yesterday to Facebook.  I posted this really cute picture of me and my oldest, Jake.  We looked super cute and I looked really tan and somewhat thinner than normal, and my hair looked good, and he looked like the wonderful boy he is.  And I posted it.  But I didn’t post it for me.  I didn’t post it for Jake.  And I didn’t post it for all the people I tagged in the picture.  I mean, yes, sure, I knew every person would enjoy it.  And yes, I was proud and Jake deserved a little posting power on Facebook, but the truth of the whole matter is I posted for someone who hates me.  I posted for someone who has insulted me.  I posted for someone who has said horrible things about my children.  I posted for someone who has hurt my husband.  And bottom line, I posted for someone who has hurt my heart so badly with the things she said about me that it can make my head spin in two seconds flat.  I posted so she could see what she was missing out on.  And that, my friends, is the hard and embarrassing truth. 

I hate admitting this to y’all.

I hate knowing that someone doesn’t like me.

And I hate knowing how much I care.

 And I hate knowing how much I have cried over this.

 

And what really hurts the most is that she doesn’t care at all.  When the picture popped up (if it popped up) in her newsfeed, there was no pain or ache in her heart.  When she saw us in all our cuteness, it did not make her pause and want to pick up the phone and apologize for the words that cut to the core.  She is not reading my writing.  She is not judging my pictures one way or the other.  She is not searching my “About Me” page, or having “Jackie Sightings” as part of her daily haunts.  She has closed a chapter.  Written the final page.  Said what she needed to say and walked away.  And I was left standing with my good hair, and my five lost pounds, and the new tan, and my cute kids wondering why.  Why?  And these two little words stomp all over my heart:

Choose Me.

Choose me because I am worth it.

Choose me because you love me.

Choose me because life without me isn’t near as great.

Choose Me.

I can see myself as a little girl, and my world was falling apart.  I can see me as my parents’ marriage dissolved wanting someone to fight for me. I can see me chubby.  I can see me “interesting looking”.   I can see me as life went on and I could be mediocre at best.  Mediocre at sports.  Mediocre at school.  Mediocre at art.  Mediocre at orchestra.  Mediocre at life…Why would anyone ever choose me?  And I mean really choose me.  I mean choose me first.  Pick me.  And there is a little girl who learned to be funny, and became a happy, dancing circus bear insuring that I may not ever get picked first, but I would at least always get picked.  Maybe we all are standing in the same long line of kids in PE for the rest of our life.  Fingers crossed.  Hoping.  If I act like I don’t care.  If I stand up straighter.  If I smile and make eye contact.  Maybe.  Just Maybe.  I will get picked first.  If not first please oh please, Dear Sweet Jesus, don’t let me be picked last.  Choose Me.

 

It is in every invitation we didn’t receive.  It is in every lunch had without us.  It is in every conversation we overhear where people had so much fun, and we were not invited.  It is in every picture on Facebook of life lived without us.  And these are not scars y’all.  These are yucky scabs that are picked at and bloody.  And we are convinced that no other girl really has these same hurts.  And we are standing here abandoned again in the Red Rover line.  We are the last one standing, and no one is picking us, and maybe, y’all they are arguing over who HAS to take us.  Maybe we are seeing the phone that never rang, the times they were supposed to pick us up and they never made it.  The birthday cards that never arrived.  When they left us for someone else.  When the kids picked another mom to be the “Best Mom Ever”.  When we see families laughing and talking and planning days together, and maybe your family is the place you’re not invited either.  Just the invitation.  Just that I mattered.  Just that someone wanted me to dance with them.  Choose Me.  I swear, under all this, I’m totally worth it.  Aren’t I?  And I am 6, and 7, and 13, and 18 and 24 and aching all over again at 38…more mature…yes…but just as painful. 

Choose Me.

Pick Me.

Love Me.

Please.

There is this awesome Savior hanging on a tree for me.  He chose me, y’all.  He died the most horrible death that He totally didn’t deserve because He couldn’t imagine spending eternity without ME.  He hangs there knowing my name.  He hangs there seeing my face.  He hangs there and sees all the times I will be rejected and hurt and injured by regular old folk, and He whispers to come closer to Him.  He sees beyond all the plainness and ordinary that make up me.  He sees past all the fake smiles and circus- dancing- to- get- picked that make up me.  And I forget Him sometimes.  Maybe I forget this all the time.  Maybe I need to stop back by and take a good long look at my Jesus who has always chosen me, always carried me, never forgotten me, always loved me, wakes me up with a sunrise every morning and tucks me in with the stars He knows by name.  Maybe I need to stand in the knowledge that I am loved by this unbelievable Carpenter King who cannot get enough of me, and goes so far as to make plans for me that are good.  Maybe I need to be reminded that He goes back for the one who is lost.  Maybe I need to remember He knows every hair on my head (and the real color of it all too).  And maybe I need to stand in the fact that He stood right next to me the day I opened the letter with the harshest words ever because He would never leave me…even if every single other person left…He would stay and stand right there with me knowing I would not be picked, and He would pick me first.  Because Jesus loves me y’all.

And He loves you too.  Not just a little either.  He loves you a lot.  He has a place for you at the table, and you are always invited.  And as we put a bandaid on another hurt, and try to pretend like it never happened, He is there with us.  And He is putting His arm around our wounded shoulders, and letting us cry it out.  And walking us all the way home to the place where we belong, where everyone knows our name because He gave us our name after all, and He is reminding us that we fit.  Perfectly.  Right in the palms of His nail scarred hands.

 

Shalom Y'all.