Monday, May 1, 2017

Eenie Meenie Miney Moe

Eenie meenie miney moe... What feelings do those words invoke? Are you poised for action, ready to make a quick dash if the pointing finger lands on you? Does your mouth water, anticipating the sweet savour of a delectable dessert choice? Or do you experience dread, reliving high school gym class and never being picked, or picked last for a team?

I love choosing. Sometimes the stakes are high and it’s difficult to choose. Like when you’re at Costco, and there are 12 cashiers with lines of 15 people deep. You need to gauge the contents of the carts from shoppers in front of you and at the same time, discern the speed and agility of the cashier and bagger team. Or at the US/Canada border and the single lane you’ve been waiting in for an hour all of a sudden opens up and is spread over eight booths. Which one do you choose? It’s tough, but once you’re locked in, you’ve got to stay there because if you give up on your choice and make another one, your original lane starts to move but you’ve missed out.

Seriously though, I have a cousin (my age) who was adopted. I don’t remember how old I was when my parents told me but I was young, probably 4 or 5. They told me because I had asked why I had a new cousin, when my aunt hadn’t gotten fat. In my young mind, fat equaled new baby. The new cousin appeared and I was curious, so my mom and dad told cousin and her new brother were chosen. They didn’t say adopted, they said chosen.

Funny the things we remember, huh? Instantly I knew I wanted the option of choosing. Even as a little girl, I liked the things I liked and I was proactive about getting them. The idea of choosing a baby had merit. But more than choosing a baby (since that wasn’t an option because I was 5), I thought being chosen was better than the other option – accepting what you received without knowing there might be something better. What if you got fat, had a baby but didn’t want it? Now what? You’d be stuck with a baby you didn’t choose. But being chosen meant meant your parents went to the baby store (wherever it was), looked at babies, and made a choice. You were picked from among all the other babies. Being chosen means you’re special; someone wanted you.

I’m not a psychologist, so I’m not an expert, but I’m confident the need to be validated, the need for significance is a basic human need. We need to know we matter to someone. We need to know someone chooses us. And here’s the beautiful truth – God, the Creator of ALL things, chooses you.





God chooses you. He is always choosing you; again and again.

1 Peter 2:9, But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.

Like my cousins, who were chosen to be adopted into their family, God adopts each one of us into His family. We are chosen. 

Eenie, meenie, miney, moe...God chooses you! 

Chosen Worship Flags, by Catch the Fire Worship Flags

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