When bad things happen to us, our first reaction is "why me?"
When good things happen to others, often, in our flesh, our initial reaction is "why not me?"
Oh, we are happy for the other person, for their good fortune, but inside, in that secret place, we think to ourselves: "Why not me? After all, I'm a good person, aren't I? I mean, Why not me?" It's a wail, a plea to 'the universe' because of the 'unfairness of it all'. We might even tell ourselves, I'm a much better person that he (or she). Why not me?
In our humanness, we want the good, but not the bad. It's only natural. Who wants to just "get by" when the alternative is wealth? We see wealthy people who win the lottery, and say, "You have to be kidding!" Someone who didn't need "it" won the big payout, and we ask . . . why not me? Why can't we hit the jackpot or be the surprised heir of some distant relative's great fortune? Why is it always the other guy with all the good luck? Why do the rich get richer and the poor get poorer? Isn't that what we ask? After all, poverty is every bit as uncomfortable as it's cracked up to be, and each of us looks absolutely fabulous in Armani or Vera Wang . . . or even a new Jaguar.
Why does the good stuff, the really great stuff, the really cool stuff, always happen to other people, but not to us?
Why not me?? (Whimper.)
When bad things happen, as they will eventually do, and we find ourselves asking, "why me", perhaps, instead, that is the time that we should be asking, "Why not me"?
Why not me?
Enough stuff has happened to me that every time I step out in faith and answer God's call, it's as though someone lowers the boom. Step out in faith and BAM! And when I pick myself up and dust myself off, I ask myself, "Where did that come from?" Oh, yeah . . . I stepped out in faith. That's where that came from. Why not me? I mean, who am I?
Last night I blogged about the homeless, the sick, and the faithful now stacked like cordwood in some decrepit, forgotten, federally funded institution waiting to die. Upon reflection, I could have done a better job of painting what I saw, what I felt. Perhaps some of you have been somewhere very similar, have seen the same lettuce green walls . . . or were the ones you saw soft blue? I've seen that same blue. It smells the same.
The first time I went to a nursing home as a brand new Deacon, knowing that God had called me, yet even with my Stephen Ministry training wondering if I was equipped for the task, I hoped I would get 'it' all right.
The nursing home I was called to was not one of those grand assisted living places. It was possibly the very worst place, the cheapest place . . . because no one really cared anymore. Why spend money warehousing people who were no longer aware of who they had once been?
The beds reminded me of ancient hospital beds I seen as a child in the Islands. Painted iron frames, narrow, thin mattresses, and ratty, threadbare, faded chenille spreads, clean, but well-worn. On 'institutional green' walls hung pictures of them before their memories were taken away from them. They used to be somebody, and still were in a cruel insignificant way, together for decades, now together in this place.
Looking around, it was hard to see God there, but I didn't have to look hard. He was there. Just not in the way I expected. I didn't recognize Him at first, but every time I went . . . He always showed up.
The first time, afterwards, I went out to my car and sat and wept. They haunted me. "Who are you again?" For months I visited them, prayed with them, served them communion . . . then one passed, and the other. I never ran into a family member . . .
There was no church service, no memorial . . .
During my time as their Deacon, God confirmed to me that He is faithful. Not for a minute do I think that I made their lives any better, but with every visit they made my life better. I got to watch God work in an unexpected way.
I was called there to be a blessing to them . . . but in the end I was the one who received the blessing. Why me? How did I end up with the blessing?
Why me?
When good things happen to others, often, in our flesh, our initial reaction is "why not me?"
Oh, we are happy for the other person, for their good fortune, but inside, in that secret place, we think to ourselves: "Why not me? After all, I'm a good person, aren't I? I mean, Why not me?" It's a wail, a plea to 'the universe' because of the 'unfairness of it all'. We might even tell ourselves, I'm a much better person that he (or she). Why not me?
In our humanness, we want the good, but not the bad. It's only natural. Who wants to just "get by" when the alternative is wealth? We see wealthy people who win the lottery, and say, "You have to be kidding!" Someone who didn't need "it" won the big payout, and we ask . . . why not me? Why can't we hit the jackpot or be the surprised heir of some distant relative's great fortune? Why is it always the other guy with all the good luck? Why do the rich get richer and the poor get poorer? Isn't that what we ask? After all, poverty is every bit as uncomfortable as it's cracked up to be, and each of us looks absolutely fabulous in Armani or Vera Wang . . . or even a new Jaguar.
Why does the good stuff, the really great stuff, the really cool stuff, always happen to other people, but not to us?
Why not me?? (Whimper.)
When bad things happen, as they will eventually do, and we find ourselves asking, "why me", perhaps, instead, that is the time that we should be asking, "Why not me"?
Why not me?
Enough stuff has happened to me that every time I step out in faith and answer God's call, it's as though someone lowers the boom. Step out in faith and BAM! And when I pick myself up and dust myself off, I ask myself, "Where did that come from?" Oh, yeah . . . I stepped out in faith. That's where that came from. Why not me? I mean, who am I?
Last night I blogged about the homeless, the sick, and the faithful now stacked like cordwood in some decrepit, forgotten, federally funded institution waiting to die. Upon reflection, I could have done a better job of painting what I saw, what I felt. Perhaps some of you have been somewhere very similar, have seen the same lettuce green walls . . . or were the ones you saw soft blue? I've seen that same blue. It smells the same.
The first time I went to a nursing home as a brand new Deacon, knowing that God had called me, yet even with my Stephen Ministry training wondering if I was equipped for the task, I hoped I would get 'it' all right.
The nursing home I was called to was not one of those grand assisted living places. It was possibly the very worst place, the cheapest place . . . because no one really cared anymore. Why spend money warehousing people who were no longer aware of who they had once been?
The beds reminded me of ancient hospital beds I seen as a child in the Islands. Painted iron frames, narrow, thin mattresses, and ratty, threadbare, faded chenille spreads, clean, but well-worn. On 'institutional green' walls hung pictures of them before their memories were taken away from them. They used to be somebody, and still were in a cruel insignificant way, together for decades, now together in this place.
Looking around, it was hard to see God there, but I didn't have to look hard. He was there. Just not in the way I expected. I didn't recognize Him at first, but every time I went . . . He always showed up.
The first time, afterwards, I went out to my car and sat and wept. They haunted me. "Who are you again?" For months I visited them, prayed with them, served them communion . . . then one passed, and the other. I never ran into a family member . . .
There was no church service, no memorial . . .
During my time as their Deacon, God confirmed to me that He is faithful. Not for a minute do I think that I made their lives any better, but with every visit they made my life better. I got to watch God work in an unexpected way.
Funny how God always seems to show up in our lives through unexpected people and in unexpected ways. We start out thinking that we are serving Him . . . but He ends up, well, serving us.
Why me?
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