Fulfilling Prophesies
We all have those hideously embarrassing and, therefore, horribly powerful memories from our formative years that stick around like the sand in your floorboard from last year’s beach trip.
One of my worst is from the Senior Awards ceremony. They were giving out awards that had been voted on by the whole graduating class. People were getting awards like Most Likely to Succeed, Most Likely to Become Governor, Most Likely to Become a Famous Actor. Graduating 13th in my class and being highly involved in a variety of school activities, I thought I had a shot at getting one. And, boy, did I.
Most Likely to Write a Romance Novel.
This doesn’t seem so bad out of context, so let me give you some background. I hated high school. It was horrible for me. It was, far and away, the most difficult social time of my life. When I hear people reminiscing about the good old days of high school, I keep wondering what planet they are from because for me, it was truly absolute hell.
We didn’t have a name for it back then, but nowadays, we have given it the subtle and tactful name of “slut-shaming.” That’s a story for another time, but let’s just say that, at the time, I did take part in contributing to the situation. But the real issue happened when I betrayed a friend with a kiss. A kiss that I didn’t disclose because I was ashamed. By the time I had worked up the courage to tell her, the news was already out, and I was black-listed. Thankfully, this was before the days of social media, so I just got the old-fashioned back-turning, locker-closing, side-eye-receiving ostracism that the 90s were known for. That, coupled with the absolute cruelty of the teenage rumor mill, completely obliterated my last two years of high school.
Most Likely to Write a Romance Novel was not a sweet nod to the artsy writer in the corner. It was the final thrust of the knife.
The following years were some of the darkest of my life. Again, another story for another time. My search for that love and acceptance became more and more desperate, and sex became the only way I knew to hope for a trace of it.
Until my best friend’s wedding: It’s actually so cliche that it’s hard to write about it, but the only non-family guests were myself (the maid of honor) and the best man. We only had one week together in Savannah, Georgia…wedding prepping and having fun…and boy, did I fall head over heels for him. One minor problem, though. He lived in Atlanta, GA, and I lived in Austin, TX, halfway across a really big country.
In a desperate bid to try to maintain the relationship, I suggested we read this book together that our friends had given us as a “thank you” for being in the wedding. It was called Purpose Driven Life.
You see, my friend had been telling me about Jesus for years, and I didn’t want to have anything to do with it. Religion was a stuffy, shame-filled, guilt-ridden, narrow-minded, finger-pointing hodge podge that I didn’t want to touch with a 10-foot poll because I had already had enough of that in my life. Now, she had gotten me through the doors of a church that week of the wedding because Mr. Best Man had wanted to go, but I still sat in the back row, ready to bolt at the first sign of crazy.
I never, ever, would have picked up that book if I wasn’t absolutely nuts for this guy and frantic to find a way to keep talking to him. This was back in the day when we had to use this thing called a “phone” to have things called “conversations” where we had to talk to each other. Lucky for us, we had the same carrier, so we didn’t have to worry about long-distance minutes (if you know, you know). Anyways, how could I get him to talk to me on a regular basis? Fortunately, Purpose Driven Life had 40 days of readings we could do together and then talk about them. Perfect! We agreed on the drive back to the Atlanta airport that we would read the book together.
The next day, I opened up the first page of the book and read the first line. “It’s not about you.” 18 years later and I still remember those words. The next few days were a magical whirlwind of mystery, wonder, and joy as I fully soaked in the Truth about who Jesus is. Nine days later, on my 26th birthday, Mr. Best Man told me that he was recommitting his life to Christ.
And I got it.
And I wanted it.
And I did it.
After years of searching for love from boy after boy, and man after man, I realized that the King of the Universe loved me, could make me whole, and was offering to make me His. If I would just say “yes” and believe.
To this day, my husband’s contact in my phone is still “My Bonus Prize.” I made that his contact name that very day because I wanted to make sure that I always remember that the deep, covenantal, passionate, and dedicated love that we have for each other is just a drop in the bucket compared to the overwhelming, pure, and perfect love that my Savior has for me.
No matter where it is that you are trying to find completion and wholeness, whether it’s in food, alcohol, work, fitness, family, friends, drugs, or sex, healthy or unhealthy, none of those will ever fully satisfy you. The only thing that can is the Bread of Life, Jesus. If you have never taken time to ask Him into the secret, empty place in you, stop and do it now. He will rewrite your story in ways that you never imagined possible.
Looking back, that humiliating award wound up being so perfectly and weirdly prophetic. I was Most Likely to Write a Romance Novel. Jesus had marked me as His from the moment of my creation, and I can’t help but write about His unfailing, unflinching, untamed Love.
