For comparison’s curse, the truth that frees–you are chosen
It slipped into the mailbox on a sunny summer’s day. I hadn’t pulled it out until last night. Mister and I, we’d just been out walking. I’d reached into the box,and there it was. Sighing, I opened it up, and I put it to him straight…
“I sure don’t look like any of these.”
It was a catalog I’d never requested. Full of gorgeous models clad in summer clothes. Displayed in stunning swimsuits. All, every one, tall and lean and, well, stunning.
Legs up to here. Perfect stomachs. Perfect hips. Perfect breasts. Perfect complexions. Who on earth could measure up to that?
Even now, I remember what He’d said just the other day. “Who told you what the standard is? How perfection is shaped, how it looks?”
He had me, and I knew it.
“The world,” I’d said beneath the summer sun.
“Then you’re using the wrong measuring stick.” There’d been no condemnation in His tone, but love.
Measuring sticks and false beliefs. God’s standards, crafted pots, and truth that sets one free.
“Did I marry one of them?” It’s Mister’s voice now. And there, too, no condemnation, but love.
“You,” he says, blue eyes intent, “were chosen.”
And like that, I know. The cure for in-secure-ity. The cure for bad measuring sticks. For comparison’s curse and the shame of falling short, the truth that frees is this–we are chosen.
For the one who’s old, body wrinkled. You are chosen.
For the one who is overweight. You are chosen.
For the one who’s not the top in his field. You are chosen, too.
For the average or simple or slow, He picked you. For the weary, discouraged and frail, chosen.
You are and He has and He will, always, ever, for He doesn’t ‘unchoose’ those He’s picked. You are safe.
Your value is great, you’ve got fullest favor, and He calls you not ‘servant,’ but ‘friend.’
Smash the old yard stick, the one that says ‘failed,’ and grab on with both hands to the truth. You are loved.
You are chosen.
Warmly this day,