You know what’s a shame? When we act surprised about someone’s good deeds, but when it comes to their failings, we shake our heads wisely, and say “Typical.”
You know what’s even better than a compliment? Commenting on their character, and not just their actions. Saying, “It’s just like you to do that!”
(It’s just like Jesus to remember that I love orange-tufted sunbirds. True story: I woke up one morning, and still bleary-eyed, went into the laundry room. There I just glanced out the window, and saw the tiny, iridescent black creature that is Israel’s answer to the hummingbird).
Here’s where I got the idea: King David goes to the Lord one day and says, “I just can’t stand to see You camped out in a tent. I know You’re really too big to fit in it, but I’d love to build You a house.”
God replies, “It means so much to me that you thought of it, but I’ve got this one covered.”
“While we’re talking, though, I wanted you to know what I’ve got in store for you. I know there’s a revolving door policy in mideastern kingdoms, but I’m giving you a perpetual dynasty: You’ll always have a descendent on the throne. And don’t worry, I’ll look out for your children.”
Overcome at such an over-the-top, unsolicited blessing, David says, “Lord, I just don’t know what to say. But it’s just like You to act this way!”
Yes, it is just like Him.
So is His care for me. In the last two weeks, I’ve spent six hours in a classroom with ten 10 and 11 year olds. Yes, I told the Lord that I’m not a natural leader, and I’m not any good with activities. Yes, I had visions of mass chaos — or mass boredom among my students. And yes, I do have to ask, on every day I teach, for a brand new dose of inspiration. (And I thank Him for my local helper!)
But already, I find myself calling them “my kids.” And already I’ve found myself standing on a chair, acting out the story of Zacchaeus.
I’m too short to see, but I’m craning my neck to find Him. “Where’s Jesus? Where is He?”
And from my tree I see the impossible: Jesus is craning his neck to see me.
More than that, He calls out, “Zacchaeus, I’m coming to your house.”
Shaking with excitement, I climb down out of my tree, and run home, where I sweep the books and markers on my table aside. I pull out the juice. I grab a cup of tea. And Jesus comes and sits down with me. He talks me with me. With me!
I am the shortest in my family, but I am not too short to be seen by Jesus.
And neither are you.
From my chair, I see the “impossible.” These kids get it. They see.
And I see another impossible: Jesus takes a Much-Afraid. An arguer and complainer. And He gives her this great joy.
Typical?
I think it is.
Elisabeth Adams 