Sunday Morning Meds--Fulfilling his purposes

“I cry out to God Most High, to God, 

who fulfills [his purpose] for me.”  Psalm 57:2

The kid died. That’s what happened—the kid died. He was young—early twenties; he was handsome—dark eyes, dark hair in a world of blondes; he was athletic—remembered for his play on high school teams; he was rugged—an avid outdoorsman in Minnesota, a state where hunting and fishing create legends.

But he died. Surprisingly, because no one suspected he was sick; shockingly, because he likely had no clue himself that he was sick; tragically, because his brutally unforeseen death devastated his hometown. People filled the high school gym for the funeral. He was only a kid, hadn’t willed his investments into a fund to buy a new pool or anything. Didn’t have any money. He was just a kid, but he was well-liked and the death was momentous. His funeral filled the gym. People were broken.

His people are God-fearing, sometimes—or so their neighbors might say—self-righteously so. The folks who filled the gym for that funeral were there out of shock and grief, I’m sure, but they were also there because such death’s surprising appearance makes most of us second-guess the trajectories of our own lives.

Because they were God-fearing folks, they wanted to know about his soul, whether or not this strapping young pheasant hunter who’d died so unexpectedly was, well, right with God.

And the fact was, he’d never really said much. But then, when you’re brought up in the middle of a stream, clear cold water isn’t particularly extraordinary. Sometimes even his parents had wondered—which is not to say this kid did things that made them question. Not so. He just never talked about faith all that much in a community where talking about God was sometimes the only currency of real value.

But when his parents went through his things—I can only imagine the pain—they found something extraordinary. Not that long before his death, oddly enough he’d made a video of him talking, alone, into the camera about faith.

Imagine their joy.

He must have used a tripod. No one was around. No one was prompting. There he sat on his bed, telling the camera how much he loved the Lord. And then he picked up a book, paged through it a bit, and read a meditation he said he liked.

It was my book. It was my meditation. It was something I’d written.

I never knew the kid, but for a week or so after the funeral I got letters and post cards from Minnesota, telling me about the funeral, where the kids’ parents had played the tape—did you know he died?—and how the kid had sat down on his bed and filmed himself, his testimony, and then read a meditation you wrote. Did you know that?

No, I didn’t. I didn’t know the kid. Not at all.

This verse from Psalm 57 is one of the most comforting lines in the whole book of Psalms, in the whole Bible. I don’t know why, but in some ways—like the story of the kid who died—I absolutely love being used.

I never knew the kid existed, but in the story of his life I got used—not only in his own short life, but in the lives of the hundreds who packed that school gym to attend his funeral. I never asked for it, never intended it, never dreamed it would happen.

But I got used. Honestly, I don’t know of a greater joy than to think that my God gave me a role in that kind of epic human drama, the life of a great kid who, sadly, all of a sudden died.