As far as stories go, this one’s a page-turner from the start.  You know the kind.  It’s one of those stories that, as a child, had you huddled under your sheets at one in the morning with a flashlight.  It’s a story that, as an adult, has you furiously flipping pages at every red light on the way to pick up your kids in carpool. 

It begins with a young girl named Mary who is engaged to be married.  Well, the story really starts long before this girl, but we don’t have time to go into the whole snake in the garden, burning bush, parting sea, ark filled with animals shebang.  That part of the story is in book one or, as most folks like to call it, the Old Testament.  This story starts with Mary, the girl who is engaged. 

So Mary’s out minding her own business one day, probably thinking about whether or not she wants to serve shrimp cocktail in the buffet line at her reception when, out of the blue, this guy named Gabriel pays her a visit.  Now, Gabe isn’t just any old fellow.  The dude’s got wings.  And a halo.  And get this, Gabriel tells Mary that although she’s a virgin, she’s pregnant with God’s son. 

A virgin . . . pregnant?   Wait a minute.  The story is only a few pages in and already it’s getting interesting.  Chapter 1 has sex-ed teachers all over the world wondering why they’ve been demonstrating the condom roll-down move on cucumbers while thirteen-year-old boys giggle in the back of the classroom.   Mary’s never even seen a cucumber, and . . . she’s pregnant?  Whoa.

You’re already hooked at this point, aren’t you?  I mean, it’s no Fifty Shades of Grey, but you’re intrigued in a completely non-erotic  way.  (Just for planning purposes, there is no erotica in this story so if you’re sitting by the pool, you can keep reading, and if you haven’t read Fifty Shades yet, buy it immediately but don’t go anywhere near the pool while reading it.  Stay in your bedroom, preferably with your husband very close by.)

Okay, so Mary’s pregnant with God’s son, according to the guy with wings and a halo.  But wait . . . it gets better.  Gabriel doesn’t just tell Mary she’s going to have a baby and she’s not allowed to come up with his name – it has to be Jesus - he also tells her, and this part’s flat out funny, that her fiancé is going to be okay with it.  Are you kidding me? 

Now skip ahead a bit.  Mary and her fiancé (yep, ole’ Gabe was right – he stuck around to watch his virgin bride give birth) are heading to Joseph’s hometown to be counted for a census.  They’re travelling by donkey.  Doesn’t that sound like a good time?  My king size bed with a pillow top mattress and silk sheets was uncomfortable when I was eight months pregnant.  I’m thinking a ride on the back of a donkey couldn’t have been a real treat for Mary, but hey, I’ve never ridden a donkey.  So they get to town and need a place to stay, and since this story takes place long before travelocity.com was up and running, Mary and Joseph go door to door asking for shelter.  The plot thickens a bit here folks, and you can’t help but wonder if there’s a bit of literary irony going on when the couple is repeatedly turned down by the townspeople.  Clearly, there’s a need for someone to teach these people the whole “love your neighbor as yourself” lesson. 

So, what do Mary and Joseph do?  They find shelter in a barn, with hay on the floor and, I imagine, some fairly large spiders in the corners.  And in that barn, without a nurse or a doctor or, heaven help the poor woman, an epidural, the virgin named Mary gives birth to a baby boy, just as Gabriel told her she would.  She named him Jesus, as instructed.    

I’m not sure about you, but I’m pretty sure who the heroine in the story is so far.

Well, baby Jesus is quite a draw, and not simply because he was born in a stable in Bethlehem to a virgin with no royal pedigree whatsoever.   This baby, this Jesus, has followers immediately.  Granted, the followers hang out with sheep all day and track stars at night, but they are followers nonetheless.  If the story was about a rock band, they would be called ‘groupies,’ and who wouldn’t like to have a few of those.  Anyway, these followers come from afar to bring Jesus a Baby Einstein CD, a monogrammed silver cup, and a diaper genie.  Okay, okay, I know that’s not exactly how the story goes, but I’m guessing the gold, frankincense, and myrrh made up quite a care package back in those days.   Either way, the important plot line here is that Jesus was so important a new star began shining in the sky to direct people to him, and the people that came treated him like a king, which indeed, he was.

Fast-forward thirty years.  I realize that’s a rather big jump to take, but you gotta figure life wasn’t changing at warp speed two-thousand years ago.  It wasn’t like the people were talking on telephones with cords that took ten minutes to dial and then, three decades later, they were taking videos of their children on phones with no cords and downloading them, with music, for their relatives to see on the other side of the globe all while driving in their brand new electric car.  In Jesus’ time, thirty years meant your donkey got old and you might need to trade for a new one. 

The story gets truly exciting now as Jesus begins travelling the land doing all kinds of crazy things that make people either love him, or fear him.  He makes a blind man see.  He makes a lame man walk.  He raises a girl from the dead.  Yes, you read that right.  The girl is dead.  Jesus makes her . . . not dead.  How could you possibly put this story down?  It’s unbelievable.  And it doesn’t end there.  Jesus does some things that are even crazier than raising the dead.  He encourages people to love one another as they love themselves.  He reminds people they shouldn’t look at the appearances of others, but at their hearts.  He tells people it’s better to give than to receive. He instructs people to forgive one another.  Like I said, this man was certifiably nuts. 

And this is when the story begins to take a bit of a dark turn.  You see, as I mentioned, some people are afraid of this man called Jesus, and they don’t just think he’s in need of some Zanax and a good therapist.  They think he’s a phony.  They think he’s a liar.  They think he’s a criminal. 

Of course, the most twisted part of the story is the fact that Jesus knows exactly what’s going to happen next.  He’s like the girl in the horror film who hears a strange noise in her bedroom closet and waltzes right in there to check it out anyway.  Jesus knows what’s coming and yet, he doesn’t change a thing.  He rides into Jerusalem on, what else, a donkey, as the people who do believe he is their king place palm branches in his path.  He treats his friends to one last supper, during which he explains his body and blood are going to be given for them.  He stands silent as one of those friends betrays him.  He stands silent as one of those friends abandons him.  And in a single moment of humanness, he kneels in a garden and prays for his Father to change the story, to give it a different ending, even though he knows it is not to be.  The guards come.  They put Jesus before the one man on earth who can save him.  Despite the desperate pleading of his wife, the man allows an angry crowd to decide Jesus’ fate instead.  You can’t read the story fast enough now, can you?  You have to know what’s next, but . . . be prepared.  It’s ugly.

Jesus is beaten.  Jesus is tortured.  He’s forced to carry a heavy cross on his back while a crown of thorns pierces the flesh on his head.  Then, Jesus is nailed to the cross.  He is hung on a hill and left to die, slowly, in front of the people who have refused to believe he is the one he claims to be.  And when he takes his last breath, this baby born of a virgin, this child called the Son of God and man, this teacher of love and peace and patience and kindness, when he breaths his last, the whole earth trembles and everything changes forever.  Because in that moment, the veil is torn and God is no longer unapproachable.  He becomes . . . mine.  He becomes my Father, my comforter, my healer, my strength, my provider, my Lord.  He becomes the God of grace who forgives my every sin.  And I am a sinner.  I sin every day.  I’m judgmental and selfish and impatient and prideful and lustful and envious and, because of Jesus . . . I am forgiven.  His blood poured out for me.  His blood poured out for you.  

Surprisingly, the story doesn’t end there.  God is a God of miracles after all, and Jesus couldn’t possibly play such an important role in such an incredible story and then just disappear.  There’s a tomb and a rolling stone and a missing body and some very freaked out women and, in the end, Jesus rises.  He conquers death.  He ascends into heaven and, at this very moment, he sits at the right hand of God and lives to intercede for me, and for you.  He also lives inside my heart, reminding me in very real ways of all those things he was trying to demonstrate while he was on earth.  Jesus is alive.

I told you it’s a page-turner.  Eat your heart out, Twilight - this story trumps vegetarian vampires any day of the week.  Because this story isn’t just a page-turner.  It’s a life-changer.  It’s the single greatest love story ever written, ever told, ever lived.  And the story, and the love, continues.

Happy Easter.

The differences between men and women astound me.  I just listened to my husband have a cell phone conversation with a friend of his from The University of Kansas.  They hadn’t spoken in years, but recently reconnected because of the Facebook of the business world, i.e. Linked In, the classy way to spy on people you used to know or wish you did.  Of course, I could only hear one end of the conversation, but this is what it sounded like to me:

Adam:  “Hey, what’s up?”

Friend:  Something about the Kansas game that was on the previous night.

Adam:  “You’re out of your mind.”

Friend:  Something else about the Kansas game from the previous night.

Adam:  “That might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say”

Friend:  Something about the picture Adam posted of himself on Linked In.

Adam:  “Please.  That picture was taken less than a month ago.  You’re just jealous because you’re old, fat, and bald and I look better now than I did in college.”

Friend:  Something to repute the extremely rude comments my husband just made about his attractiveness.

Adam:  (laughing) “Yea right.  Okay.  Yep.  Talk to you later, man.”

And that was it, folks.  Forty-five seconds and that was the entire conversation between two men who used to consume massive amounts of beer and pizza together, but who had fallen out of touch because of jobs, wives, kids, and the fourteen hundred miles separating them. 

Now, let’s replay a conversation you might hear between two women who have been out of touch for a few years.

Female number one: (in a very high pitched voice filled with immeasurable levels of enthusiasm) “Oh honey, it’s soooo good to hear from you.  I can’t believe it’s been so long since we last spoke.  I have missed you SO much.  I saw you on Facebook and you look absolutely amazing.  Seriously, you haven’t aged a bit and I love your new hairstyle.  Too cute.  And your kids . . . wow.  They are gooorrrrgeous.  They look exactly like you.   So, how are you?  Tell me EVERYTHING that’s been going on in your life.”

Female number two:  (in an equally high pitched and enthusiastic voice) “Girl, I’m so excited to talk to you.  It really has been too long.  I feel terrible we haven’t kept in touch after all the fun we used to have together.  You were suuuuuuuch a good friend to me and I think of you all the time.  I saw you on Facebook too and you look incredible.  Are you working out five times a day or something?  Seriously, you look better than ever.  Oh my goodness, I have so much to tell you but the suspense is killing me.  I just can’t wait to hear everything you’ve been up to, so you go first.  Fill me in on the last two years of your life.”

And an hour later, the conversation shows no sign of ending.

Could men and women be any more different?

I gotta tell ya, the rat race is thriving in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia.  I know this because sometimes, I sprout whiskers, and on my worst days, a tail long enough to be worthy of a subway track in Brooklyn.  I also know this because every day of the week, I get behind the wheel of my car and drive somewhere. I might not go far.  In fact, some days I only drive the two miles to and from the kids’ school.  Still, there is evidence of the rat race at every red light I hit in that two mile stretch, and it has little to do with the array of expensive SUV’s stopped both in front of and behind me.  No, it isn’t the fact that despite ridiculously high gas prices and the sad reality of global warming, one out of every three cars in Atlanta is one of the biggest cars on the market.  It’s the mobile resumes displayed ON the cars that remind me the “keep up with the Jones’” mentality is alive and well in my hometown.

You’ve seen those mobile resumes I'm speaking of, haven’t you?  You know . . . the stickers.  Yes, those stickers all over the sides and backs of cars presenting tell-all declarations about the people inside.  There will probably be a collection of family stick figure stickers on the bottom left or right corner of the back windshield, so you’ll want to look for those first.  That way you’ll know exactly how many people are in the family riding around in front of you. In my neck of the woods, the stickers might show a father carrying a golf bag, a mother holding a tennis racquet, a boy with a soccer ball at his feet, a girl in a tutu, and a baby with a bottle in his hand.  You’ll know the baby is a boy, by the way, because he is wearing a blue diaper.  Of course, the display doesn’t end with the announcement that the car holds a family of five that includes two adults and three children.  There are important details to notice as well.  The stickers might show the non-human members of the family.  Some even show the adults wearing shirts or holding banners with their college teams written on them.  I can pull up behind a Honda Odyssey at the intersection of Peachtree Road and Peachtree Circle and immediately discover that the family riding in front of me is comprised of a dad who graduated from Auburn, a mom who graduated from Florida, twin boys who play football, a little girl who likes gymnastics, a dog, two cats, five goldfish, and a hamster. 

But wait . . . there’s more.  If the red light is long enough, and in metro Atlanta they usually are, you will likely get to know even more about the family who is introducing themselves from the back of their car – simply look at the rest of their stickers.  Within seconds, you will learn that someone in the family has completed a marathon, someone in the family likes to cycle, and no one in the family voted for Obama.  Another couple of stickers and you’ll know where the kids in the family go to school, whether or not those kids are in the honors program at their school, and whether or not their parents donated money to the annual fund at their school.  Keep looking and you’ll find out what sports the kids in the family participate in (and whether or not they made the all-star team), where the family likes to go to church, and the family’s favorite spot to vacation, IF you can figure out what those pesky initials stand for.  Amazing.  All that knowledge about a family gleaned from a collection of stickers on the rear windshield of an automobile. 

Atlanta is full of these mobile family resumes and I enjoy seeing them.  I really do.  Honestly, if I didn’t have that OCD issue I’ve mentioned in many of my previous posts, I might even have a few stickers displayed on the back window of my own SUV.  But alas, that OCD just won’t go away and stickers on the back of my car would just look like clutter to me.  I HATE clutter.  Still, I get a kick out of reading the resumes I see as I’m driving around town each day.  Sometimes I’d like to smile and wave at the family in front of me because I think we must have a lot in common.  I want to roll down my window and shout, “Hey there!  So nice to meet your family.  I used to go to your church and we thought about sending our kids to the same school your kids go to and what do you think of lacrosse because my son’s been asking to play and congratulations on your alma mater’s new football coach and are you training for another marathon because I’ve always wanted to run one myself and I’ve been to Amelia Island too but it was years ago and . . .”

Of course, then the light changes and everyone has to get where they need to go.  I step on the accelerator and move on, never knowing if I will see that particular family at the intersection of Peachtree Road and Peachtree Circle again.

I think the real reason I enjoy reading these mobile resumes, however, is because they help me remember I’m not alone.  The stickers remind me there are thousands of other women in my community trying to do the best they can as wives and mothers.  They remind me I’m not the only one trying to find balance in my own life and create it in the lives of my children.  Most importantly, they remind me of my intrinsic need to connect with others – to mean something.

Why are we so desperate for significance?  I’m not talking about a quest for love here, folks.  I think most of us get plenty of love.  Our parents love us, our husbands love us, our children love us, our friends love us.  Yet, despite the fact that we are well-loved by the people who matter most, we still have this burning desire to tell others . . . strangers even . . . who we are and what we’ve done and where we’ve been. 

Please don’t think I’m pointing fingers.  I mean, I totally am, but only when looking in the mirror.  Trust me.  I get it.  There are a zillion informative blogs out there about cooking and health and party planning and parenting and furniture and fashion and decorating.  I’m writing a blog about nothing, for goodness sake, so if anyone gets it, I do.  I may not have stickers on my car creating a colorful billboard about my life, but I want someone . . . anyone . . . to find me interesting or funny or helpful or at the very least, memorable.  I want to be seen.  I want to be noticed.  I want to be known.  The question is . . . why?

Why do I have this desperate ache to find significance through the eyes of others when I’m significant in the eyes of God?  Why do I feel the need to earn the approval and acceptance of people I might never meet when the one who created me approves of and accepts me the way I am?  Why do I want strangers to know things about me when the only one who knows everything about me, even the dark and dirty yuck that resides in my heart, loves me more than anyone else ever can? 

I will never be significant enough to others.  They have their own aches and needs and wants and dark and dirty yuck.  But I will ALWAYS be significant to Him. 

Psalm 139:1-4 says, O Lord, you have searched me and you know me.  You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar.  You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways.  Before a word is on my tongue, you know it completely, O Lord.

Romans 8:38 says . . . neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God.   

These two verses seem so contradictory to me.  I mean seriously, how can God know me so well and yet, still love me that much?  He sees me when I judge strangers.  He sees me when I’m insensitive to my husband.  He sees me when I’m impatient with my kids.  He sees me when I envy my friends.  He sees me.  He notices me.  He knows me.  And yet . . . He loves me?  He loves me anyway?

If I could kick this OCD issue of mine and create a mobile resume on my own car, my stickers would be just like all the others – they would be about the things I hold dear – my children, our church, vacation, family.  My husband would have a golf club in his hand and I would have on workout gear.  My son would hold a lacrosse stick and my daughter would be in a leotard.  I would even have a dog sticker, much to my own surprise.  

But my stickers would never tell the people driving around Atlanta with me who I really am.  They might see that I’m a mother, learn where my kids attend school, and discover how much I love visiting Lake Oconee, but a mobile resume would never make the one declaration that truly matters.  I would need a different sticker for that.  I would need a sticker that said “Child of God.”  Because that’s what I am.  That’s all I’ll ever be.  And it’s enough. 

It’s enough to be significant to Him.