Chosen

  

       Being the third child in birth order creates a “wait your turn” kind of mentality. In my earliest years, I watched, admired, and waited for my two older brothers to go first. They lost their teeth, they went to school, they even road their bikes first. At the table they were first to tell a funny story, in the car, they were first to choose a seat. At "Adventureland," they were the first to ride the “Tornado” because I still didn’t come up to the height limit on the cartoon dog posted out front.

      In school, I wasn’t the head of the class. In fact, it was hard for me to keep my head in the class. I was so easily distracted by all the things I would do when it finally became my turn. As much as I didn’t appreciate my position in line, I didn't realize how comfortable it is to not be seen, to blend.

      It wasn’t till “the rock” in third grade that I realized how much I wanted to be noticed. In the evening performance of “King Jehoshaphat” at church, my desire was made known. As a result of a self-conscious audition, I landed the part of “extra.” Sitting on the "rock" prop while smiling at the audience was my stardom.  Empowered by each person looking at me, I was sure that no one even noticed the main character, the rat-tailed King Jehoshaphat. It was clear, I loved the stage even if I wasn’t first.

       After our performance, my mother said, “Wow Dianne, you sure have stage presence.”

      In fourth grade, I started to grow. As I was experiencing a shift in my height. I also realized the rest of me was changing as well. I started noticing that my new best friend Sarah always had a crowd of boys around her. How did she do this? We could be lined up for recess and one of them would ask her if he could take her jump rope in for her? I started to study her.

     Was it her pretty brown eyes and blond curly hair? That afternoon I marched up to my mom as I threw down my backpack, “Mom I want a Boomerang Perm! Sarah has one.” After several months of consistent begging, she relented! As I walked out of the salon with the heavy chemical smell in my frizzy corkscrews I felt all eyes fastened on me, so I strutted to the car.

     At school on Monday, I excitedly arrived hoping to see an attention transformation. All the girls surrounded me, complimenting my hair. For a moment I was first until Chad came.

“Is that you Dianne? I could hardly recognize you with that poodle on your head, but then I saw your teeth… you could fit 5 quarters between your front teeth,” He teased.

     Hot embarrassment flushed my cheeks. If he wasn’t the cutest boy in fourth grade I would have stomped his foot, instead, I ran away to the bars. Lifting my right leg over the top, my hands on each side. I began pulling myself around and around. Next to me, my friend Aubrey said, “Don’t listen to Chad, he is mean to everyone.” But his words became a sore in my eye every time I looked in the mirror. I will never be first with a gap in my front teeth.

      That following summer I got corrective braces.  Every day I was happy that the gap was closing a little more. Shortly after I got them off I sat next to Sarah at the lunch table while Chad sat across from us. I felt satisfied that he couldn’t make fun of me anymore. I continued to study Sarah.

“Hey, Dianne now that you don’t have braces I want to show you something,” Chad said friendly, “hold out your tongue and say “Ship.”

     For the first time, his eyes were fastened on me, and so were the other boys: Ronnie, and Brent. So happily I obeyed. “Say it real loud, now that you don’t have braces.” He said like a best friend. So with the whole table now staring, I finally got my “first” moment.  With my tongue between my fingers, I said “S***”

     Everyone gasped, as the table monitor, the scary second-grade teacher “Mrs. Harmon” turned on her heels to coldly stick out her finger at me and point to the dreaded “naughty table.” Chad’s hand burst in the air with all five fingers shaking vigorously like they had caught fire. “Mrs. Harmon, Dianne said a bad word.”
 
     I lifted my tray and walked with shame to the table in the middle of the gym. Laughter echoed as the boys all high-fived Chad. I didn’t even argue my case because everyone had heard the dreadful word. I was the first of our class to sit at the “Naughty table” that year, tricked by that lousy Chad. My poodily perm and corrected teeth hadn’t changed much for my position in line, accept to bring demotion. Holding my breath to suck them back in, I cried unwanted tears. Humiliation had set them free.

     I wish I could say, I had learned my lesson that day, but I still had a secret crush on this mean boy. I still wanted to look, act, and be my friend Sarah. I still wanted to trade places with anyone who was ahead of me in line. This is the reality of the tween years. It is an awkward hunt to find your place. It wasn’t until many years later that I realized that there was One who had chosen me.

     In another season of my life, High school. I woke up early on a Sunday morning. This was not my plan, but mother’s voice was calling. “Dianne, get up! Let’s go to church.”

     As I rolled on my side another fresh wave of pain washed over me. Remembering my conversation with my boyfriend, Dane the night before, “It is over,” he had said with finality. Internally it felt as if I was at the “naughty table” again.

“Ugh…ok mom I’ll go,” I mumbled.

     Still muttering I sat up in bed. There was still a hint of alcohol in my system that morning as I sluggishly sauntered toward the bathroom. At 2 AM I had snuck back into my room, so 8AM felt early. Staring in the mirror, I looked at my straight ungapped teeth, my nappy curls, and the reddish break out on my cheek. “Worthless” I whispered.

     A small miracle happened that morning. For the first time in years, I went to church with my mom. We sat near the back hoping to blend in unnoticed. Trying to be “first” hadn’t worked out very well for me. I seemed to be meeting too many Chads. As the message began I felt something stirring inside. Looking around, everyone else seemed to be fine. There it was again, a shifting. Without warning tears began to spring up, my nose began to run and my ears began to hear, “Dianne I choose you! I choose you! Just the way you are, come to me, be the first to surrender!”

     I looked over at my mom for help. There is a heavenly rule that states: All facial tissue must evaporate into thin air whenever there are tears in a church service. Instead, sleeves and pant legs are required to bring inner healing. She looked back at me with tears streaming down. As the minister said “Amen,” we held hands. Like a little girl again my hand rested on hers. With mascara lakes on dampened cheeks, I said, “Let’s come back tonight?” She nodded.

“For He chose us in Him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in His sight. In love.” Ephesians 1:4