As I unroll a horsehair pallet and place a thin yellowed pillow at the top, it’s quiet. Too quiet. The horsehair pallet beneath me is scratchy and the thin yellowed pillow beneath my head is squishy and old. But this pillow of mine, we’re old friends. I’ve cried buckets of tears into it; its softness has muffled many screams in the night. Screams of fear and screams of pain. I’m all alone. It’s been only minutes since someone checked on me, but it feels like hours. It’s in the quiet that I contemplate why I’ve been allowed to live. My body’s been battered, broken, and bruised more times than I can count. And yet my life must have a purpose otherwise my heart would have already stopped and I’d be dust blown across this vast landscape surrounding me.
And then it happened. A voice. Not a person in sight. Just a voice as clear and crisp as a soft winter wind. I sit up, looking around. This voice has called me by name, and there at my feet stands Jesus. He tells me that He has chosen me and He has a purpose for my life, and that I’m not going to die today, tomorrow, or for many tomorrows in the future.
Matthew 22:14 says that “many are called but few are chosen”. He called his disciples, Lazarus, Mary Magdalene, and countless others (by name) who were nameless and faceless to those around them because they were outcasts according to society’s standards.
I have a purpose. You have a purpose, even if you’re unsure what that purpose is. Listen. Feel the stillness. You’re safe.