These Stones

 

This past Saturday, my family watched the Texas Longhorns beat USC in a highly entertaining game of football.  Our kids put on their longhorn shirts even though we stayed home, and we all sang the fight song following touchdowns.  And throughout the game, I enjoyed seeing photos of friends wearing burnt orange at the stadium only ten miles away from our house.  

My heart has always belonged to UT.  My Dad went to Texas.  I remember making the trip to Austin for a game as young as four years old.  I remember the first time I heard the band’s drums, the way the sound shot an electrical current through me that reverberated and grew as we followed the band to the field.  I remember the announcer’s voice, and the energy in the air.  I remember Dad buying me a plastic pom pom, and a beautiful cheerleader drawing horns on my cheek.   

Since I went to SMU for my undergraduate degree, law school was my last chance at UT.  My last chance to make it mine.  

When it was time for me to apply, I applied to five law schools across Texas: one to which I thought for certain I’d be admitted, three to which I wasn’t sure, and then one dream school I was fairly confident would not accept me.  That one was UT.  When letters came back, I had only two options: my “for certain” school, and one of the three.  I was outright rejected from the rest, including Texas.  

It was no surprise.  

I spent several months settling into the idea of attending my “for certain” school.  My brother was there; my boyfriend was there.  It was a fun city, and it had a great church.  It would be great.  I said that over and over, but somewhere deep down in my heart, I was disappointed.  I knew my dream of UT was crazy, but it was real.  And so was my sadness.  

One day, I was bummed enough that I had to tell God about it.  I went into my bedroom in the apartment I shared with my best friend, and I shut the door.  I got down on my knees, and I prayed.  I even cried.  

I told the Lord how sad I was.  I told Him that I knew that I didn’t deserve to go to UT, but I wanted to all the same.  I needed Him to know how heartbroken I felt.  I knew that I sounded ridiculous, and I promised Him that once I finished praying I wouldn’t whine or be sad anymore.  I just needed to tell Him where my heart was, and I had nowhere else to turn.  

I left it all there.  With Him.

When I finally got up, I went out to the living room where my best friend sat watching T.V.  “Have you checked the mail today?” she asked.  I hadn’t, and I welcomed the excuse to take a walk.  Slowly I made my way to the mail room and opened up our tiny tin box.  Inside I found a letter from the University of Texas School of Law.  But why?  I received my rejection letter weeks ago, and it had been conclusive— no wait list, no “let’s wait and see.”  It was just a NO, and it was sitting back home on my desk. 

My hands started to shake.  I clumsily opened the letter, and read the first line: “Upon reconsideration of your application, you have been accepted to the University of Texas School of Law.”

Now, here is where the unbeliever would say something like: “Well clearly they mailed that letter before you started praying, so the prayer couldn’t have been why you were accepted.”  Or, “surely you got in because of your connections,” or something along those lines.  But I’m not interested in all that.  What I know is that I didn’t get in, but God.  

In John chapter 9 when Jesus healed the man born blind, the Pharisees quizzed that poor man repeatedly about how he got his sight.  With all their knowledge and learning, they wanted to get to the bottom of how something like that could ever have happened.  They asked him over and over again about the teacher who’d done it, but the poor man was so simple and certain in his response.  How he did it, he answered, he didn’t know.  But, he said, “one thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.”  

 The blind man wasn’t all that concerned with where the teacher came from, whether or not he was a sinner, or on what day he performed the healing.  What mattered to him was that his life was changed.

God’s people used to stack stones in remembrance.  Whenever God showed up in a noteworthy way, they would make a memorial.  It was by God’s design.  It was important to Him that we tell future generations about the meaning of it all.  He wanted our kids to ask, “What do these stones mean to you?”, and for our answer to be the stories of His faithfulness.  Why? Because real stories, our stories, inform our faith in the face of fear.  They make Him real.  They make Him not just an in-theory God, but an active-in-my-life God.

People who don’t know Him like to think that He’s too busy with important stuff to answer prayers like mine.  “Why should He care what law school you went to?” they ask.  But these daily grinds— the dreams, fears, and real life heartbreaks— are exactly what He cares about.  That blind man.  A people hiding out in a desert.  Me.  He really does love us, just the way we are, like a parent would.   

It wasn’t a no name person who heard me that day; it was the God of the living— of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob.  The God of the creation, and the parted Red Sea, and of Jericho.  The same God who showed up for David’s lions, bears, and then giants, also showed up for mine.

Derek and I have a brick at the law school.  In 2013, we took our girls to a football game, and to the school, and to our brick.  For me, that brick is so much more than my name at a school I attended.  It’s a memorial, and it comes with a story.  And when Camden asked, “why is this here?”, I had an answer.  It began, “Once, I didn’t get into UT.  But now, I am an alumna.”