Several months ago, my daughter called me from out of state on a class trip. It was late, and I was surprised she wasn’t already asleep. Her tone was weary, resigned, resolute. She wasn’t her usual upbeat self.
She shared how, during evening worship, the kids were restless and loud. Few were listening, and those who tried could hardly hear above the fray. The student speakers did a good job of sharing, but did anyone care?
My daughter kept waiting for a teacher or counselor to step in and say something, but no one did. Wasn’t anyone concerned about the chaos?
Something moved her to action. “I’m not in charge, and this probably isn’t my place, but this is worship, and we should be listening,” she said—or something to that effect.
Things quieted down a little, she said, but she didn’t feel that she’d accomplished anything. She’d simply followed her conscience and placed herself on the line in front of peers who were less than appreciative. She knew it going in, and she knew it going out. She spoke out anyway.
I was proud of her, and I was sad with her. I could hear the exhaustion in her voice. She had sorrows, but no regrets. She sensed her aloneness and accepted it without embracing it.
Who embraces aloneness anyway? It’s not something we choose. It simply results from other choices we make when we value things few others value.
I raised my daughter to be a different kind of girl. Not because I wanted her to stand alone. She stands alone by her own choice. She values things few others value. And I watch in amazement from a distance, feeling less alone in my own convictions.
My daughter and I share the same belief that God is good and worthy of our respect. Sometimes we give it, and sometimes we don’t. But we do not doubt that He deserves it.
We’re jarred back to that realization when we see others deny it. We’re reminded that we trust Him more than we trust them. He stood, alone, for us. They would never do that.
Sometimes we do what we do simply because we know who He is.
And that’s reason enough.