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Mountain Retreat
When I was in seventh grade, I looked like I was in second grade—painfully skinny. There was a girl I liked, and back then, if you liked someone, you didn't talk to them directly. You worked through their best friend.
I found out this girl, Allison Fisher, was spending the night with her friend Brenda Wolf. So I worked up the nerve to call Brenda's house and ask her to relay the question: would Allison "go with me?" After a nervous wait, Brenda came back on the line: "Allison said no."
I hung up, ran to my room, buried my face in my Brady Bunch bedspread, and cried out, "God, why won't she be my girlfriend? Why am I so stinking skinny?" It shattered my junior-high heart into a million awkward pieces.
But you know what? That's just a part of my story. That's not the whole story.
Everybody's got a story. Say it with me: everybody's got a story. We were born into a family we didn't choose. We'll have challenges, successes, failures. People will say yes to us, and people will say no. Through the decisions we make—good and bad—we become someone. Because we all have a story.
One story that has challenged me deeply over the years is the story of a guy named Joseph. He was in "high school," just like you. He had a family, just like you. He had a future, just like you. We find his story in Genesis—a word that means "beginnings."
"This is the account of Jacob's family line. Joseph, a young man of 17, was tending the flocks with his brothers... He brought their father a bad report about them." (Genesis 37:2)
Basically, Joseph tattled on his brothers.
"Now Israel loved Joseph more than any of the other sons... and he made an ornate robe for him. When his brothers saw that their father loved him more than any of them, they hated him and could not speak a kind word to him." (Genesis 37:3-4)
Joseph had a father who loved him and believed in him—and when you have that, it gives you fuel for a powerful and beautiful story. But it wasn't all love for Joseph. His brothers hated him out of envy. They wanted what he had.
Envy is a strange, slimy thing that crawls up on us when we want what someone else has. They made cheerleader—I didn't. They made the team—I didn't. They got into the group I wanted to be part of—I didn't.
And we're all so "lucky" to carry an envy-making machine in our pockets: a cell phone with social media, constantly fueling comparison. It can be destructive and poisonous in our story.
We all want to be loved, successful, worthy—that's part of the human condition. But when we don't lean in and listen to what God has to say, we start asking:
Which question do you find yourself asking most—one of belonging, purpose, or adequacy?
Everybody's got a story. But there's the story people see, and there's the story people don't see.
The outside story is who you are, where you go to school, your family, your friends, the activities and sports you're into. But the inside story is different—it's the fears you're facing, the anxiety, the uncertainty as you try to piece together the awkward parts of your life. Nobody else sees that.
When I was younger, I went to a basketball camp and made a friend there. On the day parents came to visit, I saw him talking to his father—signing, because his dad was deaf. I had no idea. I thought I knew him, but I didn't know what he was going through at home. I didn't know his inside story.
The good news is we don't have to just judge people by what we see on the outside. We can grow. Instead of being like Joseph's brothers—envious, talking bad about people, posting and passing things on—we can learn to be empathetic instead of envious, understanding instead of judging.
A friend of mine, Tim, grew up in Maryland with a brutal family background. He rebelled hard in high school—long hair, drugs, always fighting. Eventually he was arrested and thrown into juvie.
Standing before a judge, Tim was given an option: stay in Maryland and remain in juvie until he turned 18, or leave the state. As a 16-year-old, he chose to leave. He had a brother in Tennessee, so he got on a Greyhound bus—16 years old, hair down to his waist, smelling like weed—and headed toward an uncertain future.
What happened to Tim in Tennessee? We'll have to wait and see—because that's just part of his story. It's not the whole story.
Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. So many times in life we think we're at the middle or the end of our story and we panic—this is the end! But it's not the end. Many times what feels like an ending is simply a new beginning, a new chapter waiting to be written.
The philosopher Søren Kierkegaard said:
"Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards."
We can't fully understand the meaning of our story until we look back on it—but we have to live it forward, right here, right now, not knowing what the future holds.
"We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog and peering through a mist." (1 Corinthians 13:12)
If we don't see clearly now, how do we know we're on the right path?
Here's what I believe is a game changer: there's a story people see, a story people don't see, and then there's the story only God sees.
"You have searched me, O Lord, and you know me. You know when I sit and you know when I rise. You perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down. You are familiar with all of my ways... All the days of my life were written in your book." (Psalm 139)
God has a story with your name on it. He knows exactly what's going on in your story in this very moment.
There's a story that people know, a story that people don't know, and then there's a story that only God knows. God knows your story. And your story matters to God.
Say it with me: my story matters to God.
I was reading in Ephesians 1 and 2—phenomenal chapters. The God who made the universe, the source of all life and understanding, had you in mind before he even created a thing.
All of this because of his grace and mercy for you.
God loves you so much that he entered into this world, into our reality, through the life of his Son—so that we wouldn't have to wonder why we're here or where we're going, but could know him through his Son and trust that he has the best story for us.
Everybody's got a story. Your story matters deeply to God.
Father, we're so thankful that we are not alone in the universe. No matter where we are—in the busy, hectic city, on a mountaintop, stuck in traffic, at school, at work, at home, whether we're high or low, up or down—we know that you know us. You see us.
As a Father, you have pursued us and lavished your love upon us through your Son. Thank you for what you're going to do in all of our lives this week. Help us to understand the story we're in, and help us to respond to you right here, right now. In Jesus' name.
Continue exploring
Connected by scripture or shared themes.
Mountain Retreat
When I was in seventh grade, I looked like I was in second grade—painfully skinny. There was a girl I liked, and back then, if you liked someone, you didn't talk to them directly. You worked through their best friend.
I found out this girl, Allison Fisher, was spending the night with her friend Brenda Wolf. So I worked up the nerve to call Brenda's house and ask her to relay the question: would Allison "go with me?" After a nervous wait, Brenda came back on the line: "Allison said no."
I hung up, ran to my room, buried my face in my Brady Bunch bedspread, and cried out, "God, why won't she be my girlfriend? Why am I so stinking skinny?" It shattered my junior-high heart into a million awkward pieces.
But you know what? That's just a part of my story. That's not the whole story.
Everybody's got a story. Say it with me: everybody's got a story. We were born into a family we didn't choose. We'll have challenges, successes, failures. People will say yes to us, and people will say no. Through the decisions we make—good and bad—we become someone. Because we all have a story.
One story that has challenged me deeply over the years is the story of a guy named Joseph. He was in "high school," just like you. He had a family, just like you. He had a future, just like you. We find his story in Genesis—a word that means "beginnings."
"This is the account of Jacob's family line. Joseph, a young man of 17, was tending the flocks with his brothers... He brought their father a bad report about them." (Genesis 37:2)
Basically, Joseph tattled on his brothers.
"Now Israel loved Joseph more than any of the other sons... and he made an ornate robe for him. When his brothers saw that their father loved him more than any of them, they hated him and could not speak a kind word to him." (Genesis 37:3-4)
Joseph had a father who loved him and believed in him—and when you have that, it gives you fuel for a powerful and beautiful story. But it wasn't all love for Joseph. His brothers hated him out of envy. They wanted what he had.
Envy is a strange, slimy thing that crawls up on us when we want what someone else has. They made cheerleader—I didn't. They made the team—I didn't. They got into the group I wanted to be part of—I didn't.
And we're all so "lucky" to carry an envy-making machine in our pockets: a cell phone with social media, constantly fueling comparison. It can be destructive and poisonous in our story.
We all want to be loved, successful, worthy—that's part of the human condition. But when we don't lean in and listen to what God has to say, we start asking:
Which question do you find yourself asking most—one of belonging, purpose, or adequacy?
Everybody's got a story. But there's the story people see, and there's the story people don't see.
The outside story is who you are, where you go to school, your family, your friends, the activities and sports you're into. But the inside story is different—it's the fears you're facing, the anxiety, the uncertainty as you try to piece together the awkward parts of your life. Nobody else sees that.
When I was younger, I went to a basketball camp and made a friend there. On the day parents came to visit, I saw him talking to his father—signing, because his dad was deaf. I had no idea. I thought I knew him, but I didn't know what he was going through at home. I didn't know his inside story.
The good news is we don't have to just judge people by what we see on the outside. We can grow. Instead of being like Joseph's brothers—envious, talking bad about people, posting and passing things on—we can learn to be empathetic instead of envious, understanding instead of judging.
A friend of mine, Tim, grew up in Maryland with a brutal family background. He rebelled hard in high school—long hair, drugs, always fighting. Eventually he was arrested and thrown into juvie.
Standing before a judge, Tim was given an option: stay in Maryland and remain in juvie until he turned 18, or leave the state. As a 16-year-old, he chose to leave. He had a brother in Tennessee, so he got on a Greyhound bus—16 years old, hair down to his waist, smelling like weed—and headed toward an uncertain future.
What happened to Tim in Tennessee? We'll have to wait and see—because that's just part of his story. It's not the whole story.
Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. So many times in life we think we're at the middle or the end of our story and we panic—this is the end! But it's not the end. Many times what feels like an ending is simply a new beginning, a new chapter waiting to be written.
The philosopher Søren Kierkegaard said:
"Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards."
We can't fully understand the meaning of our story until we look back on it—but we have to live it forward, right here, right now, not knowing what the future holds.
"We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog and peering through a mist." (1 Corinthians 13:12)
If we don't see clearly now, how do we know we're on the right path?
Here's what I believe is a game changer: there's a story people see, a story people don't see, and then there's the story only God sees.
"You have searched me, O Lord, and you know me. You know when I sit and you know when I rise. You perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down. You are familiar with all of my ways... All the days of my life were written in your book." (Psalm 139)
God has a story with your name on it. He knows exactly what's going on in your story in this very moment.
There's a story that people know, a story that people don't know, and then there's a story that only God knows. God knows your story. And your story matters to God.
Say it with me: my story matters to God.
I was reading in Ephesians 1 and 2—phenomenal chapters. The God who made the universe, the source of all life and understanding, had you in mind before he even created a thing.
All of this because of his grace and mercy for you.
God loves you so much that he entered into this world, into our reality, through the life of his Son—so that we wouldn't have to wonder why we're here or where we're going, but could know him through his Son and trust that he has the best story for us.
Everybody's got a story. Your story matters deeply to God.
Father, we're so thankful that we are not alone in the universe. No matter where we are—in the busy, hectic city, on a mountaintop, stuck in traffic, at school, at work, at home, whether we're high or low, up or down—we know that you know us. You see us.
As a Father, you have pursued us and lavished your love upon us through your Son. Thank you for what you're going to do in all of our lives this week. Help us to understand the story we're in, and help us to respond to you right here, right now. In Jesus' name.
Continue exploring
Connected by scripture or shared themes.
