Benjamin went to the prom. His date was a wonderful girl named Emily, who won a Paul Synnestvedt award for her passion for service. She has volunteered in the Life Skills room for years, showing up every day to hang with the students who have a bit of trouble making friends. No matter. Emily is their friend. 

Ben gave her a corsage with red roses and baby's breath, and she offered him a boutonniere for his lapel. He rarely wears the jacket, so I did not think to have it cleaned, but as he was headed to the car I  ran to brush off the dust. Who would even look at his shoulders? His smile drew all my attention. 

When she asked him back in February to go with her, he probably had no idea what he was saying yes to. But she looked at him with eager eyes, on her knees no less, and he muttered "yes". 

Who doesn't want to be chosen?

There is a passage in John- the gospel, not Ben's father- that says something curious. 

"You have not chosen me. I have chosen you."

Chosen me? God? The very thought rattles of pomposity. Yet that is what it says. In red letters, if you have that kind of edition. The impact of those nine words renders me speechless, allowing the repercussions to reverberate like rings after a pebble plops in the pond. Chose. Me. Gasp. 

If the onus of my future depended on my ability to pick wisely, the gig is up. But maybe I can tether myself to the hope that God is on His knees inviting me.