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Pager (from Crave: Wanting So Much More of God)

Pager (from Crave: Wanting So Much More of God)

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Published by Chris Tomlinson
This chapter has the the funniest story in the book. So I hope you have fun reading it, but it’s also an important chapter for many of us because it talks about something every Christian experiences: what to do when God calls.

You can find more at: http://cravesomethingmore.org
This chapter has the the funniest story in the book. So I hope you have fun reading it, but it’s also an important chapter for many of us because it talks about something every Christian experiences: what to do when God calls.

You can find more at: http://cravesomethingmore.org

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Published by: Chris Tomlinson on Dec 29, 2009
Copyright:Traditional Copyright: All rights reserved


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Why We Must AlwaysAnswer Our Pagers
I sat down in 9C beside a young girl.I could tell she was young; I thought she looked 17 or maybe a young 18.She had blond hair, a ponytail, and a curtain o bangs that covered only
her right eye, like Violet in
The Incredibles.
She wore a black elastic choker
necklace and pink jelly bracelets. Her red nail polish was chipped, but Ithink it may have been on purpose. The back o her shirt said “Purrect”in silver, and headphones slithered their way around her head, ollowinga black, snaked line into a CD player covered in pastel-blue sparkles.
I don’t talk to people much on airplanes unless they make the  rst gesture.As much as I like to lead with “How’s your soul?” in conversation, complete
strangers don’t take too well to this as an introduction. So I lost mysel 
Blue Like Jazz,
the book I was reading at the time, and paid her littleattention or most o the f ight. Until…Until she began writing in a little pink journal with a big, at green Crayola
marker. I couldn’t keep mysel rom looking, peeking cautiously out o the
side o my eyes, ignoring the guilt that soon came as I continued to read.
I know you are not supposed to read over people’s shoulders, and youare denitely not supposed to read someone’s journal, particularly a girl’s journal, and even worse, a young girl’s journal.But there they were: big, green letters in a little pink notebook on a traytable in 9B. It’s not like I snuck into her sock drawer, picked the journal’slock, and secretly fipped through it while she was in the bathroom; it was just sitting there in the open or anyone in 9A or 9C to see. She wouldwrite a bit, taking great care to loop the letters just right, as i the shape o the words evoked as much meaning as the words themselves, and thenshe would sit back and think, lost in her music. I couldn’t hear what bandshe was listening to, but I bet it was the Cure.Here is how her journal entry began: Chloe
s AJ.
That was all. Chloe hearts AJ. This was my rst reaction:
No, Chloe doesn’t  heart AJ. Chloe can’t possibly heart AJ because she’s way too young, and 
 people who heart each other for real, like God hearts us, don’t write it with a big, fat green Crayola marker in a little, pink journal.
I don’t knowwhy I thought I was an expert on love, or how I had any business making judgments about this girl’s love lie, but apparently I thought I did.She then fipped the page over and began writing again, very deliberately,
very slowly, sometimes pausing to ll in letters with the marker or to make
a small heart over each
I gave you a second chance and you didn’t take it. You don’tknow what you’re missing out on. I was carrying our relation-ship. Where were you?
At this point, I was denitely thinking Chloe doesn’t heart AJ, or at leastAJ doesn’t heart Chloe anymore. Her words, so childlike in their ont andcolor, were lled with the questions and pain o adultlike grie.
You just used me to get close to her. You already had her
wrapped around your nger and you knew it.
Look, I already said I elt bad about reading her journal. But I have to tellyou, at that moment, I elt like I was supposed to be reading it or some
reason. It was so
right in ront o me, almost as i she wanted me to
read it. It no longer elt like a journal to be read by fashlight under midnight
covers; it elt like a play to be shared with the masses. The act went on.
Anyone. Anyone at all, just please come and save me.
This was the point where I began to move rom eeling that I was backstage
peering through the curtains to eeling that God knew since the dawn o time that I would be ront row and center in 9C and this girl would be onstage in 9B. “Anyone at all, just please come and save me.” I was shout-ing “Jesus saves!” in my head, hoping or some sort o auditory osmosis,but it wasn’t working. And then, as i that weren’t personal enough, shecontinued.
I have so much pain that I’m just holding on. I try to get away
but everywhere I go my problems always catch up. I’m so lost
in this world. Why can’t someone save me?
Remember, this was in green, Crayola marker. These words should havebeen written in blood. Her words were raw, something I would probably
never be honest enough to write, and certainly not something I would
write in a little, pink journal on a middle-seat tray table. Finally, the scenereached its climax.
Only one way out. It won’t hurt me, but it will others…
With that, the curtains closed as she sat back and stared upward in

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