you start to complain

but then notice the hour

and forget your refrain.

It's almost six!

No time for chatter.

It's back to the crowd

to see if you matter.

Ah, there it is. There is the question. The Amazon River out of which a thousand fears flow: do we matter? We fear we don't. We fear nothingness, insignificance. We fear evaporation. We fear that in the last tabulation we make no contribution to the final sum. We fear coming and going and no one knowing.

That's why it bothers us when a friend forgets to call or the teacher forgets our name or a colleague takes credit for something we've done or the airline loads us like cattle onto the next flight. They are affirming our deepest trepidation: no one cares, because we aren't worth caring about. For that reason we crave the attention of our spouse or the affirmation of our boss, drop names of important people in conversations, wear college rings on our fingers, and put silicone in our b.r.e.a.s.t.s, flashy hubcaps on our cars, grids on our teeth, and silk ties around our necks. We covet some stilts.

Fashion designers tell us, "You'll be somebody if you wear our jeans. Stick our name on your rear end, and insignificance will vanish." So we do. And for a while we distance ourselves from the Too Smalls and enjoy a promotion into the Society of Higher-Ups. Fashion redeems us from the world of littleness and nothingness, and we are something else. Why? Because we spent half a paycheck on a pair of Italian jeans.

But then, horror of horrors, the styles change, the fad pa.s.ses, the trend shifts from tight to baggy, faded to dark, and we're left wearing yesterday's jeans, feeling like yesterday's news. Welcome back to the Tribe of the Too Smalls.

Maybe we can outsource our insignificance. By coupling our ident.i.ty with someone's Gulliver-sized achievement, we give our Lilliputian lives meaning. How else can you explain our fascination with sports franchises and athletes?

I am among the fascinated: an unabashed fan of the San Antonio Spurs. When they play basketball, I play basketball. When they score a basket, I score a basket. When they win, I dare to shout with the seventeen thousand other fans, "We won!" Yet how dare I make such a statement? Did I attend a single practice? Scout an opposing team? Contribute a coaching tip or sweat a drop of perspiration? No. I would if they asked. But I'm too insignificant, slow, old, uncoordinated.

Still, I hook my wagon to their rising star. Why? Because it separates me from the plebeians. It momentarily elevates me, knights me.

That philosophy motivated my fourth-grade friend Thomas to keep Dean Martin's cigarette b.u.t.t in a jar next to his bedside. Dean Martin crooned his way into the heart of 1960s America via television, radio, and nightclubs. He shared thin-air celebrity status with Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. We lowborns could only admire such n.o.bility from a distance. Thomas, however, could do more. When Dean Martin graced our West Texas town by appearing in a charity golf tournament, Thomas and his father followed him in the gallery. When the icon flicked his cigarette to the side, Thomas was there to snag it.

Who could forget the moment when we, the friends of Thomas, gathered in his bedroom to behold the holy stogie? We cashed in on the trickle-down principle of celebrity economy. Dean Martin was a star; Thomas owned Dean Martin's cigarette; we knew Thomas. We were down-the-line beneficiaries of Dean Martin's stardom.

Connect to someone special and become someone special, right?

Or simply outlive life. When the billionaire realizes that he will run out of years before he runs out of money, he establishes a foundation. No doubt some altruism motivates the move, but so does a hunger to matter.

We have kids for the same reason. Giving birth gives meaning to ourselves. Although parenthood is certainly a more n.o.ble reach for significance than showcasing Dean Martin's cigarette b.u.t.t, it is still, in part, just that. One day, when we die, our descendants will remember "good ol' Dad" or "sweet ol' Mom," and we will extend our lives via theirs.

Italian jeans. Dean Martin's cigarette b.u.t.t. Foundations. Legacies. Forever looking to prove Bertrand Russell wrong. He was the fatalistic atheist who concluded, "I believe that when I die my bones will rot and nothing shall remain of my ego."1 "He can't be right," we sigh.

"He isn't right!" Jesus announces. And in some of the kindest words ever heard, he allays the fear of the Stiltsvillians. "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows" (Matt. 10:2931 NIV).

What's more inglorious than hair? Who inventories follicles? We monitor other resources: the amount of money in the bank, gas in the tank, pounds on the scale. But hair on the skin? No one, not even the man with the expanding bald spot, posts tiny number signs adjacent to each strand. We style hair, color hair, cut hair . . . but we don't count hair.

G.o.d does. "The very hairs of your head are all numbered."

So are the sparrows in the field. In the days of Jesus a penny was one of the smallest coins in circulation. One such penny would buy two sparrows. In other words, everyone could own a couple of sparrows. But why would they? What purpose did they serve? What goal would they accomplish?

In Luke's gospel Jesus goes a tender step further. "Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? And not one of them is forgotten before G.o.d" (12:6 RSV). One penny would buy you two sparrows. Two pennies, however, would buy you five. The seller threw in the fifth for free.

Society still has its share of fifth sparrows: indistinct souls who feel dispensable, disposable, worth less than a penny. They drive carpools and work in cubicles. Some sleep beneath cardboard on the sidewalks and others beneath comforters in the suburbs. What they share is a feeling of smallness.

You'll find a flock of fifth sparrows in a Chinese orphanage for the deaf and mute. China's one-child policy has a way of weeding out the weak. Males are selected over females. Healthy babies outrank the impaired. Chinese children who cannot speak or hear stand little chance of a healthy, productive life. Every message tells them, "You don't matter."

So when someone says otherwise, they melt. Chinese missionary John Bentley describes such a moment. Deaf orphans in Henan province were given a Mandarin translation of a children's book I wrote ent.i.tled You Are Special. The story describes Punchinello, a wooden person in a village of wooden people. The villagers had a practice of sticking stars on the achievers and dots on the strugglers. Punchinello had so many dots that people gave him more dots for no reason at all.

But then he met Eli, his maker. Eli affirmed him, telling him to disregard the opinion of others. "I made you," he explained. "I don't make mistakes."

Punchinello had never heard such words. When he did, his dots began to fall off. And when the children in the Chinese orphanage heard such words, their worlds began to change. I'll let John describe the moment.

When they first distributed these books to the children and staff of the deaf school, the most bizarre thing happened. At a certain point everyone started crying. I could not understand this reaction. . . . Americans are somewhat used to the idea of positive reinforcement. . . . Not so in China and particularly not for these children who are virtually abandoned and considered valueless by their natural parents because they were born "broken." When the idea came through in the reading that they are special simply because they were made by a loving creator . . . everyone started crying-including their teachers! It was wild.2 Do you need this reminder? Any chance that these words are falling on the ears of a fifth sparrow? If so, it's time to deal with the fear of not mattering. Take this one seriously. The fear that you are one big zero will become a self-fulfilling prophecy that will ruin your life. It works like this.

You're slugging away at a menial job that pays poorly and saps your energy. The salary covers the bills but nothing more. Your G.o.d-given abilities languish like unwatered roses. But then you read of a job opening that capitalizes on your skills, maximizes your abilities. So in a moment of uncharacteristic courage, you submit your application. The employer invites you in for an interview. That's when the mentality of the Tribe of the Too Smalls returns. "I'll never impress them," you moan. "I'll look stupid in the interview. They'll ask questions I can't answer. I'll never get this job." A mouse in a lions' den has better odds of success. You flop miserably and descend yet another level into the bas.e.m.e.nt of self-defeat.

Or consider the girl who is asked out on a date by a good-looking guy. So good-looking that she wonders what he sees in her. He's out of her league. Once he gets to know her, he'll drop her. Why, she may not be able to maintain his interest for one evening. Insecurity drives her to use the only tool she trusts, her body. She sleeps with him on the first date for fear that there won't be a second. She ends up feeling like the disposable woman she didn't want to become.

Fear of insignificance creates the result it dreads, arrives at the destination it tries to avoid, facilitates the scenario it disdains. If a basketball player stands at the foul line repeating, "I'll never make the shot, I'll never make the shot," guess what? He'll never make the shot. If you pa.s.s your days mumbling, "I'll never make a difference; I'm not worth anything," guess what? You will be sentencing yourself to a life of gloom without parole.

Even more, you are disagreeing with G.o.d. Questioning his judgment. Second-guessing his taste. According to him you were "skillfully wrought" (Ps. 139:15). You were "fearfully and wonderfully made" (Ps. 139:14). He can't stop thinking about you! If you could count his thoughts of you, "they would be more in number than the sand" (Ps. 139:18).

Why does he love you so much? The same reason the artist loves his paintings or the boat builder loves his vessels. You are his idea. And G.o.d has only good ideas. "For we are G.o.d's masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago" (Eph. 2:10 NLT).

Every year tens of thousands of women attend the Women of Faith conferences. One reason they do is to hear words of comfort. After hearing one speaker after another describe G.o.d's compa.s.sion for each of his children, an attendee sent this e-mail.

In the movie Hook, Peter Pan had grown up, become old and overweight, and looked nothing like the Peter the lost boys knew. In the midst of the boys shouting that this was NOT Peter, one of the smallest boys took him by the hand and pulled him down to his level. He then placed his hands on Peter's face and proceeded to move the skin around, reshaping his face. The boy looked into Peter's eyes and said, "There you are, Peter!"

I brought a lot with me to Women of Faith, things that only G.o.d could see. But throughout the weekend I could feel G.o.d's hands on my face, pushing away all of the "stuff " I had brought. And then I could hear Him say, "There you are. There you are!"3 Shhh. Listen. Do you hear? G.o.d is saying the same words to you. Finding the beauty the years bury, the sparkle that time tries to take. Seeing you and loving the you he sees. "There you are. There you are."

He's enough. Isn't he? No more stilts or struts, spills or falls. Let others play the silly games. Not us. We've found something better. So, I'm told, have some of the people of Stiltsville.

Stiltsvillians still cl.u.s.ter,

and crowds still clamor,

but more stay away.

They seem less enamored

since the Carpenter came

and refused to be stilted.

He chose low over high,

left the system tip-tilted.

"You matter already,"

he explained to the town.

"Trust me on this one.

Keep your feet on the ground."

CHAPTER 3.

G.o.d's Ticked

Off at Me

Take courage, son; your sins are forgiven.