Never in vain

The guy bowling in the lane to my right looked like he might be a tackle for the local college football team. His arms looked bigger than my legs, and each time he stalked toward the foul line, I knew what to expect. For the last half-hour he’d hurled his 16-pounder at the speed of light toward the pins. Every time he tossed the bowling ball, all 10 pins exploded with a roar that echoed across the bowling alley.

This time wasn’t any different. As my ball rumbled through the return mechanism, I turned to watch him stride confidently toward the foul line. As soon as the ball left his hand, I knew the pins didn’t stand a chance. I was right. He walked back to his table and marked another X on the scoresheet.

That’s when the youngster a few lanes to my left caught my eye. He looked like he might be three or four years old as he wobbled toward the foul line, straining with both hands to hold his ball. I wondered if it weighed more than he did. When he reached the line, he stooped and placed the ball between his legs. Then, with a mighty grunt, he pushed it as hard as he could toward the other end. I don’t know why I watched it lumber down the lane, but I’m glad I did. The ball glanced off the bumpers in the left gutter, and then the right. I doubted if it had enough uumph to reach the pins. By the time it did, it was moving so slowly that the pins forced it to meander left, then right, then left again as it rolled through them. My jaw dropped as, one by one, all 10 pins toppled over.

The youngster screeched, twirled in circles and raced back to his father, who pencilled a big X on the scoresheet. Meanwhile, I left my ball in the carousel and walked back to my seat, suddenly aware of an important spiritual lesson I’d just witnessed.

I am embarrassed to admit how often in my 27 years of serving Christ I’ve compared myself with God’s mighty warriors and lost hope that God could – or would – also use me. I’ve marvelled at evangelists who only have to say, “Jesus loves you,” and crowds come forward by the hundreds, yet I spend half a day sharing the gospel with a friend, only to hear him say, “I’m glad you found something to make you happy, but I think I’ll keep looking.” I’ve turned my radio dial and listened to insightful, gifted preachers who’ve turned their corner of the world upside down for Christ, yet I look around my Sunday school class and wonder if the teens slouched before me have heard a word I’ve said. I’ve spoken with missionaries home on furlough and been inspired by dramatic stories of entire communities turning to Christ, yet I can’t get one neighbour family to attend church with me.

It’s no mystery why I’ve often looked in the mirror and wondered aloud toward heaven, “You want me to do what?” To which I usually follow with a litany of excuses: “I don’t know how. I’m too young, too old, too tired, too weak. . . .”

And then God used a four-year-old to remind me that, in all my self-excusing and self-justifying, I miss a critical point of Scripture: With faith as small as a mustard seed, any Christian (even I) can move mountains, stop the mouth of lions and accomplish anything else God asks. Even when our feeble and halting attempts for Christ bounce from one gutter to the next, God orchestrates our meandering until even the gates of hell fall before us.

The young boy a few lanes to my left confirmed what I have known for a long time, but often forget: Whether with the strength of a Samson or the struggling attempts of a child, whether we hurl the ball at the speed of light or use all our energy just to push it toward the pins, God’s Word never returns to Him void, and our labour for Christ is never in vain.

Richard Maffeo is a writer from San Diego, Calif.