“But I’m not . . . special,” Bailey says. “Not the way they are. I’m not anyone important.” (Erin Morgenstern in The Night Circus)

My mind won’t stay still enough to focus on the Word or prayer this morning. When this happens, writing helps slow my brain. There’s something about the physical act that’s connected to my mental thoughts. Yet even as my hand puts thought to paper, my mind flies in another dimension—a dissociation of sorts. Why does my mind go on tangents, cover the days’ schedule, rehearse conflicts, recall history, and plan for future goals, instead of staying present with the Living Lord Jesus?

I see a Gatekeeper Guardian silhouetted in a doorway with heaven’s brilliant bright light behind her. Why won’t she let me get past her?

“Because your heart is not ready or prepared yet,” I hear her say. Apparently, she can read my mind. (Oh, wait, she is my mind!)

“So how do I get ready?” I ask.

“You just did,” she says, smiling and pointing inside. My eyes try to adjust to the blinding light. I can hear laughter and the clinking of glasses and utensils. It seems there’s a party going on.

“Come on in!” I hear a voice calling out.

I step forward, groping, uncertain. An angel appears by my side, takes my elbow, and guides me to a bench. I find myself seated at a lengthy table and join the revelers. I don’t know who these beings are. Angelic hosts? Parts of my heart? Or those loved ones who have gone before? I can only see the table area directly in front of me.

Suddenly, I see God the Father “up front” wherever we are in this banquet hall. He’s introducing His Son. The hall erupts in cheers and hoots and hollers and wild clapping. I stand to join them and clap politely, but I don’t know yet what we’re celebrating. When the noise subsides, He approaches the podium.

“Thank you all for coming to my banquet,” He begins.

My mind starts to wander as I look around, my eyes adjusting to the light, able now to take in more of the scene. There are rows and rows of these banquet tables, but I still can’t make out the attendees or why we’re here.

And then I spy them—different Parts of my heart are all gathered together for a great feast. I decide I better refocus on Jesus.

“And so in conclusion . . .,” He says.

I’m chagrined. I’ve missed the whole speech!

People start clapping and I do, too, till He descends the platform, takes my hand, and leads me to the front. Uh-oh. Am I in trouble?

“Everyone, thank Grandma today for coming. She’s led you well.” Jesus has a twinkle in His eye. He knows good and well I’m here because of Him. He chose me from the foundation of the world. He wooed me and kept me and pursued me. I wouldn’t be here except for Him.

“Don’t be so modest,” He responds. “I didn’t force you to come. You chose well. You have a hard time accepting praise.”

“Because I don’t deserve it,” I think. I know my heart and its potential for pride and arrogance.

“I want you to see yourself as I see you, Karen. Are you willing to do that? That’s not pride. That’s honesty.”

And so I agree. Of course I agree. How can I oppose God? “Ok, Lord, fire away.”

Canons of confetti pop and spill their contents into the air, and the crowd cheers and roars.

“That’s my girl!” Jesus exclaims. “I love her so much. She doesn’t know how much. I’m so proud of her.”

I’m blushing bright pink. I throw my arms around Him and sob. Why tears? Why now? He may have chosen me, but I chose Him!

I see the scene in Secondhand Lions when the character Walter chooses to leave his irresponsible mom to go live with two eccentric old uncles. He’s found love, acceptance, and stability. There’s no pride in his choice. It’s a response to love.

“You bet I choose Jesus!” I shout. “He loves me! He died for me! Why would I choose the unloving, unfaithful, self-centered, wounded parent (the world, the flesh, and the devil) when I can have the real thing? I’ll choose love every time.”

“Come here, Children!” I cry, and the whole room rushes toward me for an embrace.

“Thank you for choosing Jesus!” they call out. There’s laughter, love, and delight. Dancing breaks out and raucous music surrounds us. Some return to quiet conversation over their wine.

One shy little girl approaches me, and I bend toward her. “Yes, Little One?”

She stretches on her tiptoes and whispers in my ear, “I love you.” I’m not sure of her identity, but she’s a pretty little thing, a cutie. And off she skips to play.

I glance over at Jesus.

“Aren’t you glad you came to the party?” He asks.

“Yes!” I shout to the skies. “Yes!” I’m grateful for the invitation. And we join the dancing and the merriment. It’s pure joy.

It’s time for me to start my earth day with its food preparation, exercise, emails, housework, and praying with people, but I have an open door in my heart now where I can see a party going on, and I can join in anytime I want to.

That afternoon when I gave a gift to a friend, she said, “I don’t deserve it.” Ouch! Didn’t I just say that to Jesus?