"Make something of this." Where I come from, those words could sound like a challenge, preceded by “Oh, yeah?” Or, perhaps, a despondent muttering, preceded by “How am I ever supposed to…?” Or well-intended words of encouragement, preceded by “I’m sure you can…” and a patronizing smile. And all of the above would be wrong because I am not the maker.
Make the most of it.
Make the best of it.
Make what you will of it.
These are the unspoken assumptions behind the prayers I’ve said morning, noon, and night, tumbling out from my shaky life, as a child, young woman, adult.
Make the most of it. Such are the prayers we wrap around newborns and pat on the heads of children, aren't they? Please God, make the most of this child’s life as it plays out, day by growing day. Where will this lead? What’s out there? Let tomorrow be good, God. May this timid choice become confident. These first steps lead somewhere grand. Make the most of this potential. Let it lead somewhere bright.
And when life compromises our ideal hopes, when I have examined boundaries too closely or picked at sores, when I've careened around dangerously with my inflated air-head, rescue me. Please. I've prayed such desperate prayers for damage control in the midst. Fix my mess. Help me never to go there again! Give me another chance. Incredibly, even then, I dare ask -- no, I dare grasp -- for the best. We say, "I guess you'll just have to make the best of it," with a tone of resignation. But I’ve heard, God, that you don’t just patch together a semblance and send me out to try again, but rather that you can remake the whole kit and caboodle into a new best. Oh, do your reversal thing the way you do, God. Then, as I wait and hold my own breath, a whisper awakens my inner ear. Perhaps what I want, others might need too.
And now that I’m old? No one told me this, but I’ve seen it dozens of times: a faithful light shines in the eyes of a wrinkled, age-speckled face. Famous last words form a prayer, "Make what you will of it all." Of what I accomplished, what I left undone, where I hurried, where I lingered. Of my dreams. Of my words. Of my intent. Of what this all means, of where it’s headed. I ask not for legacy, nor for reputation, rather, to wrap it up as I turn in my keys. It’s the prayer of someone who trusts God enough to loosen her grip and let go. It’s the amazing conclusion that Jesus came to on that last night: make what you will of it, of it all.
These three prayers are the dialogue that has enabled me to go on when I was scared. These are the captions beneath the photos I snapped, the postscripts scrawled on the backside of the cards I dropped in the mail to my lifelong pen-pal Jesus along the way. They form my final answer to why.
They are not words of advice or provocation. They are not purpose statements or encouraging slogans. Please, don’t paint them on a board to hang in the den or tattoo them on your wrist. They are not directions for your life.
Lord, make the most of it.
Lord, make the best of it.
Lord, make what you will of it.
SH
