“Okay here it is. Your choice. It’s simple. Her or me. And I’m sure she’ s really great. But Derek, I love you, in a really, really big — pretend to like your taste in music, let you eat the last piece of cheesecake, hold a radio over my head outside your window — unfortunate way that makes me hate you, love you. So pick me. Choose me. Love me.” — Dr. Meredith Grey, Grey’s Anatomy
For the last several days, that scene has replayed in my mind. Pick me. Choose me. Love me. Not because I’m in a similar situation or wanting an elusive him to pick me. But the sadness of it all. Men and women all around beg for love.
I know, I did it too.
The lengths we will go to, just to be the chosen one. But, you know, with God, we don’t have to beg for His love. Jesus died on the cross for the sins of all men. Not some. Not just the rich. Not just the poor. Not just the Jews or just the Gentiles, but all men.
When we really grasp the fact that Jesus picks us, chooses us, loves us every time, we no longer need to be chosen by others.
For those of us whom have felt the sting of rejection, we don’t have to stay there. We have been chosen, we are loved.