David, Goliath and a new car

“Mom, I’m driving off the lot.  I’m putting mile number 10 on my first, ever new car. . .”
Even as I buckled my belt while hanging up the phone, my excitement felt forced.  I was thankful for the blessing of a car (with a loan), but I squirmed in my new-car scented seat as a gal who had previously driven three of my parent’s Silver Ford Taurus hand-me-downs.  This car was new, and not just because of its miles, it was different in its choice–mine, something that I wanted for myself, something I (grossly) felt I deserved.   
Fast forward a week later and (long story short) we’ve returned the car–luckily we hadn’t completed the purchase when I drove it off the lot.  I felt terrible returning it, but for practical reasons (ahem, our car seat that didn’t fit and our child that didn’t fit) my spunky, new little gas hound wasn’t a good fit.
With car thoughts in the background, I heard the story of David and Goliath on my Daily Audio Bible.  Slingshot.  Big Goliath.  Small David.  Rocks.  Slingshot.  Dead giant.  I knew the story, but not the rising action.
Before any slinging, David’s decked out in a coat of armor, bronze helmet and a sword over his tunic.  He ambles around and says simply, “I cannot go in these because I am not used to them.”  He doesn’t make excuses, he doesn’t fake it to prove something to the fellas.  David owns who he is and realizes when he’s over-stretching.
When the Israelites saw Goliath, they “fled from him in great fear.”  David moves in spite of this fear.
When David’s brother hears David talking about Goliath, he says, “David, why are you here?  What abou the sheep–did you forget them?  You’re conceited.  You have a wicked heart.  You only came down here to watch!”  David moves in spite of what others are thinking about him and saying about him.

How often are our lives stumbling to hold up the heavy armor we choose to wear?  Why is it so hard for us to make it plain?  “I can’t _____ because I’m not _______”?  Just how many giants could we knock out if we truly embraced who we are–even if we’re just a shepherd boy with a few stones, or a farm girl cruising down the road in her very practical, new-to-her-but-used-in-real-life Silver Chevy Cobalt (that looks annoyingly like a Ford Taurus).

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