Max Lucado Read Free Page A

of the brown-haired girl I liked or the principal of the school. But that spring evening in 1967? Crystal clear.
    I’m seated in my parents’ bedroom. Dinner conversation floats down the hallway. We have guests, but I asked to leave the table. Mom has made pie, but I passed on dessert. Not sociable. No appetite. Who has time for chitchat or pastry at such a time?
    I need to focus on the phone.
    I’d expected the call before the meal. It hadn’t come. I’d listened for the ring during the meal. It hadn’t rung. Now I’m staring at the phone like a dog at a bone, hoping a Little League coach will tell me I’ve made his baseball team.
    I’m sitting on the bed, my glove at my side. I can hear my bud-dies playing out in the street. I don’t care. All that matters is the phone. I want it to ring.
    It doesn’t.
    The guests leave. I help clean the dishes and finish my homework. Dad pats me on the back. Mom says kind words. Bedtime draws near. And the phone never rings. It sits in silence. Painful silence.
    In the great scheme of things, not making a baseball team matters little. But twelve- year-olds can’t see the great scheme of things,
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    You know the pain of a no call. We all do.
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    and it was a big deal, and all I could think about was what I would say when schoolmates asked which team had picked me.
    You know the feeling. The phone didn’t ring for you either. In a much grander scheme of things, it didn’t. When you applied for the job or the club, tried to make up or get help . . . the call never came. You know the pain of a no call. We all do.
    We’ve coined phrases for the moment. He was left “holding the bag.” She was left “standing at the altar.” They were left “out in the cold.” Or—my favorite—“he is out taking care of the sheep.” Such was the case with David.
    His story begins, not on the battlefield with Goliath, but on the ancient hillsides of Israel as a silver-bearded priest ambles down a narrow trail. A heifer lumbers behind him. Bethlehem lies before him. Anxiety brews within him. Farmers in their fields notice his presence. Those who know his face whisper his name. Those who hear the name turn to stare at his face.
    â€œSamuel?” God’s chosen priest. Mothered by Hannah. Mentored by Eli. Called by God. When the sons of Eli turned sour, young Samuel stepped forward. When Israel needed spiritual focus, Samuel provided it. When Israel wanted a king, Samuel anointed one . . . Saul.
    The very name causes Samuel to groan. Saul. Tall Saul. Strong Saul. The Israelites wanted a king, so we have a king. They wanted a leader, so we have . . . a louse. Samuel glances from side to side, fearful that he may have spoken aloud what he intended only to think.
    No one hears him. He’s safe . . . as safe as you can be during the reign of a king gone manic. Saul’s heart is growing harder, his eyes even wilder. He isn’t the king he used to be. In God’s eyes, he isn’t even king anymore. The Lord says to Samuel:
    How long will you continue to feel sorry for Saul? I have rejected him as king of Israel. Fill your container with olive oil and go. I am sending you to Jesse who lives in Bethlehem, because I have chosen one of his sons to be king. (1 Sam. 16:1 NCV)
    And so Samuel walks the trail toward Bethlehem. His stomach churns and thoughts race. It’s hazardous to anoint a king when Israel already has one. Yet it’s more hazardous to live with no leader in such explosive times.
    One thousand BC was a bad era for this ramshackle collection of tribes called Israel. Joshua and Moses were history-class heroes. Three centuries of spiritual winter had frozen people’s faith. One writer described the days between Joshua and Samuel with this terse sentence: “In those days Israel did not have a king. Everyone did what seemed right” ( Judg. 21:25 NCV). Corruption fueled