The Sweet Relief of Choosing Well

Decisions, Dismay, and Delight

For the past month, my husband and I have agonized over a decision. It wasn’t a ‘life or death” sort of affair, and there was no financial burden associated with it, but its impacts would surely speak into our life for the next few years. At first, our options seemed to differ little in a material way—the merits were debatable to some degree yet were popularly viewed as matters of taste. Surrounded by so many compelling new arguments in favor of one of the options, it seemed almost foolish to reject it.

Our heavy dilemma involved choosing a high school, a surprisingly difficult decision given my fairly extensive knowledge of our local schools. I’m also quite passionate about this stuff; I have a low tolerance for social agendas and educational mischief. Yet here I was, reconsidering our small classical school and exploring other options for a child whose athletic strengths had outgrown our little campus.

As I investigated further, though, one of the more tempting opportunities presented a darker side, even though it wasn’t considered a far-left campus. On paper, the school promised tangible advantages in sports and college admissions—and for that, everyone sings its praises; on the other hand, I sensed an insidious threat, and my nagging spirit alone felt this weight. The uncertainty inspired by this spiritual conflict only intensified my burden.

Anytime a big decision looms before us, we gather opinions; there’s an angle on even the most pedestrian options. Looking for barbecue? Prepare for some mustard sauce expertise. Need a new mattress? Enjoy wading through the consumer reports and stacks of nearly identical rectangles. How about a trustworthy contractor? Good luck with that one, because the good ones aren’t advertising. Considering a new car? You’ll hear everyone’s complaints of failed circuitry or boasts of trouble-free ownership.

When it comes to life’s bigger quandaries, though, deeper influences operate. For some decisions, no amount of data to the contrary can overcome a protesting spirit or dispel nagging doubts; and when you survey the greener pasture for kindred spirits, you may not find them. Those who share your worldview may not share your passions. Well-meaning advisors may not feel the heaviness of your indecision; and they will certainly not experience the resultant pain or regret. You can research your options until you’re blue in the face, but one force prevails in the end—the voice of God, or your (hopefully) trusty gut.

We set out to solve this quandary by first praying for godly wisdom. The ensuing month of research then played out in conversations, emails, phone calls, and internet sleuthing. I became an amateur investigative journalist—interviews here, deep-dives, there. One day was hopeful, the next would bring dismay, and my apprehension grew under fast-approaching deadlines. We were staring down four years of high school for a high-achiever who needed a larger playing field. She’d surely need some bigger thrills—or would she?

Yesterday, after many such unanswered questions, I finally experienced sweet relief—the quiet agreement of word and spirit, facts and emotions. It happened after a strange and unexpected providence. I asked two solid and trustworthy moms about the literature their kids had read at the new school we were considering. Their kids had covered quite a few books over the years—it’s an International Baccalaureate school with a wide curriculum— but could they name just a couple?

I wasn’t expecting them to name anything I’d read, and I knew Shakespeare wasn’t going to figure in prominently, either. I already knew the literary landscape; the summer reading lists had several paltry choices—and four years of literature covered some questionable titles which had already put me on alert. Yet the two women, who did not know each other, both named a particular book that sent an odd chill; it was one that I had not anticipated hearing.

In a single moment, I was arrested by this mention of a once-trendy and deeply disturbing book. I had read it fifteen years ago in a brief foray into book-club stupidity; and the imagery of a particularly dark passage would hound me five years later during an epic struggle with OCD—a mental torture that I will never forget.

In that brief text exchange, I immediately recognized the book title as a reliable signal—the dark presence, the lonely burden, the old wound bleeding anew. Nobody else seemed bothered or outraged by this little book; nobody prefaced its mention with a warning. One friend acknowledged its darkness but called it “powerful”. It was indeed powerful; the coals of hell had branded it onto my memory.

That would now serve a purpose, though; I knew immediately that I’d received an unlikely gift by way of the heavy spirit and perfectly timed information. This sinking feeling was thus mine alone, my lighthouse in cultural fog—a spiritual missive sent directly to me. Its timely warning signal was the faithful work of the Holy Spirit, the most reliable counselor given that he is privy to both my secrets and God’s own thoughts. He illuminated the gulf between my educational worldview and another, between my native language and that of a foreign land.

Try as I might to interpret things otherwise and keep the big-school dreams alive, I would find no escape. God’s voice could not be mistaken—biblically sound, yet uniquely calibrated to this odd moment and my own wiring, and familiar to my ears. His approach was true to form, too—gentle but persistent, patient but never too late. In the wake of this unexpected text gesture flowed sweet relief—his answer at last, and the old, familiar calm.

For the Christian, some questions demand more than raw data can provide. The necessary component—which eluded me for a couple weeks—is spiritual contentment, a confidence that a particular option aligns with the heart of God. When his timely hand leads you out of your jungle of fearful contingencies, all the conflicting opinions and assurances are suddenly irrelevant; the quiet voice, not the data, emerges victorious. The sky opens up, and a two-ton weight is removed from your staggering frame. This relief is stamped on your memory as the fingerprints of God.

Yesterday, I retired some ideas about the greener grass down the road, and I made peace with the humbler campus that would provide richer soil for my daughter’s heart and mind. I’d ventured out on a last-minute quest, open to whatever God might provide, but my thirst for improvement only left me feeling parched. Once dismaying, now shedding some light, a wound from the past had served me well—one book and two options, now yielded to the voice of God.