This month, let me share with you an anecdote for my recent trip to Vietnam. It's a story about how, even when you expect the worst (actually, ESPECIALLY when you expect the worst), it's always worth looking to Jesus to guide you through it...
"Thanks, Sam!", I said, shaking his hand from my seated position on the motorbike. Sam's hostel was in a quiet street, far away from the raging chaos of central Ho Chi Minh City. Through a friend, he'd agreed to hire me a maroon automatic motorbike. It was a little beat-up, with scratches and dents from frequent use that had never been repaired. Still, after a test-drive around the leafy streets of his neighbourhood that late Thursday morning, I'd concluded that it still worked fine, and was happy to pay what he'd asked for it for the 6 weeks. Sam was Vietnamese, probably in his early 30's, and spoke an above average level of English. "Enjoy it, man!", he said smiling at me from behind thick-rimmed glasses as we shook hands, adding "...and you've got my number, so text me if you need anything!".
I drove the motorbike nervously at first. It was approaching midday by the time I turned the street corner and out of Sam's view, and I was trying to follow the exact actions and movements of the motorbike in front of me. That was being driven by my friend Smiley, who'd agreed not only to meet me at Sam's hostel to finalise the rental, but also to guide me back to my house patiently. She was doing well, frequently checking in her mirror to make sure that I was keeping up.
In a way, I was lucky that I'd been able to pick the motorbike up from such a sparsely populated area. Most of what I'd seen of Ho Chi Minh City was crammed highways, intersections roaring with impatiently waiting motorists, horns, dust and constant agitation from the traffic. It often seemed impossible to escape the buzzing and deep growling of motorbikes, although I did eventually find myself getting used to it again. But the area where Sam lived was quieter, and more spread out than anywhere else I'd seen in the city up until that point. "I guess it makes sense to have a hostel here...", I thought to myself as I saw Smiley indicate right, and fumbled slightly to do the same. "...a place where people who want a quieter holiday can come..."
We were on a wide semi-rural road with barely any traffic on it. Mostly, at that point, there was nothing to be nervous about. The few motorbikes that overtook us gave us a wide berth, taking full advantage of the space available to them. Those going in the other direction were far off in the distance, 20-30 meters away on the other side of road. But it wasn't the motorbikes that I was afraid of. Every time a truck rumbled noisily next to us, bouncing and sending up clouds of dust as it overtook us, I slowed the bike down and edged towards the curb. I couldn't get rid of the awful idea that I'd somehow get squished under its mighty rubber tires. Maybe the driver wouldn't see me. Maybe he'd be texting or get too distracted to even notice me. What if my bike, which was in a questionable shape as it was, somehow failed, veering me to the left and allowing me to be dragged under the truck's wheels? What if the TRUCK malfunctioned, and came careering into my path, taking me off my bike and under before I even had time to realise what had happened? All of these thoughts harassed me until the truck was far ahead of me in the distance, and until I heard the next one approaching from behind...
It had been a year since I'd last sat on a motorbike, and even then it had been in Hue, a comparatively much smaller city in the centre of Vietnam, with a much tamer traffic system than that of Ho Chi Minh City. But despite the long gap since my last ride, I could feel the old habits coming back to me, and that gave me hope. Every time we slowed down to a stop, I noticed my left hand would squeeze the clutch as my right hand did the same with the brake. I'd let go of the brake when we were stationary, but keep the clutch firmly in, adding to the revs as I waited by twisting the accelerator with my now free right hand. When we started back up, I'd twist the throttle towards me more, slowly releasing the clutch, and feeling the satisfaction of the bike gradually rolling forwards. It became quicker and smoother every time I did it. Turning the corner behind Smiley, I grinned at how much I'd remembered about riding...
As was usual for that time of year, although it was sunny (at times blisteringly so), the threat of dark rain clouds full of moisture was never far away. Even then, with the tall buildings of the city centre on the horizon set against brilliant blue-sky, the occasional drifting rain cloud wandered in front of the sun, reminding everyone that the sunshine had a very short lifespan in that city. Smiley indicated right again, and I suddenly noticed that the roads were becoming busier, and more formal looking. By turning right, we left the dust road behind us, and I could immediately feel the unyielding tarmac under the motorbike's wheels. The street was narrower than the previous, and up ahead at the end of it I could see the furious flow of motorbikes crossing the entrance. They were going in both directions, and I could hear and feel their vibrations from a way off. We were about to turn left onto a main road, where I knew there would be little respect for my novice abilities, and no room for mistakes...
To my surprise and gratitude, I re-gained my confidence in the frantic traffic situation with every second that I was on that motorbike. The words of countless American and Australian born friends who had made the country their home echoed in my head:
"It's just like being in a school of fish. You all move and get around together".
And I began to remember that it was true. Far from being honked at angrily of pushed off the road for going too slowly, I found that people simply went around me. It happened a lot on that first drive, and I suspect that it must have been a strange experience for Smiley to go so painfully slowly, allowing tens of other motorcyclists to overtake her one at a time. Still, she diligently checked her mirrors, slowing down when she saw I was falling behind, and indicating with plenty of anticipation. I remember finding the most nerve-wracking part was whenever we had to stop at traffic lights. Tiny spaces in the stationary traffic were fought over- motorcyclists around me forced their way into minute gaps, desperately trying to occupy a couple more inches ahead as the giant red numbers counted down from 60 to 0 in front of us. When they reached about 10, the growling engines beside, in front of and behind me surged into a roar, and people on the front line started cutting the lights, determined to leave their static positions before being given permission by the jumbo-sized red traffic counter. Smiley always stayed to the end of the count, which I appreciated as I slowly crept forwards, already being overtaken by droning mopeds and screeching scooters from both sides. As midday passed and the rain clouds continued to play their threatening game in front of the sun, always backing out at the last minute, we slowly made our way onto the highway bridge that I recognised as being within walking distance from my house. By then, within a very short time, I felt almost as comfortable and relaxed as I ever had on a motorbike.
"Thank you so much, again!", I said to Smiley, as she started her motorbike back up. It was nearly 1p.m. We were a block away from my house, and she was leaving me to meet up for lunch with a friend on the other side of the city. Smiling back, she said "No problem!", and before checking over her shoulder to see if it was safe to depart, she said "I'll see you at church on Sunday, right?"
"Of course! See you then!". With my motorbike between my legs, I waved her off as she zoomed away into the distance. The back of her shiny black motorbike helmet was visible for a few seconds more, and then it had disappeared, obscured by a thousand other motorbikes heading in the same direction.
That evening, with the last of the daylight waning, I pulled back the curtain to look out of my window. On the first floor, it overlooked the alleyway in which I'd left my bike. There it was- leaning on its kickstand on the opposite side of the alley, maroon and black with a white transport box at the back. Smiling at what I'd achieved in arranging transport for myself, I let the curtain fall back into place, and thought no more about the motorbike for the rest of the night...
---
"OK- I'll come down and meet you now :)", I texted Trang late the following morning. She was on her way. It was Friday, and that evening was going to be my first English class at the church. Trang had suggested we meet up before-hand to discuss a plan of action. She was bringing the text books she wanted me to teach from, and we'd agreed to meet for lunch so that I would have the chance to skim through them to start formulating a plan in my head. I was in a good mood as I locked my bedroom door behind me, and headed downstairs...
I carefully stepped through the unfinished building project, over piles of soft, dirt coloured sand dunes and onto the odd floorboard which created a temporary walkway. The ground floor was still a construction site. In a matter of weeks it would be a thriving, trendy Japanese restaurant with an all dark-wood interior. At that moment, though, it was still just piles of sand, stacks of white ceramic tiles, and dust visibly clouding the air. The rooms on the two floors above still belonged to my friend Mai, but they too would be someone else's within 2 weeks, and I was the only tenant left there. I nodded to a smiling workman. He was in his late twenties, I'd guess. He smiled cheerfully back, and I stepped out into the humid air of the street outside, with loud bangs, shouting and piercing sawing ringing in my ears. Unlike the previous day, it was stubbornly overcast, with little to no hope of sunshine.
I guessed Trang would be close by, but the house where I was living was notoriously difficult to get to. In a small alley within a maze of other alleys, totalling about a squared kilometre of lanes with no street signs to indicate the name, it was easy to understand why those looking for the house hesitated on the nearest main road, and called the person they were visiting to come and collect them. With this in mind, I went to walk to the end of the alley, in the direction I guessed she'd be coming from.
Suddenly I stopped, and my stomach dropped as I looked at the empty wall almost directly in front of Mai's house.
"Where's my motorbike...?", I asked myself aloud...
---
First, I continued walking in the direction I'd been going, to see if someone had moved it. I was losing hope fast, though, as I went through the security steps I'd taken my bike through the last time I'd parked it, less than 24 hours before. I'd been told to always lock the handlebars, to stop anyone from being able to steer it. I had done that. "How could someone have MOVED it, then?", I thought to myself as I got to the end of the alley. I looked at each motorbike parked in the area- ones stacked next to each other in front driveways, others just leaning on their stands on the street corner. Nothing. None of them were mine...
I looked back down the alley towards my house, feeling the tension of panic growing within me. Admittedly, I had been casual about locking it up- too casual, probably, seeing as, on top of the locked handlebars, I'd been given a bike lock to secure the front wheel, which I hadn't used. "You probably won't need that bike lock though, man...", Sam had told me as I'd prepared to drive it away for the first time the day before, "...nobody's going to steal this piece of junk!". Those words had stuck with me, and caused me not to bother with the extra bike lock and now, as I eliminated every parked motorbike I saw in the adjacent alleys as "Not mine either...", I started to think that Sam had been wrong...
I walked back past Mai's house, hoping to turn a corner to yet another alley and see it just sitting there with it's easily distinguishable white transport box and maroon paint job. But it wasn't. It was gone.
I turned round and my heart sank as I saw Trang approaching me, from the direction I knew she'd come from. She was wearing a white silk top, tucked into floral, slightly more casual pants. As usual, she had her wide smile, and it hurt me to know that I'd have to tell her something in a few seconds that would take that smile away from her...
"Hey Trang...", I said, and almost immediately continued; "Um... my bike is gone"
---
We went to the end of the alley together again. It wasn't there. We knocked on the door of the house in front of Mai's- the one next to which my motorbike had been parked. When the metal door screeched open, Trang asked a middle aged woman in Vietnamese if she'd seen it. She was insistent that she hadn't.
"Is it common for people to move other people's bikes here...?", I asked Trang as we walked away from the closing metal door.
"No, that never happens" Trang informed me, much to my disappointment.
"And they definitely didn't move it further inside your house...?", Trang asked, cautiously crossing the narrow alleyway and approaching the outside gate of my house. I followed her...
"I don't think so...", I said, and we both stood at the gate, peering inside. The workman I'd nodded to earlier was crouched down on the floor, smoking a cigarette. Recognising me, he watched us and when Trang asked him something in Vietnamese, he stood up and looked turned to look into the construction site with us.
"No. It's not in there...", Trang said after the man had said something in Vietnamese. She elaborated; "They leave all the bikes here in the driveway...".
"That's what I should have done...", I said, remorsefully. The workman looked at me sympathetically as he took another drag of his cigarette, but there was nothing more he could do to help.
We went to ask at the restaurant next to Mai's house. I'd eaten there before, a couple of days earlier, and had had an interesting chat about football with the only guy who worked there who spoke English. I felt embarrassed that the second time we should come into contact would be under such depressing circumstances. While Trang spoke to them inside, I sat outside in the restaurant's mini front courtyard on a metal chair, my elbows on my knees. I heard distant thunder, and felt a couple of drops of rain on the back of my head, and thought about how I'd explain this to Sam. I'd been lucky that he hadn't asked me for a deposit- I'd paid 800,000 Vietnamese Dong (about $35) flat for the 6 weeks. It was a bargain at twice the price- I knew that. But the money didn't bother me as much as the fact that I'd have to explain to Sam how, on just the second day of it being in my possession, it was gone. My stomach clenched at the thought of how he'd react. Would he be angry? Upset? Would he demand compensation? All of these possibilities forced me to close my eyes and hang my head, as more rain drops dripped onto the back of it...
At that moment, Trang came out of the sliding glass door, and handed me a couple of napkins. She could see I was sweating in the heat, and no doubt a little from nerves. I smiled and thanked her.
"No problem", she said, as I wiped my brow and forced a smile up at her. I was concerned- she could see that. But to my credit, I had it under control. I wasn't losing it. I refused to panic.
"So..." she continued. "The guys in there say there are cameras at either end of the street. We can go to the police station and see if they caught anything on camera".
"OK..." I said. "You wanna get lunch first, though?"
"Yeah. I mean...". She looked at her watch. "It's 12:15 now, and the police station doesn't open until 13:30. It's just round the corner..." she said cheerfully, and then added "We can walk".
"We'll HAVE to walk now, won't we?", I smiled as I ended my joke, and she laughed.
"I guess so!"
---
10 minutes later, we sat down at the corner restaurant that I'd ridden past a hundred times, but never gone in. It looked like a fairly standard Vietnamese restaurant, of which there were at least 3 within 2 minutes walking distance from my house. We sat down opposite each other at the shiny, thin metallic table, and Trang ordered for both of us in Vietnamese. Beside us, on the open street, motorbikes passed and turned the corner. Market traders sat next to giant plastic bowls of fruit on the dirty pavements. Women from rival restaurants flamed the cooking meat on barbecues. Pedestrians did their best to curve and weave through it all, over the uneven pavement filled with deep and dirty puddles. The dark blanket of clouds closed everything in from above, and the sweat and dirt from the busy street hung in the air. We could see the sky-blue painted police station, encircled by a 6ft wall with spikes on it, diagonally across from where we were sat in the restaurant.
"So, what do you want me to teach tonight?", I asked Trang while we waited for our food, trying to distract myself from the worries about the bike. Before she could answer, a man in his fifties came and set two plastic bottles of coke on the table. "Xin cam on", Trang thanked him cheerfully, and I smiled back at him as he left.
"Do you want to see the books?", Trang asked. She had a look of sympathy in her eyes, despite my best efforts to show that I was relaxed about the whole situation. I smiled at her, trying to reassure her by being engaged in what she wanted to show me over lunch. In reality, I really wasn't worried. I'll admit, I made an extra effort for Trang's sake to appear calm and unconcerned, but it wasn't too far off the truth. I'd decided to trust in God. "Through every trial, my soul will sing 'Jesus is here; to God be the glory!" are some of my favourite lyrics- ones I sing to myself every day. Now was a chance to prove I believed in that.
We ate lunch together- a bowl of soup containing a mixture of green vegetables, beansprouts and meat cuts. We ate it while I flicked through the text books...
"How many students are you expecting tonight...?", I asked her, while wondering who had my motorbike. "Probably a couple of kids who are whooping and celebrating their way through Saigon...", I thought as Trang gave her answer, which I didn't catch.
I looked outside on the street, and imaged what I would do if I suddenly saw someone drive past on my bike. "Would I be quick enough to catch them?", I thought to myself as Trang and I discussed the level of the students I was still due to teach that evening. "Would I be brave enough to confront them? Would I jump out of my seat, and grab them round the throat before they could drive off? Would I be confident enough that it was MY bike, and not just a similar looking one? And is that something I really want Trang, or anyone, to see me doing?". We ate our food and drank our coke, exchanging questions and answers about how best to prepare us for the 4-5 beginner level students we were to teach together that evening... but all the time these questions, along with my lamentations about how naive I'd been in failing to lock my bike properly, persisted. Still, though, I kept a cool head, because I decided that I would imitate Christ, no matter what happened or what the outcome would be.
By the time we'd finished lunch, and the owner had collected our bowls and plastic chopsticks, I'd accepted that the bike was gone. A sense of calm came upon me as I acknowledged that that fact was now out of my hands. It was part of my history; I'd once been entrusted with a motorbike, and had it stolen from me within the first day. That would now always be true, but it was time to move forwards. As Trang gathered up her books and we stood up to pay, I thought about how Jesus had been when, on his way to the cross, His disciples had tried to turn the little children away from His blessing. I thought about how, even with the knowledge of his impending public crucifixion looming over him in the near future, he'd summoned the strength to reverse their refusal, and to show his love to those children. Even with the weight of the world on His shoulders, Jesus had somehow found a way to be kind. I felt stronger, knowing that the man who faced His own death with such grace was walking with me...
"Let's go?", Trang smiled at me once I'd received my change, and I smiled back, saying "Let's see if we can catch our thieves!". I was glad to have Trang with me, I thought to myself as we crossed the street. "I don't know how I'd have done all this without her... it's a good job she was coming to see me anyway, I guess!".
We walked in to a small entrance office with an empty wooden desk.
A young officer, maybe 23 or 24, was sat with his feet up on one of the desks in the large room that led off of the reception. He had his phone in his hand, and was watching a video on it. Trang was about to attract his attention, when an older officer rounded the corner, and immediately smiled at us. The younger officer didn't look up.
"Oh, hello!", Trang said in Vietnamese, sitting down in one of the two chairs on our side of the desk. I followed her and sat in mine, and the officer made a slight groaning sound as he plonked himself into his comfortable looking office chair, before looking up and smiling at us both, his elbows on the desk and his hands linked together. The rest of the conversation I have reconstructed from context, as well as brief translations from Trang at the time, obviously the result of this whole story, and also what Trang told me about it afterwards:
"Hello. How can I help you?"
"My friend parked his bike..."
Trang turned to me: "What is the name of the street?", she asked in English.
"Me Linh", I replied immediately.
"He parked it in Me Linh last night. It was there earlier this morning, and now it's gone".
"What was the name of the street again?", the officer asked.
"Me Linh".
I tapped Trang on the arm and she looked at me:
"Can you ask him about the CCTV cameras? Can we look at the tapes?" The thought of someone riding my motorbike through the Saigon traffic, looking to dump it somewhere while we were sat here talking about street names was frustrating me a tad.
"OK..." nodded Trang, and I could see she was about to ask him when he interrupted her oncoming question.
The officer pointed at me, but spoke to Trang: "Does he have a photo of the bike?".
Trang asked me, and I exclaimed "YES!", remembering that I'd taken a photo of it from my bedroom window the evening before. Forgetting for a second the irritation I was feeling that there had been no mention so far of the cameras, I calmly took my phone from my pocket, found the picture, and handed him the phone.
"Tell him it's maroon, with a white transport box at the back. I'm not sure how clear the picture is...", I told her. She spoke to him in Vietnamese, and we waited while he inspected the grainy photo with the phone close to his eyes. He held onto the lens of his glasses between his thumb and forefinger on the other hand.
"And does he have the documents?"
"Which documents?", I asked once Trang had translated.
"The one with the details of the bike. The guy who rented you the bike should have given them to you..."...
I felt shockingly nervous as it suddenly dawned on me that I didn't even have a licence, and that it was possible that he'd ask me why I had a motorbike in the first place despite being devoid of official permission to drive it...
I soldiered on, though, resolving to ask Trang as soon as I had a chance about the issue of having no motorbike driving licence. I thought back, but shook my head when I remembered that Sam hadn't given me any documents whatsoever.
"No. I don't have that document..."
"Can you get it?" Trang asked.
"How?"
"Let me see. Maybe you can ask the guy and he can send you a photo of it..."
She immediately turned to the officer and spoke rapidly in Vietnamese. The officer, still inspecting the photo on my phone, nodded slowly, and Trang turned to me, smiling.
"Yes. You can ask him to send you a photo of it".
"That's a relief", I thought but didn't say. I'd been afraid that the officer would have demanded that Sam come to the police station with the documents personally. If that had been the case, there would have been no way of concealing from him what had happened. I'd have had to have told him that my bike had been stolen, and I could already feel the embarrassment of doing so forming within me. As it was, though, if he could send me the photo, I could at least show him the silver lining in the fact that I could sort it out with Trang without his presence at the police station. You never know- it's possible I wouldn't even have to tell him what I needed the photo for. If that were the case, he'd be none the wiser that the motorbike had ever even gone missing. I hoped that was how this would pan out...
The officer handed my phone back to me, and I turned on the WiFi. By the time I realised that it was locked, he was already scribbling a password with a pencil on a scrap of paper. He handed it to me, and I entered it in, while Trang made small talk with him in Vietnamese.
The photo came through a few minutes later, with no questions from Sam. I guessed he was used to being asked for the documents of bikes he rented, and so thought nothing of it. I doubt that he often had to send them in order to help investigate a theft, but you never know...
"There it is...", I said in English, and handed the phone with the photo of the document over to the officer again. The photo took up the whole screen, but still he squinted and adjusted his glasses to review the details.
Then came something that really took me by surprise...
The officer spoke in Vietnamese, and I looked at Trang to gauge her reaction. She was listening intently, nodding along, and not interrupting, despite the fact that he kept pausing. Trang looked a little serious, but more curious than anything.
"What did he say?", I asked her when I saw he'd finished.
"They might have it here", she replied, with a smile at the end.
"What?", I asked, not quite sure if Trang had managed to express the correct meaning in English.
The officer spoke again, putting the phone face up on his desk, and Trang nodded and made sounds to show she'd understood at frequent intervals. I sat there, my head flicking between the two if them...
Finally, Trang looked back at me and said, "They think they might have it here. At the police station"
"REALLY?", I said in a mix of genuine surprise and relief.
The officer said something else long winded and I think Trang summarised, because she just said "Yes. They think...", and we both smiled at each other.
---
We were escorted outside to the courtyard, where there were several motorbikes parked. The officer walked up to one, the only one covered in a blue tarp. It was a dramatic moment. All this could be suddenly resolved if, by lifting up that tarp, the officer revealed my maroon bike with a white travel box on the back. I looked at Trang, and she smiled positively.
"Let's hope it's mine...!", I said laughing a little.
"Yeah!", she laughed back, and we both watched as the officer lifted up the tarp...
...to reveal a white travel box and a maroon paint job.
---
"Thank you so much again, Trang", I said once more as we left the police station and walked back through the wet streets to Mai's house to retrieve the bike's key. With all the excitement, I'd only realised that I didn't have it with me once we'd left the police station. But I had my motorbike back! I couldn't believe it. Christ had promised to guide me through, and He had. It was Him who had stopped me from panic and the subsequent stages beyond. I was so happy that I'd trusted Him, and I hadn't reverted to my nature, the nature that existed before I knew Jesus.
"You are welcome..." she said as she walked beside me, careful to avoid puddles and the odd motorbike that crossed our path on the pavement. "I'm just glad I could help!". The officer had been merciful in not fining us, preferring to let the issue go rather than to risk tainting a foreigner's trip. I remain immensely grateful for that.
"I'm just amazed at how you managed to stay so calm, though!", Trang told me as we rounded a corner. "I think I would have reacted very differently if my motorbike went missing!".
I laughed. "Oh yeah? And how would YOU have reacted?", I asked her cheerfully.
"I think I would have been more upset...", she said after thinking about it for a second...
"But; what do we do when things go wrong in our life?", I asked her. "When we have a storm in our life, what should we do?"
We crossed the street, through heavy motorbike traffic.
"Shout?", she suggested once we'd reached the other side, and I smiled at her suggestion. "Break stuff? Say bad words...?". A laugh escaped me as I tried to imagine Trang doing any of those things. She was always so calm; I couldn't see her reacting in even one of those ways. "If only she knew...", I thought to myself, watching her walk with me, "... that there was a time in my life when I would have reacted just like that...". Trang was selling herself short. I knew as well as she did that she'd have found strength in Christ. For me, though, even with Christ to guide me, it had been an exhausting day, and I'd had my moments when it had been incredibly hard to remain calm. But thanks to Jesus, I'd kept it together. And I knew it would be easier next time. I've found that trusting in Christ is, like anything, easier with practice. With every victory that Christ wins within us, we grow stronger...
We were approaching the entrance to the alleyway where Mai's house was sat half way down it. As we entered it, I thought about the Apostle Peter. I wondered how he'd felt when he'd started to feel the water beneath his feet slowly creeping up his ankles. I thought about the panic and the uncertainty about what to do as, before he knew it, it was almost at his knees, and he suddenly realised he was sinking...
...
Did terror strike him as he thought about how it would feel to drown under the waves of the Sea of Galilee that night?...
...As the cold and dark water reached his neck, and his hand shot up in the direction of Jesus, did all the regrets he had in life flash into his mind?
... When he said, desperately, "Lord, save me!", did he have any doubts that he would be saved?
... A second later, when the water level was past his nose, and he felt the strong hand of Christ holding his as He prepared to pull him back to the surface... were those doubts destroyed?
I thought about all of this, just for a moment. And then I answered Trang.
"We look to Jesus", I told her. ""Through every trial, my soul will sing, "Jesus is here; to God be the glory!""
She nodded and smiled in agreement, and she didn't need to tell me that she understood.
I can't say for certain how much God was guiding all of this. But what I can confirm with absolute confidence is that that day, as I felt myself sinking into despair, panic and hopelessness, Jesus Christ was at the front of my mind to offer me a saving hand...
These people with a powerful voice are subtly telling you that there comes a point where your life is simply not worth it. But this is not God's view- we know that from the message that Jesus brought us. He told us that God loves and cares about us as individuals on several occasions: when we are the lost sheep (Luke 15:1-7), when we are the lost coin (Luke 15:8-10), when we are the wandering child (Luke 15:11-32). We are of more value than many sparrows (Matthew 10:31), and the very hairs on our head are numbered (Luke 12:7). 
