jesus

CONSIDER THE SQUIRRELS

/ jessicaivaska / 3 Comments

Photo by Jacob Amson on Unsplash

One of the first things we bought when we moved into our current house was a matching pair of padded chairs. We hadn’t been looking but stumbled upon them at Costco with the tell-tale “closeout” asterisks on the price tag and a price that was hard to beat. 

Erik called my brother-in-law, who had a truck, and later that afternoon, the chairs were dropped off at our new home. 

Without even unwrapping them I knew where they would go. We have a large bay window that desperately needed seats and this value-priced set was perfect. We threw away the boxes, screwed on the feet, and set them side by side in their new home with a small table settled in between. 

Very quickly, the chair on the left became my morning chair. Each morning, cup of jasmine tea in hand, I’d settle in with a blanket and stare out the window. More often than not, within ten minutes I’d be giggling. 

“You sitting in those chairs and giggling is one of my favorite things about this house,” Erik said.

What was I giggling at? 

Squirrels. 

The cluster of tall trees that the bay window looks out on is  home to at least one colony of squirrels. Most mornings, they scamper their way over the branches and down the trunks to our front yard patch of lawn. What they do then is rather extraordinary, and I can’t witness it without giggling. 

The squirrels play as if nothing else in the world matters. 

Sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone, their furry grey bodies tumble in summersaults as they zoom from one tree to the other, one stick to the next, pausing only long enough to juggle a pinecone with their feet before scurrying on with their joy-filled movement. 

They have no worries. 

They have no worries. 
They aren’t trying to collect food for the day. 
They are simply being. Playing. Delighting at being alive. 

As I watch them, I think of the birds and the flowers Jesus describes in Matthew 6:25-28. 

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? 

“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.” 

In those morning moments, it’s as if Jesus is saying, “Be like the squirrels, Jess. Live. Delight. Play. I’m taking care of everything else. Trust me. Just enjoy.” 

While I’m thankful for those moments, and the lightness those long-tailed rodents bring to my heart, I must admit I don’t carry that feeling far past my morning chair. 

All it takes is two steps into the rest of the day and I’m back to worrying, striving, trying to earn my right to live, breathe, and take up space in this world. 

But most mornings, the squirrels are there, reminding me that I have another day to try again. 

In the TV series Ted Lasso, Jason Sudeikis’ character, becomes known for telling the players on his team to be like a goldfish. Why? Because according to him, goldish have the shortest memory of any animal. They can’t remember what happened five minutes ago, and therefore they can’t be mad about it. They can’t seek revenge. All they can do is be fully in the moment, giving that brief time in history their all. 

There’s some good truth to that idea, but I think I’d rather be like a squirrel. I don’t know how long their memory is, but after watching them every morning for the last several years, they always make time to play. 

I think we could all stand to do that a little more, and I’m not the only one. David Bently Hart, in a recent essay in Plough Quarterly, titled “Running in Circles,” wraps up a compelling argument about the value of baseball by saying, “Only in play… can we really understand the true nature, the original peacefulness, and the final purpose of creation.”

We were created only to play? I don’t think so. But I do believe that play can unlock the true purpose of life, which, as the Westminster Shorter Catechism says, is “to glorify God and enjoy Him forever.” 

IT STILL HURTS

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

Erik and I have a very sweet 12-year-old in our lives who we love. This year she got braces. Now I never had braces, by my older sister did, so I know a little about them — and living with people who have them.
 
There are restrictions on what you can eat.
You have to floss your teeth with a special tool.
And every few weeks the braces are tightened or a thicker wire is put in.
 
There’s pain in the process. How could there not be? The braces are designed to reform your entire mouth. It’s done slowly, I assume in part of minimize pain, but still, the pain is there, and after the last appointment, the sweet 12-year-old was not happy.
 
Ice cream wouldn’t help.
Shopping couldn’t take the ache away.
She had to just sit with it.
 
In the midst of her pain, her dad texted Erik and I and told us she wasn’t feeling well and was quite uncomfortable. So we did the only thing we could think to do. We prayed.
 
Afterward, we texted her dad back to tell him we’d prayed for her, and he passed the message on to her. About two minutes later, both Erik’s and my phones buzzed.
 
“I told her you prayed for her,” her dad wrote. “She said, ‘Well, I don’t feel any better!”
 
We burst out laughing. The text message emojis flying back and forth on the group chat.
 
But as I laughed, I also felt a little jealous. Not of her pain, but of her ability to say how she truly felt, without pretense, and presumably without fear of what we thought of her response.
 
I think God wants the same kind of relationship with us. He wants us to feel loved enough and safe enough to tell him how we feel. How we really feel. Without lofty words, without unnecessary fluff. After all, in Matthew 6:7-8, Jesus tells us as much.
 
“And when you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him.” (NIV)
 
God knows what I need.
He knows what you need.
He knows what that sweet little 12-year-old needs.
 
He doesn’t need us to come to Him with eloquent essays or a list of arguments as to why He should answer our prayer. Instead, He wants us to just come to Him and tell him how we feel. And that means at times, “But Lord, it still hurts!” is the truest and most beautiful prayer I — or you — could ever pray.

PLAY TO WIN

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

Erik has been watching the World Cup. We aren’t typically sports people so having the TV turned to a match several days in a row feels weird. Almost like someone else has taken over our living room. But no, it’s Erik, the man who has been by my side for almost 19 years now. I’m just seeing a different side of him. A side that has been hidden from me. 

“I don’t remember you being this into the World Cup before,” I cautiously said to him last week. I was worried that I had somehow blanked out on large swaths of our life – that I hadn’t been fully paying attention. 

“This is the first time that the timing lines up for me to watch it,” he said. “I’ve always liked it.”

He then went through the years the World Cup has been held since we met and explained that every other time it has been held, he’d been crazy busy with work and school and life demands, or it had been held in cities where the time zones just didn’t match up to where we were living. 

Ok, that explains it. 

As much as he’s into it, I still don’t have a lot of interest, so on Monday, I took my book outside while Erik turned on the US vs. Belgium match.

I was happily reading in the evening sun, when I got a text from him about the how Team USA was playing. 

“They’re not hungry to win, they’re afraid to lose,” he’s messaged. 

As I stared down at my phone, the words stopped being about a soccer team and got personal. Maybe a little too personal. 

“I think I probably fall into the afraid to lose camp most of the time,” I texted him back.

“That might be worth exploring,” he wrote back. 

Well, when God gives you a glimpse of your heart like that, you can either ignore it or follow it. I decided to follow it, and at the end of the road was a truth that’s as ugly to face as Team USA’s inevitable loss. 

Here it is: I let fear dictate more of my life than faith. 

Ouch. 

It’s not that I never take risks. I do, but I tend to take “safe” risks. Ones that are calculated. I usually have a backup plan…or three. 

But that’s not living in faith, is it? That’s not living in the fullness of believing that God really has me, no matter what. 

Maybe you haven’t, either. 

If you have a relationship with Jesus, your salvation isn’t at stake here. That’s secure. But I think your enjoyment of life is. 

At least that’s what I see in my own life. I’ve tended to hold back on some of the things I really want to do because I’m afraid I’ll fall flat on my face. I’m afraid I’ll lose. 

The Bible tells us the game has already been decided. God wins, and when we’re on His side, we win, too. Nothing can change that. So why am I living not to lose, if I’m guaranteed to win? 

Can I be brave enough to change? 

Can I be brave enough to step out in faith? 

Can you? 

THE SUDS OF GRACE

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

Our kitchen sink has a built-in soap dispenser. While I’m sure you could fill it with hand soap, we use dish soap. That way we have easy access for all the things we handwash, like sharp knives, pots, pans, and our favorite mugs. 

The dispenser works great, except when it comes time to refill it, which I did today. I often ask Erik to do this little task — having studied biology and chemistry in college, he knows how to pour slowly, with steady hands. But he was busy and I figured if I was careful, I’d be fine. 

Within seconds of starting to squeeze the soap out of the bottle and into the dispenser I decided it was taking too long. So, to speed things along I unscrewed the flip-top cap and set it aside. Now we were talking! Soap steadily streamed from the bottle into the neck of the dispenser. Not one drip escaped. Feeling smug, I tipped the bottle a little more, ignoring the fact that because the sink was solid chrome, I couldn’t see how full the reservoir was getting. 

Convincing myself that there would be some sort of miraculous sign from heaven when it was time for me to stop pouring, I gently squeezed the side of the bottle and kept watching. 

But there was no sign. 
Not even a tiny bubble telling me the dispenser was almost full.
Then it was too late. 

The blue soap started oozing over the neck of the dispenser and within seconds had puddled on the top of the sink and started running down the sides. 

Dang it. And here I thought I was doing such a great job. Oh well, it’s just dish soap. It should be easy to clean up, right? 

Do you see where this is going? 

Water + liquid soap = suds. And because we buy the concentrated soap, a little goes a long way. Within a few seconds of turning on the faucet, my soap volcano erupted into a mass of suds. The more I rinsed, the more it grew. 

Looking down at the mountain of tiny bubbles, I was transported back to middle school on a night when it was my turn to do the dishes. I was alone in the kitchen. My parents had gone out for a few hours. My older sister was probably watching TV or hiding in her room. 

As I slid the last plate the dishwasher, I thought of a commercial I’d seen recently. It was for a brand-new (at the time) product: gel dishwasher detergent. The commercial made this new innovation seem cleaner and simpler to use than the powdered stuff in the green box my family always bought. So, thinking I was being clever, I reached under the kitchen sink, grabbed the liquid dish soap, filled the triangle dispenser, closed the door, hit start, and left the kitchen. 

About five minutes later I wanted something to drink, so went back in and found a river of tiny bubbles pouring out of the dishwasher. I hollered for my sister, who came in and said something equivalent to, “You’re gonna be in big trouble.” 
I grabbed the nearest dish towel and started to frantically wipe at the explosion of bubbles escaping through the sides of the dishwasher door. It was no use. A waterfall of suds kept pouring out. 

My pulse pounded in my ears. 
What had I done? 
Could I get it cleaned up in time?

Nope. Mid-clean up, my parents came back home. 

“I’m so sorry,” I said and explained that I thought I could use liquid soap in the dishwasher because of the commercials.
My mom grabbed some rags and larger towels, got onto her knees, and started mopping up the mess. She was silent as she cleaned. My heart pounded as I braced for my punishment.

Then my mom spoke. 

“This is a lesson everyone has to learn once. Now you know and you won’t make the same mistake again.” 

Today, as I looked at the mound of suds in my sink, I smiled remembering the sweet relief I felt in that moment. Even though it was totally my fault, even though I had deviated from what I’d been taught, and even though I had made a huge mess, my mom didn’t scold me, yell at me, or punish me.

Instead, she got on her knees and cleaned up my mess. 

I haven’t thought about that day for years. But today, the suds lining the bottom of my sink led me right back to that moment. I think this is the first time I’m seeing my mom’s response for what it really was. 

A lesson in the grace of God.

When we’ve made a mistake, He doesn’t yell at us and storm away. 
He doesn’t dole out a list of punishments — even if we deserve them. 
He doesn’t abandon us to our consequences. 

Instead, He gets on His knees and cleans up our mess. 

That is grace. 
That is love. 
That is Jesus. 

LOVE AND A LAPTOP

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

Erik bought me a new laptop. It’s still in the box, sitting on top of the armoire in my office. 

I haven’t even taken it out of the cardboard yet.

Part of that is practical. Erik will help me set it up and he’s been busy with work all week. I’m telling myself I want to keep it pristine until I actually start using it. But that’s not the whole story. 

Hiding behind that practicality is the fact that I don’t think I deserve a new computer. If I keep it in the box, I don’t have to face some of the realities of life right now. One of the biggest ones is the loss of my job. 

I loved the writing job I had, but it ended a little over six months ago. My computer has been a reminder of the 15 years I did that work, and now, the new laptop is sitting here, ready to be opened, reminding me that the season is over. 

I want to open it. 

I want to use it. 

I want this computer to mark a new season of my life. 

But I don’t know what that will look like yet, and because I don’t know, I don’t feel ready to step into it. Especially because right now, I can’t “pay back” the cost of the laptop with my next paycheck because I don’t know when my next paycheck will come. 

Never mind the money was already in the account. 

Never mind that I’m the one who earned it at my last job. 

Never mind that my current laptop is six years old — ancient in technology terms. 

I still feel the pressure to make the cost worthwhile. To somehow prove that I’m worth it. 

And that gets to the heart of it, doesn’t it? The reality is, I’m afraid I’m not worth it. Not only of the new laptop, but of the love Erik has for me. So I keep trying to do things that prove my worth. 

See? I can earn the money back. 

See? I can grow a garden so we have food. 

See? I can cook a good meal.

See? You made a good choice marrying me. 

It’s not that I don’t like gifts. I do. But I accept them much more easily when they are small and don’t cost too much. 

A surprise matcha late? Sure!

Extra vegetable seedings? Absolutely! 

Clothes you don’t want anymore? Yes, please! 

But a laptop? That wasn’t cheap. That was a sacrifice. I’m not sure I’m worth it. 

As I thought about it, I began to wonder, how often do I say the same thing to God? 

How often do I try to pay back the gift of salvation? 

How often do I attempt to earn the love I’m already given? 

Why do I feel like when I’m given a gift I need to figure out a payment plan? 

I think it comes down to a quote from the late author and spiritual director, Judy Cannato, that I’ve been pondering for weeks. Here it is:

“Everywhere the Holy One is shouting and whispering, ‘Let me love you.’ And all that is asked of us is to receive. In reality, that is our life’s work. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.”

I could have easily missed those four sentences. They were in a forward from my uncle, sandwiched between morning spam emails all wanting something from me. 

Money. 

Time. 

Attention. 

But my uncle’s email didn’t want anything from me — it was offering me something. So, I read it. Then I read it again. And again. Now, this idea of simply accepting love has lodged itself in my brain, like a worm in an apple. I can’t get it out, and even if I do, there will be a trail left that can never be erased. 

I have spent so much of my life trying to be worthy of the gifts other people give me. Of their time. Attention. Love. 

But what if, instead of trying to make myself worthy, I let myself be loved? What if I open the new laptop, ask Erik to set it up, and focus on being grateful that God loves me enough to have given me a man who encourages me at every turn? 

Oh what grace! Make no mistake, it is grace. I’ve attended churches that have talked about grace my entire life, but it’s still a struggle for me. Not only when it comes to things like laptops, but ultimately, to the love of God. 

Just like letting yourself be loved, at its core, grace sounds simple. The most common definition I’ve heard is that grace is unmerited favor. It’s goodness and generosity given to you even though you didn’t “earn” it and can’t pay it back, and that gets to the heart of it. Erik doesn’t expect me to pay back the cost of my new computer. He’d laugh at me if I even tried. He knows that it will be a blessing for me and he wants me to have it. He wants me to delight in it. He knows it’s a tool that will help me to do whatever job I get next. 

Grace. 

Grace. 

Grace. 

The grace of God isn’t something He expects us to pay back. There’s no way we ever can. He knows that, but He gives it to us anyway. In His mercy, kindness, and love He wants to bless us. He delights in it. And He wants to equip us to do the work He is calling us to do. 

 But how often do I — do you — leave the grace of God in a box on the shelf thinking that if I work hard enough, then I can enjoy it? 

What would it look like to live in the fullness of the gifts I’ve already received? 

To live in the love that has already been poured out? 

To live as a chosen, ransomed daughter of the God of the universe?

To live in freedom from the chains of death?  

To live fully forgiven, fully loved, fully redeemed? 

Maybe this new laptop is just the start. Not of a new “work” life, but of my life’s work. Letting myself be loved. 

If Judy Cannato was right, and I think she was, it’s your work, too. 

REFUGE

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

There are a few sections of our yard that are overgrown. As weird as that may sound, it’s intentional. We want to have pockets that are all natural, even if that means they look a little crazy. Those natural patches provide a refuge for the things we want to welcome into our yard. 

Birds. 

Frogs. 

Pollinators. 

Squirrels. 

The occasional rabbit. 

We love all these little guys. Seeing them each day makes us smile, and so, because we want them to visit us — and feel safe enough even make their home here — we leave a few sections wild and untouched. 

But a few weeks ago, we had an unexpected visitor. 

A disheveled, long-haired, Siamese (or at least part Siamese) cat. 

We recognized it as the neighbors’, who live kitty corner. They have two cats and both have visited our yard on occasion. While we have nothing against cats, we tend to shoe them away, hollering things like. . .

“Go home.”

“You don’t live here.”

“Leave the birds and the squirrels alone.”

“This isn’t your yard.”

It often works. At least for the other cat. But this one, this one just stares back at us and lays his head back down and closes his blue eyes. We can walk all the way up to it and it doesn’t flinch. 

I admit, at first, I was annoyed. After all, he had decided to make my flower bed into his preferred nap spot.  He didn’t care that he was crushing the irises I planted from blub last fall. Didn’t care that he was knocking the blooms over, destroying the beauty I had tried to manicure. 

A few days went by and Mr. Cat kept coming back to the same spot. He’d be there when we went to bed and sometimes when we woke up. That’s when we got worried. Maybe he was sick. 

Erik walked over to the neighbors and asked them about it. They said he does his own thing and for a while slept in our other neighbor’s shed. Huh. Ok. But then we told them that he’s been letting us get close and pet him and they got worried. That’s not like him. He usually runs away from people. 

Uh oh. 

So they came and gingerly scooped the cat out of a shady spot on our lawn and took him to the vet for a check-up. Apparently he was fine, because the next day, the cat was back. 

It’s been weeks now and nearly every day, we find Mr. Cat snoozing somewhere in our yard. Usually, he’s curled up somewhere against the side of the house. Yesterday, he was tucked between branches under a bush. 

Now, I don’t look for the cat to shoe it away. I look for the cat to see where he is. I’ve realized that for him, our yard is a safe and quiet space. A place he can rest. A refuge. And as much as I wasn’t thrilled about it at first, as I’ve thought more about it, I’ve been able to recognize we all need that. 

We all need a safe, quiet space to curl up in. 

We need a place where we can let go. 

A place that doesn’t demand anything from us. 

For Mr. Cat, that’s our yard. 

For a lot of people, that’s the church. Or at least it should be. 

The church should be a place that makes space for anyone and everyone. Even if they look a little rough around the edges. Even if you wouldn’t pick them to be your best friend. Even if they sometimes drive you a little crazy. Even if you think they’re freaks.

It makes me sad to think about how many people don’t feel welcome in the church. They think they have to look a certain way, act a certain way, wear certain clothes. On one hand, I get it. Church is often a place where we bring our best selves because it’s a small way that we can honor God. 

But on the other hand, I don’t think that God really cares that much what we’re wearing or what we look like. I think he’s just glad we’ve taken the risk to step into new terriority. And I think He wants us to find safety, refuge, and love there. 

The only way that happens is if we stop chasing away the people we don’t want and make room for everyone. 

Even the ones that don’t look like us. 

Even the ones who say the wrong the at the wrong time. 

Even the ones who haven’t showered in a week. 

Even the ones who think differently than we do. 

What would happen if instead of trying to protect their own space, Christian churches threw their doors wide open and welcomed anyone – and everyone – who needed refuge. 

What if we greeted them warmly?

What if we got them a cup of coffee? 

What if we made them feel safe and welcome? 

What if they curled up and decided to stay? 

I think that’s the life – and the gospel – that Jesus invites His followers to live out. He knows it’s not easy. He knows we are all about self-protection. He knows we want to keep things neat, tidy, and pretty. But He also knows that if we look carefully enough, we’ll see ourselves in every person we encounter. Because no matter how we look, at our core, all of us, are  the “least of these.” 

Is it easy? No. 

Is it worth it? You tell me. 

SUMMER IS COMING

/ jessicaivaska / 2 Comments

Monday the rain was back. Yes, it’s only May. Yes, summer isn’t officially here yet, but we all know I’m impatient and my impatience has grown over the last several weeks. Why? Teaser days. 

You know what I’m talking about, right?

Those days in spring when the sky is bright blue, the sun is out, and it stretches into the upper 70s. Those are the teaser days and we’ve had a few of them in this last month. But today, as I zipped up a winter coat to brave the 40-something morning air for a walk, I had to face the facts. No matter how much I want it to be, It’s just not quite time for my Birkenstock sandals yet. I wore them this weekend, and it was wonderful. My toes happily stretched, feeling the fresh air and sunbeams as I walked though a patch of grass.  

At the time, I was grateful for the summer-like weather. I still am. But I’ll also admit, at the time, all I wanted was more. 

I wanted the days of 70+ weather to arrive and settle in. 

I wanted to pack away my sweaters, vests, and coats. 

I wanted to be done with winter. 

But yesterday, as drizzle continued to fall and I was forced to zip up before stepping outside, God whispered to me. 

“Those days were just a taste, Jess. It’s coming. But it’s not here yet.” 

That’s when I realized that in many ways, every day of this life is a taste of what’s to come. 

A taste of heaven. 

Of eternity. 

Of the goodness and beauty of God.

Of things yet to come.

Is it a perfect analogy? No, but God still used it to remind me that when I feel trapped in the slog of winter, summer – His summer, the summer He bled and died for – is coming. 

He sends us glimpses of it. Tastes of it. Teaser days, if you will, to give us glimpses of the day when things will be reconciled and fully redeemed in Christ. 

We’re not there yet. But He promises it’s coming. And those sunbeams breaking through the clouds remind me of that. 

May they remind you, too. 

WHAT WOULD IT TAKE?

/ jessicaivaska / 2 Comments

My husband, Erik, and I like to walk together. We don’t go every day, but  more often than not we lace up our shoes and find some ground to cover. 

Sometimes we’ll drive for a “destination” walk. We’ll go to the waterfront in one of the nearby towns or pick a park to hike in. Most days, though, we walk in our neighborhood. It’s a rural area so there are no city sidewalks, and our three-mile route even takes us down a few woodsy trails. If we time it to avoid drop-off and pick-up at the nearby elementary school, we usually don’t see too much traffic. 

However, there is one main road we have to cross. Erik had my hand as we came to the road. As is often the case, I was lazily looking at the plants around, starting at trees and keeping an eye out for bunnies and squirrels.  A car whizzed by us and then Erik gently tugged me out into the street. 

I didn’t even flinch. 

Didn’t stop to look both ways myself.

I simply trusted him. 

The more I thought about it, the more I realized how much I trust him. I know he loves me. I know he won’t lead me into danger. In fact, he points out dog poop just to make sure I don’t step in it. He is always keeping an eye out for me, protecting me. 

I’m so used to it that letting him guide me has become natural. So natural that in situations like crossing a street, I don’t second guess him. But today, as we kept walking our route, I heard God whisper a question straight to my soul.

Can you guess what it was?

“What would it take for you to trust me like that?”

Ouch. 

I’ve had a relationship with God longer than I’ve known Erik and yet I often second-guess His leading. 

“Really, Lord?”

“Are you sure?”

“What if it’s dangerous?”

“What if it’s too hard?”

“What if I get hurt – physically or emotionally?”

I could write a book full of excuses, but when it comes down to it, the truth is, I struggle to trust God’s guidance. 

Maybe it’s because I let fear and anxiety control too much of my life. 

Maybe it’s because I don’t spend enough time in His Word. 

Maybe it’s because I can’t see God or hold His hand like I can Erik’s. 

Maybe it’s all those things – and more.

I’m not sure the “why” actually matters as much as the question itself. 

What would it take for me to trust God implicitly? 

What would it take for you to? 

BEDSIDE MANNER

/ jessicaivaska / Leave a comment

nine-kopfer-313606_crop

Maybe you haven’t been there, but I’m willing to bet you have.

You’re sick, or have had surgery, or delivered a baby, and you need care. You need gentleness. You need reassurance that it’s all going to be ok.

Some doctors are good at it. Others aren’t. In fact, some are terrible. I had a procedure a few years ago and the doctor said she’d call Erik to tell him how it went as soon as I was in recovery.

She never called.

She didn’t tell us how it went. I was sent home drugged and wondering if it had been a success. It was a minor procedure. Something this doctor does multiple times a week. But for me, it was huge. It was my body. My life. I needed to know all the details, and yet, I got none.

The unknown — combined with the after effects of anesthesia, my body healing, and my sensitive soul — left me in a cloud of despair. I couldn’t shake it.

The pain from the procedure wasn’t that bad, and yet something in me was falling apart. I called to find out how it had gone, and was told, “Fine.” I said I had been extremely emotional and asked if that was normal. The reply I got was, “Well, some people have strange responses to anesthesia.”

That was all.

I was broken, bloody, and felt alone in it. And yet, that’s how all of us are in this world.

Maybe we aren’t literally bleeding every day, but we are broken. There is pain, there is hurt, there is abandonment, rejection, and betrayal.

We don’t merely need procedures and bandages to fix the injuries and sop up the blood. We need someone who will hold our hand while we heal.

We have that. In Jesus.

I forget this far too often. Instead of letting Him hold my hand, I search for someone — or something — else to calm my racing mind. But those brief moments when I am with Him, when I am raw and bare and He is bandaging me tenderly, holding my hand, telling me that I am not alone, those really are the best.

Let’s try to do that more, you and I. Let’s let Jesus be Jesus. Let’s let Him bandage our wounds and clean up the blood, all while holding us and telling us that everything is really, truly going to be ok.