I'm holding my little guy down so daddy
can take out the slivers. He screams throat-tearing protests, while
I stroke his wet curls and whisper prayers. “It's almost done,
sweetie.” I say as I kiss tears. Except that it wasn't. Daddy found
nearly twenty slivers there in the softest part of his tiny foot.
How could this have happened?
"Mommy why are you doing this to
me?" he screams.
“Oh honey,” I held him tighter, no
words to say, only tears, tears mixed with anger and questions.
Tears falling for more than just his tiny aching foot.
I hate this place today, Lord!
Some guy stealing kids right from their mama's side at the grocery
store so he can do awful things to them? A random sniper on the
interstate?
And now slivers? Is this supposed to
be some lesson to me? Am I supposed to trust you in the suffering, to
somehow be OK with the pain from the shrapnel of evil in my heart?
It's not OK. If there's a lesson for me to learn, send me an email,
or use a felt board or something. My child is suffering real pain,
screaming real screams.
This hurts my real heart.
I do not
understand.
Later, I hold his hand tightly when we
go to the library-- much tighter than usual. I look to the left and
right, again, and again. I notice the other children, the run-down
car, the unfriendly face on that man. I keep my son close to me.
It's not safe here.
I am like Sister Bear. Remember her?
She was a happy little girl bear who trusts everyone, until one day
her Brother warns her about stranger danger. Later, she returns to
park-- the familiar, friendly park. But everything is different.
People are suspicious. The man behind the newspaper is hiding
something. The sky is darker. The birds' beaks are sharper.
It's not safe here.
I know, Father, it's not You that
does these things, I know. But why don't you stop them?
I have no answers.
So I set my shoulders back, I clench my
hands, and I prepare to fight. I will use my concealed carry permit.
I will be more aware, more vigilant. I'll buckle them and warn them
and make them wear helmets.
No way, not my babies. I won't stand
for it.
I'll stand in front of the wave of evil
and absorb it all so it never hits them.
Except that … I can't.
I'm not
enough.
It's not safe here, and we will not
leave this world unscathed.
I will not.
My babies will not.
God did not.
God deals with this
broken world in a strange way. Instead of destroying it, He enters
it. Instead of abolishing the law, He fulfilled it. Instead of
punishing the sinner, He welcomed the full weight of the punishment
onto Himself on the cross. Instead of pouring out the cup of His
wrath on the earth, He drank it Himself.
Instead of somehow
erasing death, He suffered it.
And then He rose.
He entered into our
dying, hate-filled world, and He did everything backwards. He loved.
He suffered. He died. He lives.
He lives.
And by His glorious
resurrection, He proves to us that He is not of this world.
And, by grace,
neither are we.
It is not safe
here. There are dangers on every hand. The world is suffering,
dying, and we share in that suffering. And we scream throat-tearing
screams and we ask heart-tearing questions. And we are not OK.
And yet, by grace,
we are being made new in Christ.
We are set apart,
heirs of life.
Today, we are
merely far from home.
We don't belong
here.
Praise God, we
belong to Him.
photo credit educationdiva
frog: eldon cook
