In His Hands
I want you to do me a favor.
Just a small one.
You may close your eyes if you want to.
Ready?
Good.
I want you to imagine that Jesus is sitting right beside you. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, and with whatever you may be walking through. The Son of God is walking beside you. Sitting next to you. Waiting with you.
Waiting for you.
"Child, open your eyes," he says.
You do.
You can see every detail of his face, every pore and every indentation of his skin, every line or wrinkle that forms around his eyes and on his forehead as the droplets of perspiration reflect the light of the summer sun.
He grins at you. Not the kind of grin that only pulls at his lips and is gone in a moment. No, the kind that overtakes his entire face as it breaks out upon his lips and reaches his brown eyes.
His eyes are familiar. They are warm adn gentle, inviting. They are the eyes of God, looking right at you.
He does not care if you do not have any makeup on, or if you haven't washed your hair since Sunday. He doesn't even care if your house is dirty or if your laundry hasn't been done.
He isn't here for any of that.
He's here for you. He just wants your heart.
But you don't feel worthy. So you avoid his gaze even as you feel the weight of his eyes so heavily upon you rbeloved face. You refuse to believe him.
"Why?
Your voice is soft, barely a whisper.
He hears you, though. He always does.
Jesus sighs gently, rubbing an absent hand over his cheek. You notice the hand is nail-pierced. The wound is deep, the Roman's nail having pierced it through so terribly that daylight is visible as he moves.
Slowly, wordlessly, he offers both hands out to you.
"Because I love you," He says, "Because I want to bring home with me to the Father. Because you are mine. Just give me your heart."
You want to give him your heart. Truly, you do.
"But how?" you whisper quietly. "I want to give you my heart, dear Jesus. But how?"
Again, he shows you his hands.
They are held in front of you, palm-side up. An open invitation. An unanswered question of surrender.
You stare at his hands for a long moment. Your eyes scan the crevices and callouses that serve as the vestige of his life on earth, you see the dirt beneath his fingernails, and when you lift your fingertip to his palm, you feel that it is warm and real and raw. You see the scars.
These scars, to the sinner, are putrid adn ugly. They are hard to look at, for these scars are the reminders of the nails that wounded him, driving a path through his hands and into a Roman cross, the gory, bloody scene vibrant in the minds of those still running.
But to you, they are beautiful.
The scars are not ugly, or putrid, or even gory.
For they are the scars that saved you in the beginning, before you wandered.
After a moment, you look up to meet Jesus's stare. But when you do, you find his eyes already waiting for you, praying that you might only look up. His eyes are gentle and knowing, tears brimming at their edges as he feels your pain. Your confusion. Your inadequacy.
He feels it all.
And he understands.
Again, he bids you.
"Lay it right here," He points to his palm once more. "Right here, in my hands."
Just a small one.
You may close your eyes if you want to.
Ready?
Good.
I want you to imagine that Jesus is sitting right beside you. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, and with whatever you may be walking through. The Son of God is walking beside you. Sitting next to you. Waiting with you.
Waiting for you.
"Child, open your eyes," he says.
You do.
You can see every detail of his face, every pore and every indentation of his skin, every line or wrinkle that forms around his eyes and on his forehead as the droplets of perspiration reflect the light of the summer sun.
He grins at you. Not the kind of grin that only pulls at his lips and is gone in a moment. No, the kind that overtakes his entire face as it breaks out upon his lips and reaches his brown eyes.
His eyes are familiar. They are warm adn gentle, inviting. They are the eyes of God, looking right at you.
He does not care if you do not have any makeup on, or if you haven't washed your hair since Sunday. He doesn't even care if your house is dirty or if your laundry hasn't been done.
He isn't here for any of that.
He's here for you. He just wants your heart.
But you don't feel worthy. So you avoid his gaze even as you feel the weight of his eyes so heavily upon you rbeloved face. You refuse to believe him.
"Why?
Your voice is soft, barely a whisper.
He hears you, though. He always does.
Jesus sighs gently, rubbing an absent hand over his cheek. You notice the hand is nail-pierced. The wound is deep, the Roman's nail having pierced it through so terribly that daylight is visible as he moves.
Slowly, wordlessly, he offers both hands out to you.
"Because I love you," He says, "Because I want to bring home with me to the Father. Because you are mine. Just give me your heart."
You want to give him your heart. Truly, you do.
"But how?" you whisper quietly. "I want to give you my heart, dear Jesus. But how?"
Again, he shows you his hands.
They are held in front of you, palm-side up. An open invitation. An unanswered question of surrender.
You stare at his hands for a long moment. Your eyes scan the crevices and callouses that serve as the vestige of his life on earth, you see the dirt beneath his fingernails, and when you lift your fingertip to his palm, you feel that it is warm and real and raw. You see the scars.
These scars, to the sinner, are putrid adn ugly. They are hard to look at, for these scars are the reminders of the nails that wounded him, driving a path through his hands and into a Roman cross, the gory, bloody scene vibrant in the minds of those still running.
But to you, they are beautiful.
The scars are not ugly, or putrid, or even gory.
For they are the scars that saved you in the beginning, before you wandered.
After a moment, you look up to meet Jesus's stare. But when you do, you find his eyes already waiting for you, praying that you might only look up. His eyes are gentle and knowing, tears brimming at their edges as he feels your pain. Your confusion. Your inadequacy.
He feels it all.
And he understands.
Again, he bids you.
"Lay it right here," He points to his palm once more. "Right here, in my hands."
.jpeg "The Yellow Badge")