Jesus in skin, receiving the needy, a line of humanity bedraggled stretching before him. There, the woman bent with an issue of blood that had kept her weak. Behind her, a child, leg crippled, who’d never run, never leapt or climbed a tree. Here, a blind man. There, a mother clutching her baby.
Later that night, after the program, I heard it. Heard the story straight from her lips, how her grandbaby, precious Miles, was suffering. And with him, his mama and daddy, his grandma and “Big Grandpa.”
She told me of his seizures, those terrible fits that would grab his little body, wringing it hard and stealing all of his words. It hurt her terribly, seeing him like that, knowing they’d be right back at ground zero when it happened again, building his vocabulary one word, one phrase at a time. And who knew how long he’d keep it?
He was housebound, the little mite, for the tiniest bit of excitement, of stimuli; the merest hint of a virus could trigger another bad one. And there they’d go again…
Thinking of her, of them, of the constant danger he lived in and the stress and strain they wore like a second skin, I thought of that song. Pictured that line.
If Jesus were here in the flesh, how I’d rush to join the line, taking little Miles and laying him in His lap, for one word, one touch is all it would take. If Jesus were here, I’d take…I’d take…
Faces and names appeared before me. Wouldn’t I take my children, presenting them before the Shepherd to receive a blessing? Wouldn’t I take my husband to receive one, too? I’d take myself, kneeling at His feet, spreading broken pieces of messy me around those sandals, waiting to feel His hand on my head. So many others I would take and hold with me in that line, presenting them to Him…
This, dear ones, is the hope of Christmas, the promise for those of us who are, really and truly, waiting in line to see Jesus. For one day, it will be our turn, and we shall “see Him as He is.”
As for Miles, his grandma told me that his three phrases right now are: “I’m good,” “You good?” and, “I like it!” It’s amazing, she said, how much he communicates through these six words.
I can’t help but picture him, looking around Heaven one day, fully healed, exclaiming to the Lord Jesus, “I like it! Jesus, You good?” Then, with a leap and a shout, “I’m good!” Oh, yes. I’m good.
Merry, merry Christmas from our family to yours.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for the encouragement and life you’ve breathed straight into this girl for yet another year. Thank you for rejoicing with me over the good stuff, for crying with me when it got tough, and for saying, “Keep it up!” when I wasn’t so sure. Over the holidays here, I’ll be taking a bit of a blogging break to spend time with my family. There will undoubtedly be plenty of stuff to write about when I get back.
“I’m good. You good?”