It was a photograph of Jesus, a portrait created by a young girl who’d died, gone to Heaven and come back. Jesus, He with the eyes shining kindness. Shining love. Shining…knowing.
Every now and then, standing there by the fridge, I would press my hand, palm and fingers flat, to the face. Just as I would if He were standing before me in the flesh. Hand on cheek, head on His chest. And I’d say the Name.
It was last summer during a time of great testing and a crisis that threatened my son that I’d say it. Face turned toward His (oh, those loving eyes), I’d groan, “Jesus.” And this is what I’d hear.
“My Son has yours. My Son (it was Father) has yours.” My Son, Jesus? He’s got yours.
Over and over, I’d whisper the name. In times of fear, Jesus. In moments of temptation, Jesus. In the hour that the battle raged strong over my own internal strongholds…Jesus.
On Tuesday last, a letter came. For 10 handwritten pages, he bared his soul, telling his story, and he laid out his path to full peace. In the worst of it, he said, there was one thing that helped. One thing that was sure. One lifeline to which he would cling. As he’d lie, writhing in agony on his bed at night, he’d breathe the name, in and out, every breath, every heartbeat, “Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.”
Tears had sprung as I read it, picturing such misery, near-hearing him saying the name. Name of The Friend, his hope, his comfort, his rescue and peace, the One who had broken his chains.
Later that night by the light of a lamp, a text came through to my phone. “When that anxiety comes,” she said, “I breathe the name of Jesus.”
The day that the letter and text had come? It was that very morning that I’d slipped outdoors, finding my spot on The Three. There, overlooking the backyard where the mist hung low, I’d met with them, Father, Son, Spirit. “Come for me here,” I’d said. “I want victory over this. I’m sick and true-tired of this stronghold.”
And like He always does when a child true-seeks, He came, bringing victory and healing.
He spoke. “See the stripes? By His stripes, you are healed. It’s enough. It it finished, accomplished.”
His Son. Healing stripes. The wounds that brought peace, paid the price, took the punishing for me.
And for you, my friend. For this, I know, is what Father would say to you, too, who whisper the Name. “My Son? He has yours. He has you, those you love and all that so deeply concerns you. His stripes, My Son’s, are enough. You are healed.”
My Son. He’s got yours. He’s got you.
Amen. Oh, amen.