“He has compassion on me because He knows how I am made.” ~Greg Lucas
I am home after a day at work.
She is sitting in a chair, agitated, rocking, humming.
I crouch down, longing for her to see my delight in her. Hoping for a look, a sound, a smile, any positive response at all.
There’s a clump of her hair on the floor, a rip in her sleeve, bite marks on her arm.
She seems a million miles away. Only when I reach out to touch her, she growls angrily and pushes me away.
I wince, feeling the pain of the distance and silence between us, the rejection.
I will try again.
This is my daughter… and this is me.
This is God my Father. He gently, faithfully provides for my needs. He holds my hand wherever I go. Chases me when I bolt. Scoops me up when I flop. Kisses my hurts. Washes me, dresses me, feeds me good things. He understands my heart in the silence. He keeps on speaking, every day He tells the mercy story. He fights for me and cheers for me. When I refuse Him, when I have cycles of non-compliance and aggression – kicking, biting, grabbing, self-injuring in my rebellion and disobedience, He stoops down to love me. He is my safe room, again I am surrounded in unbreakable grace.