I didn't intend to make my thoughts on the love of God into a series, but maybe I will. It does seem to be something God is working in me during this season. There may be no continuous thought or idea in the posts other than what God is showing me about love. Here's the link to the first one.
When one of our church deacons held his new daughter, and her almond-eyes looked back at him as he introduced her to the congregation, his voice trembled joy and her face shined peace and my heart filled.
In my stubbornness, only a few hours earlier I had muttered a prayer for the Sunday service, asking God in early-morning lack to bring me some well-deserved happiness, thank you very much, after a few days of tears.
Then there was talk about the Prodigal, and I remember his story. About the prostitutes and the pig slop, about how when he came back he didn't ask for happiness; but rather for the role of even a servant if it allowed him to return to his Father's house.
And how the Father didn't run toward a servant, but a son; and didn't give him happiness as much as hope.
More talk followed about understanding what God did for us. Understanding in a way that leaves us changed. Maybe hearing His own voice tremble joy and His feet pound the earth as He runs toward us?
This kind of love is not for the understanding but for the trusting? Like the deacon's daughter, who is too young to understand the love that brought her across an ocean and two continents to be home, but maybe she can trust it.
Yahweh, the Prodigal-Lover, stands at the end of that road whispering healing-words that turn my heart toward Him long before my ears are wise enough to listen.
This, then, is largely my story. What I have to share with those who haven't heard the same healing in different words meant for their heart, only.
From the beginning nothing and no one has loved me as He does. When a love like this was spoken to me, a love that makes a king a willing fool in the eyes of others, that makes the prideful willing to be pitied, what could I do but trust and follow?
The only other option is becoming the worst version of myself. It is the choking grip of control, fear, perfectionism, and anger; and I write that last sentence from what I unfortunately know, not what I assume. As a wife, soon-to-be-mother, sister, daughter, friend and Christ-follower, I can scarce afford to not respond.
For me there is nothing else but to be loved.