I was running on the treadmill tonight and thought about you. These days, that means I prayed for you. It’s this new thing I’m trying.
I was listening to David Crowder again. He’s been good to me after such a long sabbatical after I overdosed with him my freshman year of college. (He was the soundtrack to the novel I wrote that fall. My roomie was rather unhappy with me I think.) I don’t remember what the line in the song said to make me think of you, but I did. And it went something like this:
We have our junk, you and I. But I am learning that God does not fail us. He comes to bind the broken hearted, the bruised and weary limbs that have carried much more than they deserved. He comes to call up hope from depths we never knew existed. You know I’m writing to you, dear one, because by now you’ll have a single tear forming in the corner of one eye, or you’ll soon be writing me to say that I must weep for you, because you no longer can. I can weep for you. It will not be the first. But I cannot hold hope for you. I may only stretch out hands that are full of it and ask that you may latch on to what is offered.
He comes for you and me. He is like no other. Once before you were bound up and held prisoner but no more. There are those, like me, who will yet fail you. Do not take it to heart, for we are clumsy, fallible creatures who cannot hold our own lives together, and so many others slip through our cracked and broken fingers. I can assure you, we do not mean to fail. But we did not mean to put him on the cross, and yet there he hung for you and for me.
But that is the beauty of it, the hard salted rub that cleanses though it stings.
He comes for you. He comes for me. He came knowing that we would rip and tear, but in his humility he chose to come. He’ll come again, I swear. This time to capture us in his train, full of power and glory, to a place where we hurt no more, ache no more and weep not for the loneliness of this world for we shall know it no longer.
He does not see our inadequacies. He does not see us faulty. He sees us: single, broken, lost and tired; abused, misused, forgotten and abandoned–but in his eyes he sees himself. He sees Jesus as Messiah, covering our naked debts and sheltering us in his glory. He sees us whole. He sees us righteous. He sees us pure. He sees us not as broken and misshapen. He sees us complete in his love, whole at last!
I don’t know much, love. But I know this:
He has not failed. He will not fail.
He will not fail me.
And by the mountains that are covered in snow by tonight’s bitter cold and blowing winds, by the mountains that stand to the west so proud and firm, by them, I swear to you.
He will. Not. Fail. You.