My oldest son and I flew frequently before he was two. Most of our trips were to Texas on a quick nonstop flight from Nashville to San Antonio. It didn't matter how quick the flight was, by the time the plane came to a stop, he was ready to get out. Every trip I followed the same routine: once the plane was stopped, I unfastened his belt and allowed him the freedom to stand up and stretch his legs. On one particular flight, I gathered our things and stepped out into the aisle. As I looked over and motioned for him to come, I saw that he had climbed onto the seat. He was leaning forward with his feet on the edge of the seat, stabilizing himself with his hands on the seat in front of him. "Get down, now!" I said sternly. Before I could reach over to help him, his hands slipped and he fell face first to the floor of the plane between the two seats.
The scream that followed could be heard by anyone still on the plane. I dropped all of our things into the seat next to me. I scooped him up from the floor and held him close as he cried. I'm certain he was in shock as well as pain. I was holding his face close to mine when I felt something wet on my cheek. It was blood. I grabbed the only thing I had to help stop the bleeding; baby wipes. The flight attendant brought me a bag of ice and I tried, unsuccessfully, to hold it on his forehead where he was bleeding. Slowly he started to calm down and we made our way off the plane. Through all of this I remained calm and moved swiftly and precisely to take care of my son. But once all was well and I had a pause to take in everything, I started to cry.
I did the best I could to keep him safe. I gave him the freedom to move around, but I also gave him guidelines. I taught him not to climb up on things that weren't meant for climbing. I told him to get down. I tried to reach out and stop him from falling, but it was too late. I hated the sight of my son hurting.
It is no secret that I am in a world of pain. I will let you in on something I have a hard time overcoming; my pain is self-inflicted. While God gave me the freedom to choose, He also gave me guidelines. The guidelines are to keep me safe from feeling the pain of falling. But the reason I drifted is the same reason my son climbed when he knew I said "no": it is fun. In Hebrews 11:25 we see that Moses chose to suffer with God's people, rather than enjoying "the pleasures of sin for a season." Did you catch that? Sin is pleasurable "for a season." As I have learned and relearned, the season may be short or long, but it always comes to an end. And what is on the other side of that is sometimes unbearable.
I've begun reading The Mended Heart, by Susie Larson. The first thing I wanted to do was run away. Because although I know Jesus is the only one who can truly heal my heart, I feel so inadequate to even beg for help. I am too dirty, my heart is hardened, and if I'm completely transparent, I don't even know if I'm sorry for my choices that led to this. But I am tired of hurting and I have no where else to go but into my Father's arms.
My son made a choice and he got hurt. So did I. As a parent, I didn't get angry when I saw him hurting, I rushed to him and held him in my arms. So does Jesus. When I saw my son hurting, I hurt too. So does Jesus. The Bible says this about the interaction of man and child: "So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask him." (Matt 7:11, NLT) I believe the same is true for self-inflicted pain. If we, as sinners, can immediately comfort our hurting children after they have disobeyed, how much more will the Father comfort us in our sorrow?
Jesus catches every tear. (Ps 56:8) I am so grateful that what or who caused the tears is irrelevant. Every tear.
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