Here, There

You take me places.

In the hurried heart of a senior-- more to do, work on, watch, talk about and then... sleep.

In her heart, ever looking for more. Ready by herself to move on to the next task, whether it will accomplish something or not. Here, movement. Motion. She takes herself places.

But occasionally, you take her places. Here.

For her.

Just her. A corner. A desk. A library full of things to know.

More to do... more. more. more.

But here. Right here, with the red converses and the kids bible. A couple of square feet, enough.

Ours. All that I need to know. You. Here. A gift. The gift.

More. Later. This. That. Fill these holes. Be here.

But no. There, in what is not, yet or ever. You. If nothing but in desperate anticipation, a lens to sweet fulfillment. You are here in what seems so... empty. Seeming emptiness here in my mind, my heart when there is library so full. But you aren't there. You're here. A gift.

Present in what is-- now, if not forever. Present forever. Sweet fulfillment. A challenge.

More often compelled to the twisted world of turmoil than God may have planned for me to visit. That's what she said. I admire her.

But when I go there, you're there too. David said you would be. Hallelujah.

Faith, strengthened. By seeing in you what I grieve to find lacking in myself. A rescue not fit for an ordinary girl.

You, executed.

Not just once but over. over. over. over. again. and then again. By the ordinary girl. She sins. She settles.

Her, rescued. By the valiance of a hero with an impressive record.

He doesn't do it because He needs a sidekick. He's plenty capable. He doesn't do it because she is of use. He already has the resources He needs. He does it because He is able. Because He loves her. Loves them.

And in that-- only that, in fact-- value.

She goes back there to the place she should no longer feel compelled when she again believes herself unvaluable.

When she watches as others try to increase their own-- value. Not worth it.

When people treat other people without consideration of their value. She sees pain. She feels turmoil. She goes there.

Emptiness. Incompleteness. Hurt. It's easy to fall into. Because it's all around. Perhaps not so glaringly in her own life. But emptiness is so here. Glaring.

Empathy. They say it's a gift. But it takes me there. To turmoil. And there, everything is more easily juxtaposed with perfection, wholeness. There, where everything is not right. Right there in what is not, what is lost-- a clear view of what is. To be gained. What is right.

Waiting, willing.

A heroic rescue not fit for the ordinary girl.

There. To where God makes Himself clear.

He never hides.

There. Where she looks more desperately, then.

There. He is found and I am once again free to proclaim, through my own experience. Sufficient.

There. In comisery. (It's not a word. It should be.) In empathy. In the consideration of others and who He is to them. In the expression of my own hurt, my yearning to know faithfulness in my own heart. Healing is there. Healing is Him.

That's the gift.

And the next time, though I feel turmoil. I know. Know sufficiently. I have a haven.

A choice presents itself. And I'll struggle to sing, a song of praise marked by the staccato of a dripping tear or interrupting sniffle. (there is no way to make that word sound better.) A choice between what I deeply feel and what I deeply know.

I'll choose the value. That which I knew myself to have gained when he rescued me that first, most desperate time. The value he imparted the moment He chose me first. The value He secures sufficiently as over. over. over. again. and then again. He rescues.

To rescue me from the forever pain of empty, broken self and others was (and is) far better to Him than to leave me or them to be.

He will be.

Over. over. over. again. and then again. He offers me a cross for me. My personality. Death to confidence in the strength of my mind or flesh. Death to insecurity in the weakness of my spirit. No boasting my gifts. But. No shame in my faults.

He did it first, the cross. He knows the pain, the death. The kind we throw around at each other or wish out of hospital rooms and when we have a word with Him, we assure Him, he doesn't know this time. Surely we have seen the pain, the death more fully than He. We're here. We live it. Where is He?

But then. And only then-- after. After the pain, the death. Not before. After taking up His cross, not before. He knows the salvation, the life. The kind we threw away and the kind we wish into the hospital rooms. Surely He has seen the restoration, the beauty more fully than we. He's there. He lives it. Where are we?

He will not leave me to be.

Here.

A gift. Eucharisteo.

(verb. 1. to be grateful, feel thankful).