The Tender Father

"Who will go for Me?" The voice echoes in the chambers of my heart.

I raise my hand. "I will go for You, Father." 

He smiles and nods. "Yes, you, my daughter, may go for Me." 

But as I go on the mission that He has assigned to me I find that I cannot execute it without failure. It seems that the farther I go, the more aware I become of my own weakness. 

Shame rises up within. He could have picked someone far more qualified. Why did I volunteer myself to pursue those things that matter to Him when I can't even do it right?

I become like Adam and Eve and try to cover up my weaknesses with coverings of my own making.

I weave together a covering of self-made righteousness and move further along into the mission assigned to me, but again I trip and fall. Even the self-made righteousness cannot hold me up. 

I weave together another covering of more rules to live by -boundaries set to keep me from falling off the pathway and leaving the mission He gave me. Again, I trip and fall right over one of the boundaries I placed there.

I weave together yet another covering of self-pity, thinking that somehow if I pity myself, it might hold me up and help me finish the tasks He gave without completely falling apart. But still, I trip and fall over these coverings of my own making.

I weave together a cloak of apparent strength, and never admit my weaknesses to others. But again, I find myself doing a face plant, having tripped over my own imagined strength. 

I hear Him walking in the garden of my heart calling out to me, "Oh, my daughter, where are you?"

I hide, for I cannot seem to pull myself together enough to face Him. For every attempt to accomplish His mission has failed. 

I run from Him, trip over the roots of the tree of pride and fall into a pit of discouragement.

Self-pity reaches out and pushes me down into the muck and mire and I cannot breathe. 

Shame keeps my head down as I hear His footsteps approaching. 

I cover my head in one last attempt with one more cloak of self-assurance, thinking that somehow, I can get myself out of this place, but the longer I do, the deeper I sink into the mire.

But like a tender Father, He calls out to me again, "Oh my daughter, where are you?"

I quietly listen from my place of hiding. Should I answer? Or should I clean up my mess before I go to Him again? Surely that is what He expects of me; He wants me to never approach Him like this, all weak and messed up as I am... right?

I try to move, but I can't. I hear His footsteps going by. I hold my breath.

Will He stop? I cannot bear for Him to see me like this, so I try to remain hidden, under the coverings of my own making, sinking deeper still in discouragement and despair. 

But wait, there seems to be no bottom to this pit, for I keep sinking further and further down. Neither is there anything for me to hold on to in order to stay above the mire. I feel the mire rising to my neck. 

No! I do not want to stay here, but I can't get out! What do I do?  

I struggle and squirm. My coverings push me further down. The mire rises to my chin. 

"Father!" I cry in desperation, "Help!!"

Suddenly, He appears above me. strong arms reach down and pull me out, leaving behind the discouragement, shame, self-pity, and everything else. 

"Oh, my daughter, why did you not answer when I called?" He asks with compassion in His voice as He kneels down to wash the mire off of me. 

Tears stream down my cheeks. "I-I... was too ashamed." 

"Why were you ashamed?" He asks tenderly as He wipes my tears. He takes off His own cloak of righteousness and holds it in His hands as He listens to my reply.

"I failed You... You sent me on a mission, and I meant to succeed in doing it. I wanted to please You. I wanted to hear Your 'well, done,' but at every turn I failed. I tried so many things. I didn't think I could pull myself together in time to answer you, so I was going to wait for a better time. But then I realized there was no better time, no hope unless you came..." I look down at my feet, too ashamed to look up. I choke a sob as I continue, "How can you even want me now?"

But before I can say anything else, I feel His robe being wrapped over my shoulders. "What-?" He puts His finger on my lips.

"Don't say anything else. Look at Me." 

At first, I can't bring myself to look. I take a deep breath, then lift my gaze. 

What I see makes my heart stop. 

Tears of compassion are in His eyes. I search His eyes to see if there is any hint of judgment and shame there, but I find none. 

He finally breaks the silence.

"I am not ashamed of you. I know how weak you are. I remember that you are only dust. I knew it when I asked you to go on my mission." 

"Then... why did you ask me to go if you knew I'd fail?" 

He looks at me for a long time, and then says simply, "I never asked you to go without Me."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Apart from Me, you can do nothing. I intend to supply all your needs. I intend to be the strength that holds you up, the covering that protects you, the shelter in which you hide. I intend to be the One in whom you confide and trust. I intend to be the One in whose power and by whose life you succeed."

He continues, "Any time you fall, it is only because for a second you forgot I was right there with you, but it doesn't mean I won't help you back up."

I think about it for a while. He surely means what He is saying. 

"Don't you long for significance and meaning, my daughter?" He asks, breaking the silence.

"Well, yes."

"That is found in a sweet, intimate friendship with Me." 

Again, I pause to think about it. 

He speaks again, "Don't you long to be loved tenderly and understood deeply?"

"Yes, I do..." I whisper.

"I love you more tenderly than you'll ever know, and I understand you better than anyone else ever will."

"Oh, Father," I breathe, "you're all I've ever wanted." 

"Yes, my daughter, and I'm yours." 

...

"The Lord is like a Father to His children, tender and compassionate to those who fear Him. For He knows how weak we are; He remembers we are only dust." (Psalm 103:13-14)

If you feel the need to pull yourself together before you can approach your heavenly Father, you see Him wrong. He is tender and compassionate towards His children. He understands what we are made of, because He made us.

Oh, child of God, call to Him, experience His mercy, and allow Him to be to you all you need. He didn't send you on whatever mission you are on to do it alone. He is the strength by which you will succeed and the life by which you will live.

His love for you is as intense and unrelenting as the day you first tasted it, and it will never stop. 

So just stop and let Him be all He is to you. You won't regret it. 


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