I stand six steps from the bed's edge. My arms extended. Hands open. On the bed
Sara - all four years of her - crouches, posed like a playful kitten. She's
going to jump. But she's not ready. I'm too close. "Back more, Daddy," she
stands and dares. I dramatically comply, confessing admiration for her courage.
After two giant steps I stop. "More?" I ask. "Yes!" Sara squeals, hopping on the
bed. With each step she laughs and claps and motions for more. When I'm beyond
the reach of mortal man, when I am but a tiny figure on the horizon, she stops
me. "There, stop there." "Are you sure?" "I'm sure," she shouts. I extend my
arms. Once again she crouches, then springs.
Superman without a cape. Skydiver without a chute. Only her heart flies higher
than her body. In that airborne instant her only hope is her father. If he
proves weak, she'll fall. If he proves cruel, she'll crash. If he proves
forgetful, she'll tumble to the hard floor. But such fear she does not know, for
her father she does. She trusts him. Four years under the same roof have
convinced her he is reliable. He is not superhuman, but he is strong. He is not
holy, but he is good. He's not brilliant but he doesn't have to remember to
catch his child when she jumps.
And so she flies. And so she soars. And so he catches her and the two rejoices
at the wedding of her trust and his faithfulness.
I stand a few feet from another bed. This time no one laughs. The room is
solemn. A machine pumps air into a tired body. A monitor metronomes the beats of
a weary heart. The woman on the bed is no child. She was, once. Decades back.
She was. But not now. Like Sara, she must trust. Only days out of the operating
room, she's just been told she'll have to return. Her frail hand squeezes mine.
Her eyes mist with fear. Unlike Sara, she sees no father. But the Father sees
her. Trust Him, I say to us both. Trust the voice that whispers your name. Trust
the hands to catch.
I sit across the table from a good man. Good and afraid. His fear is honest.
Stocks are down. Inflation is up. He has payroll to meet and bills to pay. He
hasn't squandered or gambled or played. He has worked hard and prayed often, but
now he's afraid. Beneath the flannel suit lies a timid heart. He stirs his
coffee and stares at me with the eyes of Wile E. Coyote who just realized he's
run beyond the edge of a cliff.
He's about to fall and fall fast. He's Peter on the water, seeing the storm and
not the face. He's Peter in the waves, hearing the wind and not the voice.
Trust, I urge. But the word thuds. He's unaccustomed to such strangeness. He's a
man of reason. Even when the kite flies beyond the clouds he still holds the
string. But now the string has slipped. And the sky is silent.
I stand a few feet from a mirror and see the face of a man who failed...who
failed his Maker. Again. I promised I wouldn't, but I did. I was quiet when I
should have been bold. I took a seat when I should have taken a stand. If this
were a first time, it would have been different. But it isn't. How many times
can one fall and expect to be caught? Trust. Why is it easy to tell others and
so hard to remind self? Can God deal with death? I told the woman so. Can God
deal with debt? I ventured as much with the man. Can God hear yet one more
confession from these lips? The face in the mirror asks.
I sit a few feet from a man on death row. Jewish by birth. Tentmaker by trade.
Apostle by calling. His days are marked. I'm curious about what bolsters this
man as he nears his execution. So I ask some questions. Do you have family? "I
have none." What about your health? "My body is beaten and tired." What do you
own? "I have my parchments. My pen. A cloak." And your reputation? "Well, it's
not much. I'm a heretic to some, a maverick to others." Do you have friends? "I
do, but even some of them have turned back." Any awards? "Not on earth." Then
what do you have, Paul?
No belongings. No family. Criticized by some. Mocked by others. What do you
have, Paul? What do you have that matters? I sit back quietly and watch. Paul
rolls his hand into a fist. He looks at it. I look at it. What is he holding?
What does he have? He extends his hand so I can see. As I lean forward, he opens
his fingers. I peer at his palm. It's empty. "I have my faith. It's all I have.
But it's all I need. I have kept the faith." Paul leans back against the wall of
his cell and smiles. And I lean back against another and stare into the face of
a man who has learned that there is more to life than meets the eye.
For that's what faith is. Faith is trusting what the eye can't see. Eyes see the
prowling lion. Faith sees Daniel's angel. Eyes see storms. Faith sees Noah's
rainbow. Eyes see giants. Faith sees Canaan. Your eyes see your faults. Your
faith sees your Savior. Your eyes see your guilt. Your faith sees His blood.
Your eyes see your grave. Your faith sees a city whose builder and maker is God.
Your eyes look in the mirror and see a sinner, a failure, a promise-breaker. But
by faith you look in the mirror and see a robed prodigal bearing the ring of
grace on your finger and the kiss of your Father on your face.
But wait a minute, someone asks. How do I know this is true? Nice prose, but
give me the facts. How do I know these aren't just fanciful hopes? Part of the
answer can be found in Sara's little leaps of faith. Her older sister, Andrea,
was in the room watching, and I asked Sara if she would jump to Andrea. Sara
refused. I tried to convince her. She wouldn't budge. "Why not?" I asked. "I
only jump to big arms." If we think the arms are weak, we won't jump. For that
reason, the Father flexed His muscles. "God's power is very great for those who
believe," Paul taught. "That power is the same as the great strength God used to
raise Christ from the dead" (Eph. 1:19-20).
Next time you wonder if God can catch you, read that verse. The very arms that
defeated death are the arms awaiting you. Next time you wonder if God can
forgive you, read that verse. The very hands that were nailed to the cross are
open for you. And the next time you wonder if you will survive the jump, think
of Sara and me. If a flesh - and - bone - headed dad like me can catch his
child, don't you think your eternal Father can catch you?
"When God Whispers Your Name, Max Lucado, 1994, Word Publishing Nashville,
Tennessee. All rights reserved."
The Illustrator: This daily newsletter is dedicated to encouraging
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