find rest, my soul, in Christ alone

Why am I still such a fool that I think I can hide from You? Like Jonah, I think that, if I fall asleep under miserably wet blankets in the dank hold of a ship headed the other way from where You want me, I will become invisible.

Then You come in. I fling the covers over my head and sit there. You do nothing. I am a curious, guilty child, hiding my dirty hands and pretending that they don't exist. Why aren't You angry? Why aren't You calling me out, making me face You, interrogating me about my guilt? I ignore You.

It's getting hot. I'm wet. I'm sweaty. This blanket is rough and, covering my head as it does, it's dark. I feel so surrounded; it's claustrophobic, not comforting. I can't see my dirty hands. "What dirty hands? I have none. It's wrong to have dirty hands. I can't have them. I mustn't." Why don't You come? Why don't You go? The air under this blanket is so stale and musty. I want to ignore You.

Oh, I am tired. Sitting here, Indian-style, and it's itchy and hot and musty and unbearable. It's Your fault, You know. Just go. Just come. Be angry with me - give me justification to be easier on myself. I have no dirty hands. Are You there?

I lift a corner of the blanket. Yes, my hands are dirty. I look at them. The cloth slides off me, bunching round in a pile about my hips and back. I look at them - my dirty hands. Mute, I stare over at You. I hold my palms out toward You. Back and forth I flip them, letting You see the full extent of the filth under my nails and in the cracks. Oh! I have hands. Ugh, they're dirty. I've been hiding here, hiding them from You, hiding them from me. What will You say now?

And suddenly I realize that You're smiling. You get up off the floor and come to me. You crouch down in front of me. You're holding a washcloth; You wipe my hot, tear-stained face. Still, You don't say anything - You just smile, take my little hands in Your big, calloused ones and gently scrub the grime away. I have hands. They are dirty. They are clean.

You kiss my little hands and say, "My child, my dear little child - why are you so worried about your hands? Why aren't you more worried about what you're DOING with your hands then how they look? Do you think I will be angry if your hands get dirty doing what I tell you to do? Do what I tell you to do, my daughter. Do that, and let Me worry about your hands."

And now, my Father, my arms are 'round Your neck, and there's no need for me to tell all these things that frightened me. I hid in misery, but now, when I see Your face, I can't hold on to that. It doesn't seem real, anymore. Everything that seemed oppressive under that hot, smelly, wet blanket has disappeared now that I'm in the light of day, in Your arms.

How awesome You are, my God.