God With Us

Deb

The chill November day required a snowsuit. The bulk of it did not deter the little girl from riding the birthday tricycle. While delighted with how quickly she could ride, she was also concerned. Repeatedly she paused, even stopped. “It’s okay, Jesus. I’ll wait for you.” She spoke the words aloud to the apparently deserted walk. Jesus was with her. He walked by her side. The bike might be faster than He. When the concept had become a part of her, she could not say. It was a fact, God with us. Trust.

Decades passed. By God’s grace she grew in His knowledge. God spoke through His word. “Grace and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior.”  From. These were words straight from heaven. Inspired. God breathed. These were not second hand words. Jesus spoke through the pastors and teachers.  The girl treasured the heavenly connection.

As the years continued, they brought a deepened understanding of Immanuel. “Take eat this is my body, this is my blood.” With that, she perceived Christ was in her. His body broken, His blood shed for her. A maturing faith brought the realization she must alter her post-communion prayer. The gift she requested had already been given. By His death His blood was streaked across the doorposts of her heart. The Angel of Death would pass over. One did not ask the waiter for a dinner, when it was there, wafting delicious scents under the nose. His tremendous gift of love, humbled and awed her.

Old as she became, God had more to reveal. Learned in grade school, John chapter 1 remained in her memory. So many wonderful passages to contemplate. So many sermons and Bible class texts were taken from it. But one day the little girl in the older woman had an epiphany. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God…And the Word was made flesh.”  These words were Jesus. The obvious had eluded her. Repeatedly she had read, recited and listened past those words. Now, in the quiet, early morning, alone, with the words splashed under the lamplight, she knew what she had known as a child. Trust.

Immanuel, a name with more packed inside it than Mary Popins’ satchel. The little girl could only rejoice with thanks that Jesus patiently paused for her to catch up to Him.

 

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