Arms of Love

Those of you who know me well probably know that I have a small scar right up next to my right eye and have likely heard the story of how it came to be there.  For those of you who don't, it happened one day when I was probably about four years old and I was skipping in circles around the inside of my Great Grandpa's house while being chased by my brother.  I happened to trip and hit my head right on the corner of the wall which was covered with glass tiles to create a humongous mirror on the wall.  There was no protective covering, so I got cut open by the glass.  About all I remember is tripping, my sister freaking out, being packed into the car to go to the emergency room, and then laying there on the table right before they gave me stitches.

But the one clear memory I have isn't the pain, or freaking out, but riding to the ER on my Great Grandpa's lap.  Mom had already been getting us ready to leave, so she just bundled us all out the door and Great Grandpa held me tight in his arms all the way there.

This is what I imagine being held in God's arms is like.  Those arms around me meant that even though I was hurt, everything would be okay.  Even though I was scared, he would protect me.  There was safety, and security, and love in those arms.  He wasn't going to let me go.

That's how I picture God's embrace.  We do something to injure ourselves -- be it a physical injury or a spiritual one -- and run to Him, and instead of just telling us off for getting into trouble again (though He does do that often enough, it's not all He does), He opens His arms wide and lifts us up, promising protection and healing.  Even though the injury may be of our own doing, He showers us with love and tells us that it will all work out in the end.

Arms that surround you and say, "Here, it is safe.  Here, you are loved."  

I never want to leave those arms.

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Photo Credit: Myself