She didn’t cry as I picked her up from her comfy, drowsy state my bed. She tumbled from her back onto her tummy in my arms, snuggling her face close to my body for warmth. No fear, questions, doubts, tears. She had confidence I would carry her cautiously– that I would let nothing harm her as I swiftly carried her to her carseat and buckled her in securely.
She trusted me to suspend her in my arms and to be gentle with her– and why shouldn’t she? I have never proven myself to be untrustworthy or careless with her.
I realized as I was holding her, what a beautiful analogy the silent trust between us was to the way I should trust my God. He carries me; safely, snugly, I am sheltered in His sound arms. He has never been anything but trust-worthy, but unlike Halle, I kick, worry, fight, squirm, stress, and blatantly parade round my doubts.
I say, “I trust you, Lord”, but my actions display that I somehow think my life is exceptional to His “rejoice always” command and I have a right to worry about the events around me.
But- not anymore. I surrender.
I trust you, Jesus. I know you will keep me invulnerable when I choose to nest in the safety of your arms.
