The Day I Ran Away from Home

You take my hand. And one hand guides me. 

"Dear Jesus," I whisper ...

Do you remember that time I ran away from home? You do. I know you do. I was just an itty bitty thing, only in elementary school. I can't believe I still remember it. But I do.

You take one step forward, and I follow.

My sister and I decided to run away from home. We didn’t have a good reason. My older sister thought it was a brainy idea, to the best of my recollection, and I followed.

We collected our baby stroller, our baby dolls, a little food and drink, and walked out the door as the sky was dusking. Mama even helped us pack, gave us hugs, and watched as we headed down our quiet neighborhood street pushing our baby stroller—my sister's hands on one side of the handle, mine on the other. 

As we neared the end of our street, we realized we had nowhere to go. We found ourselves surrounded by darkness and loneliness. Would we turn the street corner and continue on or head straight into the forest facing us? Neither choice seemed like a good option. Desperate, we looked behind us to see Mama, with the porch light on, up on the hill, watching us, beckoning us to come home.

We immediately turned around, with all our baggage, and ran back as fast as our little legs could carry us. 

You twirl me away from you.

Thank you for Mama. Because she taught us a valuable lesson that day. Oh, she wouldn’t have let us go far. She was waiting for us to see that we had no place to run but to her arms, where we were loved and safe.

You twirl me back in to you.

Jesus, the same incomparably comparable thing happened to you. Didn't it? I've heard your stories. And I believe every one. 

You step to the side, and I follow.

Your Father let you go down the road for a while, as you carried your cross to the hill. And the light was turned off for three days. 

Three days.

I can't even begin to imagine.

Your Father watched. He never lost sight of you. 

And then something beautiful happened. Something miraculous. Your Father turned on the porch light. He beckoned you home. And you rose from the grave. Nothing could keep you from home, from your Father, from me.

You take a step back, and I follow.

That day I—a little fair-skinned, blond-headed girl—walked down the street, on 1524 Milam Drive in Tyler, Texas, I'm so glad my sister turned around to go home, so that I could follow. But one thing I've learned—there comes a time when we have to make our own decisions. Our own decision—to go home.

You step to the side, and I follow.

I haven't always followed you the way I should have. My bucket of regrets from my youth is deep. What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. I followed after things and people I knew were wrong. They weren't you. It felt like I died a slow death, and some days it feels like I'm still trying to dig and scrape my way out of the dirt, out of the open grave.

You step forward, and I follow.

But you, Jesus. Thank you for being the Light, my light. Thank you for your outstretched arms. For being my safe place. For giving me a place called home, a place to call home, a place to run to. For braving the dark and lonely for me. For loving me. Thank you for your testimony and for giving me one. 

You dip me, and I laugh. Your grip on me is strong. You lift me back steady on my feet.

You place your face to mine, and I whisper, "Dear Jesus" ...

You are one decision I'll never forget, one I'll never regret.

Through the good and the hard, thank you for this beautiful dance.

Happy Easter. What are you most thankful for this Easter? Did you ever see the movie The Passion of the Christ? I remember the first time I saw it, I walked away thinking—what can I do for you, Jesus? Do you remember what played through your mind?

Plastic vs. Real and My Problem with Easter Eggs

Year after year, I hover disappointedly over the stovetop, grasping the silver handle and peering into my non-stick saucepan with bewilderment. What is my problem with Easter eggs? Why do they faithfully crack when I boil them? And why am I always shy of vinegar?

A few days ago, I asked my 15 year old daughter if she wants to color eggs again this year. Just for the fun. I was sort of hoping she'd say no, but with a beautiful smile, she said yes. For old times sake. I think I may have cringed a tiny bit in secret.

Because you wouldn't believe how often I resort to my Betty Crocker cookbook, on simply how to boil the perfect egg. And you wouldn't believe how many eggs I juggle, trying to manage a crate full of unbroken boiled eggs. All for an unbroken Easter egg hunt.

I suppose the water is too hot, and the cracks appear. I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing wrong.

Sometimes I resort to plastic eggs. Mix in a little plastic with the real.

And when I finally give up, I realize that even a slightly cracked egg looks pretty with a little color. The fracture lines take on a darker shade, a different hue, giving beautiful diversity to the egg. And like a fingerprint or snowflake, it's different from all the rest. And add a little sticker to it, and you have something that can be used. Something worth keeping. Something that can be hidden and found.

** 



I used to be ashamed of the fractures in my life. I wanted to hide them, hide them from others. I wanted to appear perfect. Add a little plastic to the real, and maybe no one would notice.

But here's the beautiful deal ...

God uses the real. 

God refines us intentionally. What good are we if we remain the same? Those fractures are living proof of change and a great source of ministry. They make us unique like a fingerprint or snowflake.

 

The plastic is artificial. But the real is nourishment.

Do I wish I could erase some of those life's fractures? Oh, you bet I do. But choices are choices; and consequences are consequences; and circumstances are circumstances. But those are the very things God can take and make good. Because He promised He would.

The nail scarred hands and feet prove this—

The broken uses the broken.

The fractured uses the fractured.

If we simply give up, come out of hiding, to be found. Remove the plastic. To be real. To be used.