Run toward Jesus
She waddled down the hallway, toward the front door, with not a care in the world. Her diaper was sagging. Her curls, unruly. Her face, stained with Gerber sweet potato soufflé. Nothing distracted her—her daddy was driving up the driveway.
Somewhere between the baby days of faith and the reality of adulting, I sometimes lose sight of the childlike wonder of anticipating being in the presence of Jesus.
The father doesn’t mind if I don’t have it all together. He doesn’t expect that I will always arrive cleaned up. My face and feet may be stained from walking in this troubled word. My hair might be disheveled from the winds and waves of the storms. I may be stripped bare of my dignity, my pride and myself.
He still meets me. He still swoops me up like a young father does his children after a long day at the office. He still runs toward me and smiles, happy to see me.
Friend, don’t let your mess keep you from running toward him. His love covers your sin, your inadequacies and your shame.
Run toward Jesus. He’s already running toward you.