In the middle of the night, a raging storm rips through the valley. Loud thunder and blinding lightning wake us all.
Normally in such conditions, my youngest will race down the stairs, burst through our bedroom door, and take a flying leap to land right into the middle of our bed. She’ll burrow down, wiggling and shimmying her way into a comfortable spot, stretch out her little arms and legs, and fall fast asleep in the security and satisfaction of it all.
Not my oldest. She arrives cautiously and stands by the door. She announces the obvious–the loud storm–and makes all sorts of excuses about why she’s at our door. I actually coax her to my side to let her receive comfort. Still, she’s justifying herself, explaining her fear, and asking if I’m sure it’s OK that she’s bothered me at 3:00 AM.
All into the morning, I visualize the difference between that flying leap into my comforting arms and the cautious, justifying stance of the wise, logical older sister. So many times, my approach to God brings me cautiously to the door, making excuses, wondering if I’m a bother.
Doesn’t scripture proclaim that we can come boldly–in a flying leap sort of way–to receive from God? I remember this from Hebrews 4: “So let us come boldly to the throne of our gracious God. There we will receive his mercy, and we will find grace to help us when we need it most.”
When did my oldest abandon her flying leap? When did I?
Living with flair means we race, we burst through, we take a flying leap into the arms of God.
Why do we become cautious and logical when we need God most?