If you know me at all, you know I am obsessed with Jesus. I can’t help it. Somehow, conversations always lead back to Him. Because He is my life source. My hope. And my home. And I would die without Him.
The true story about my life is that He reached into a raging river of near-dead bodies, thick with tar and oil and trash, bound for a marsh somewhere far away where the smell of death poisons the air – He grabbed hold of my limp body and pulled me out, and pushed His air into my lungs. And welcomed me, when I woke up, still drenched and covered in sticky tar, to life.
Pretty shell-shocked. Pretty uncomfortable. Unfamiliar. I don’t think I belong here? How did I even get here? But also… Rescuer, … why me? Why now? And why not others, not now? This world… I didn’t know I could walk, never mind jump. My lungs were always meant to breathe this air… new, but real… I can speak out here and be heard – something about the clear air, and the way my vocal chords interact with the breath He gave me are acting on the atmosphere around me, reverberating, carrying, and I can talk with the other refugees – they can really hear me.
We are the liberated. We are the living. We are the loved, the seen. And we will sing, because we can! And because the Rescuer loves the sounds we make. Even when our sounds are still croaky, and out of tune – our tar-blocked ears only slowly opening, a long way off from hearing the music clearly. A few, who have been here some time, are starting, sometimes, to manage – to sing in unison, in harmony. It’s beautiful when they do – we try to join them and they cheer us on. All together, for the Rescuer’s joy. And we’ll tell Him we love Him. Often. We’ll be so sorry when we lash out at our adoptive sister – both to her and to our Rescuer. How could we forget the kindness shown to us? Remember, this is a place of love. So we’ll dance. Because these feelings are far too big for stiffness, for reservation. We may even dare to try to help Him – He is always rescuing. There are so many drifting, drowning. He loves every one of them. He never stops working to reach them – all day, all night. Even though his hands are scarred from all the bites and scratches. I’m sure one of those is from me…
No matter how many others choose the familiar shadow-life in the water over true life here with the Rescuer, I will keep trying to help. Even if I get bitten too. I know what they’re feeling – the muted colours, dulled sound, that they’re still cold no matter how many other bodies bump up against them, they’ve given up screaming because they can’t be heard and it only fills their lungs with more tar… But the Rescuer sees them. Sometimes he points to one I might be able to reach. And sometimes, when I’m brave, or heartbroken or hopeful enough, I grip Him tightly with one hand, and with the other I stretch as far as I can. They won’t take His hand – they don’t recognise it. Maybe they will take mine first.
I often get wet and tarred again… I know at least twice, I slipped so deep in, my whole body submerged, all the singing went muffled, and when I opened my mouth to cry out, my lungs filled again with that old familiar thick bitter chemical water. Shock. And then panic. Fear. And all my old survival tactics kicked in. Tread water, don’t swallow too much of it. Watch for big debris – it can kill. Don’t catch too much tar – it will paralyse you. So much panic, so much familiarity that I forgot in that moment, who was still gripping my hand. Gripping so tightly it hurt. In my panic, I had released. Panic, and survival memory. You can’t safely hold onto things down here – the river is raging.
This is my last hope then – whether I tighten my grip or not – if He doesn’t, if He can’t rescue me again, then I’m lost. But to be back in here, alone again, after having lived… to be away from Him… I was so close to death even years ago, the first time… I know, without Him, I will die… But He of course. He is the Rescuer. He loved me then, before I could even want Him. He would never, never, never let me go.
I tighten my grip.
And feel His other hand grip my forearm. I think I can just make out the image of those precious scarred hands through the dark rushing water.
I can’t see His face. I can’t hear Him. But I know He is there. I know He is with me. I know He is rescuing.
Then, more hands. Into the rapids. I don’t even know where they all are. What they are gripping. Whose they are.
He has called them in to help. An army of the redeemed. My make-shift family. They have as much to lose as I do but, for now, better grip on the land. They heard His voice and they came running to help.
Here we wrestle, all together, mostly uncoordinated, bruising and twisting each other, unsure where exactly to grip and where to let go, unsure whose grip is really doing the pulling. Trying everything. Each one trying to work in unison but often setting us back, moving out of sync. And me – horrified, terrified, to be as weak, as helpless, as I once was – as the others are when He finds them. Totally dependent again, on the arms of love gripping onto me – some of which I know are bleeding now from my scratching, my scrambling to catch them. They will forgive me, I know. They will understand. They know this water. They were here. Right now, I’m not even sure if I’m grabbing an arm or the debris. I can’t even feel skin, only shapes – I caught a chunk of tar and it coated my hands. I can barely hold on enough to signal I’m still alive.
Trust.
I know Him. I know them. I know how they work up there, and why. This is what they live for. For love. I know they love me. Even if we fail, I will die scratched up and bruised and knowing, like I know nothing else, that He loves me, and they love me. They love me because He loves. They help because He rescues. They endure because He suffers. For love.
I love them. And I need them. I need Him.
Then at last. Out of the danger – they heave my exhausted body. My arm is broken or dislocated. But I can feel the calm around me, and hear them asking me things, I hear my name, and I hear His voice, I hear, and I know I am safe, and it’s clear again. I can see. But my lungs are still full, so He breathes in me again and I can breathe again and I can cough. And cough and cough and cough until all of the water and most of the tar is out… and then, after much crying, finally sleep… In the morning, I will sing again through my wounded throat. I will hold my brothers and sisters so tightly, even with my wounded arm, grip them with my whole body, this time not in desperation but excess. Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you. I love you.
Rescuer. My teacher. Leader. Father. The first to see me. My first true friend. Thank you. Thank you. Today, all over again, again I owe my life to you. Everything I have is because of you. I can only sing because of you, so I will sing for you. To me, you are beauty itself. Life personified. You are the definition of love. And I adore you.
In a few days, I’m sure, after some rest, after some time with my family and meals with our Father, and settling back into home, once my arm has healed under the Rescuer’s care, I will long again for the nearest constant proximity to Him. He is where He always has been, reaching into the deep and pulling out into life. No one else can do it, and He does it to perfection. Tailoring each rescue to the shape, the state of their body… He doesn’t need my help, and I’m sure sometimes I only make things worse… I could just sit near Him. Just watch with awe. Just sing. He loves me there, He always loves. But every time I scooch up to sit there, He always invites me to join Him, to help. And my courage grows. The compassion He planted in me wells up. And sooner or later I find myself back at the water’s edge, wet feet, spotting some of the faces He sees – gasping, trying to breathe the air they can’t access, and asking the Rescuer to hold me tight as we reach in together.
One person at a time.
Considering Christ 
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