I spent last week ministering to the homeless in New York City. It was a sweet time but the hustle and bustle of the city still surprises me. Everyone’s in a hurry. Everyone’s busy with their super important agendas and their super private lives. No one looks you in the eye. And greetings of hello are not reciprocated. It’s kind of depressing. But this week, I flew over the Big Apple to attend a conference and I was dazzled by the city from above. I couldn’t hear the blaring car horns or see the bumper to bumper traffic. Rather, the twinkling city resembled Christmas lights; headlights gleamed white and brake lights blazed red. From above, I couldn’t observe the crowded streets or catch the rude comments. I only heard the gentle hum of the plane as I viewed the glory of the night sky through my porthole window. Then a thought hit me: this is God’s view. He sits above it all. He’s not anxious. He’s not in a rush. He’s simply enjoying the beauty of HIS creation. It’s was a tender moment until a twinge of guilt gnawed at me. God’s perspective is nothing like mine. Some of my worst moments as a human happen when I attempt to get my kids out the door for school. I’m always in a rush. Always bickering with my children to get their shoes on. Always pushing people to hurry up. Always stressing to get all the things done while hurling stones at the most precious people in my life. I can’t count the number of times I’ve dropped my kids off at school with a snarky comment or an angry tone. “Hurry up! I’ve got to get to work on time! You’re gonna make me late, AGAIN!” (Mind you, I work at a church and I’m stressing about being late for morning prayer. ) If we’re honest, our hurried pace speaks less to our jam-packed schedule and more to our lack of trust in a God who sits outside of time and holds the world in his hands. God not in a rush. Why should we be? As the author John Mark Comer puts it: “Hurry kills relationships. Love takes time and hurry doesn’t have it. It kills joy, gratitude, appreciation; people in a rush don’t have time to enter the goodness of the moment.” So, my prayer for you today is this: May you slow down and simply enjoy the beauty of YOUR creation.

“There’s no heartbeat, ” the doctor explained. We had received this devastating news two weeks prior, but we hoped and prayed the machine was faulty or the baby’s heartbeat was too early to detect. So, we returned for another ultrasound, begging God for a miracle. But we didn’t get one. Grief is funny. One minute you think you’re fine and the next minute it sneaks up on you. One minute you’re laughing with friends at a restaurant and the next minute you’re in the bathroom stall drying your tears with cheap toilet paper. A family member asked me the other night if I was over my miscarriage. A miscarriage isn’t something you get over. It’s not a cold. It’s a child. It’s a future you envisioned. It’s a gift from God that almost happened. And I think that’s what makes it so hard—the almost part. The possibility was closer than my next breath. I don’t blame them. No one really knows what to say when someone suffers loss. They fumble over their words while we try to cover up our bullet holes with bandaids. The truth is, we hide our wounds because no matter how much someone loves you, they don’t really want to see them. They desperately want us to feel better. They want us to smile—to laugh and joke and act like everything is okay. But sometimes it’s not okay. Yet there is one person who actually wants to come close to our wounds. His name is Jesus. The Bible says that “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted; he rescues those crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18) The Message translation puts it this way: “If your heart is broken, you’ll find God right there; if you’re kicked in the gut, he’ll help you catch your breath.” The Hebrew word for God drawing near is karov , which means “close enough to touch.” In our pain, Jesus rushes to our aid. There is an intimacy with Jesus we can only experience in our brokenness. The Apostle Paul calls it “the fellowship of his suffering.” I’m not sure that’s a club I want a membership card to. But there is a depth of love we can’t comprehend unless we allow him access to our wounds so he can do what he does best. With a medic bag in hand, Jesus approaches. “ You don’t want to see this, Jesus. I’m a mess.” “ Yes, I do,” he insists as he pulls out the gauze. “You said you wanted to know me more.” “But I didn’t think it would hurt this much.” “I know, me neither.” Jesus whispers as his nail scarred hands wrap your wounds. We ask to be Jesus’ hands and feet, but we often forget what those hands and feet have gone through.