I didn't just fall before him.
I flung myself at his feet, landed awkwardly, face uncomfortably close to all the dirt.
And we talk about it now, me sitting on a very squishy couch, listening to John's Australian accent, wrapped in the warm smell of coffee.
Isn't that how it works -- you don't really choose to fall, you have no option but to throw yourself at His feet and trust Him?
I hadn't thought about it that way before.
And I say, I wouldn't have done this two years ago; I had to learn to trust you. He nods. I had to learn that this was a safe space, that all the talk of listening is much more than just talk. We acted out the story of Mark 5, of Jairus coming to Jesus about his daughter and of the other daughter who came to Jesus for healing, throwing herself in desperation at His feet. This was my third time to do it, and this was the year that I said, I want to be the woman. I'm learning my need to throw myself at the feet of Jesus.
In our debrief right after the story this year, John was asking us about why Jesus called the woman back and didn't just let her sneak off with her healing as she wanted to. Someone said, Because He was renaming her, making her a daughter rather than an outcast.
Sure, said John. But He could have just yelled after her: Hey Daughter! You were healed on account of your great faith! Go in peace! Why didn't He?
Someone else ventures an answer. Maybe she wouldn't have listened. Unless He made her stop.
Those words cut deep into my heart, because that is me. I don't listen nearly well enough to Him calling me Daughter until He makes me stop.
The falling at His feet, misjudging distance and tripping ungracefully into a heap on the floor, vulnerable and exposed, is not what I would choose left to myself. But He knows what I need, and calls me back to listen to Him, to receive more healing and gracious goodness than I would have gotten from Him on my own.
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