It is a swelteringly hot summer’s day, and I am standing barefoot beneath a huge apple tree, dappled light filtering through its branches, creating beautiful patterns on the lawn beneath my feet. My friends are hosting a small family-friendly worship ‘festival’ in their large back garden, which looks out across wide open fields, where the crops have clearly been recently harvested .
At the far end of the garden is an open-sided white marquee, where a band of musicians are playing on a small stage, in front of a small group of people, many with their arms raised high in praise and worship. At the other end, little children are gleefully throwing themselves down a makeshift waterslide, comprising black plastic sheeting balanced on a gentle grassy slope, heading downhill from the patio by the house.
Scattered around the edges, people are sitting in twos and threes, attempting to grab whatever shade the shrubs and trees are able to offer. Picnics are spread out on rugs, and there is a steady stream of conversation.
As I take in the scene, two woman approach me, the older one leading the younger. Our hosts, they tell me, have pointed them in my direction.
“How can I help you?” I ask, and a sad story unravels, as the younger woman proceeds to pour out her heart …
A story of bottled up grief from the Covid pandemic, following the untimely death of her mum. A story of a family left devastated by their bereavement. A story of profound loss, compounded by the Covid restrictions, which prevented them from gathering together to say any proper goodbyes. A story of faith being battered because of it, and an ongoing wondering as to where God was and is …
***
As she is speaking, I can feel a surge of courage and compassion rising up within me in parallel – and tears start to prick the backs of my eyes.
“Please can I pray for you?” I say, and she nods.
Aware of her intense stare, standing at close proximity, I close my eyes and pray, softly, under my breath, using a heavenly language.
Almost immediately, a scene unfolds in my mind’s eye. It’s a scene in which Jesus is standing, carrying a woman in his arms. Her face is buried into his shoulder, and he is weeping, his tears falling onto her hair. It reminds me of John 11:35, “Jesus wept” *. It also reminds me of the beautiful painting, ‘Prodigal Daughter‘, by Charlie Mackesy**.
“Who is she?” I ask God.
“It’s her mum,” comes his reply. “She came home. Just in time.”
I open my eyes to look at the young woman, whose gaze is still fixed on my face.
“Was your mum a believer?” I ask her.
“She used to be,” comes the young woman’s reply. Then, quizzically, “Why are you asking?”
I explain to her the scene that I have seen unfolding in my mind’s eye. As soon as I do so, she starts to cry, all of us aware of its meaning.
Her companion delves into the depths of her handbag, pulls out a pack of tissues and tentatively offers one to the weeping woman.
“Can I give you a hug?” I ask.
“Yes please,” she replies.
As I hold her, I pray. I thank Jesus for her and her mum. I thank him that he was holding her mum, carrying her, weeping over her, as she died. I thank him for showing us how she had returned ‘home’ to him before her death. And then I pray for the weeping woman in my arms, asking that my hug would be to her as if she were being hugged by Jesus.
Releasing her gently, she dabs her eyes with the tissues that she’s clutching in her hand, and explains how the picture God gave me has ministered to her.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Thank Jesus,” I respond.
***
Do you have someone in your life who has walked away from Jesus? If this is you, how could this little ‘light through the cracks‘ story encourage you to keep persevering in praying for them?
Or were you one of those who lost a loved one during the Covid pandemic, when the Covid restrictions meant you couldn’t say proper goodbyes? If this is you, why don’t you invite Jesus to show you where he was at that time? Pause for a moment to let him show you.
As ever, you are welcome to leave constructive comments below.
***
* See my blog, ‘Where is God in our grief?‘ for a ‘thought for the month‘ about this verse.
** On the painting, ‘Prodigal Daughter‘, by Charlie Mackesy, are the words: ‘This is the story of the prodigal daughter. It should really be called the running Father, who waited every day for his girl to come home – the daughter who had rejected him so badly . But when he saw her from a long way off, he ran to her and hugged her and kissed her.’
2 Comments
I have a story of a godly hug!
After my father died, I really missed his big hugs. One Sunday evening, after a church service, the guest speaker invited us to for prayer ministry. Though younger than my father, he represented the same generation and, after he had prayed for me, he offered a hug. His body shape was identical to my father’s.
I felt absolutely this was a hug from God saying: “You have lost your earthly father; but I am your heavenly father and I will never leave you. ” Your image of the prodigal daughter / son really captures that sense of being completely held in love. Thank you.
Thank you Andy! This is such a beautiful story!