That God's hand holds me has been a home in my thoughts for some time now. Even in those dusty times when I feel like latrine leftovers and all the gloss is gone from my eyes, God holds me. When all is good, He holds me. When I think I know, He knows. When I try to do, He does. When my eyes give out for searching, He sees.
There is yet to be in my life a place where His presence has not found me and shown me love, grace and hope. It leaves me feeling foolish when I feel strong and rejoicing when I am convinced of my weakness. He is a river which moves me, and the current ever draws whether I float, swim or cling.
How can I not be undone by a love that is so persistently pervasive and persevering? How can I not be humbled by such overcoming holiness?
In fact, I remember a time when I was praying and the Lord showed me that as I pled the blood of Jesus I was taking the holiest of sacrifices and sprinkling it on all things defiled. Yet He was pleased. His joy in saving overcoming the very idea of pride. The humilty of God astounds me, even as the majesty of His power baffles.
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