I sat with two other people, back straight, feet planted firmly on the floor,
and eyes closed, listening.
Alan said to imagine the gaze of God upon us.
So I did.
Although he said to sense the warmth of the light of God,
instead of sunshine,
what I felt was like water.
I remembered my little girl as a baby, loving her bath,
gazing into my face as she splashed and wriggled in the water.
The most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
(Is this how God sees me?! THAT much love?)
And the day - maybe she'd been splashed -
she decided that wet hair was for her no more.
No matter how I coaxed, reassured, or carried on regardless,
that trusting gaze was lost, and the fun turned into a nightmare.
My delight in her now mixes with fury.
She makes herself so miserable, and for what?
(Is this anything like the "wrath" of God?)
So angry with her for pointlessly refusing
the love and joy and peace that is here for her,
if only she would choose trust, rather than her own way.
She's sleeping now, at last.
Finally given in to her body's clamouring for rest.
God's grace is greater even than
her capacity for fighting sleep - and that's saying something!
And Alan read of the man covered in leprosy, who came to Jesus,
threw himself down in front of him and said,
"Lord, if you want to, you can make me clean."
And Jesus touched the leper... and said,
"I do want to."
And the man was cleansed.
Me too, it seems!