K.J. and Libby were playing "the scare game" this evening as I studied for diagnostic exams on the front porch. Libby had already made my heart stop once by popping out of the front door with a squeal--right in the middle of the Renaissance. Now it was K.J.'s turn. I was vaguely aware that he was behind me, near the swing set. I stealthily looked over my shoulder and saw that he was stooping over something at the foot of the green slide. I was relieved to see that his attention was now devoted to something other than exploiting my raw nerves.
A few moments later I heard the wounded exclamation, "A fire ant bit me!" I turned to see his bewildered face looking up from the perpetually wet spot at the foot of the slide. "And it bit me while I was saving it from a puddle!" (I'm trying my best to do justice to his theatrical inflections.) "I was very gentle! I picked it up like this"--he dipped his hand into the puddle--"and put it down softly. And it bit me!"
I didn't say so, but I couldn't help thinking: What a picture of God's rescue of my own soul--and K.J.'s. Only He stooped much lower and the sting of His devotion was much more bitter. At the greatest cost to Himself He picked up an ungrateful, unrepentant sinner, drank down her pain and sin, to redeem and love and transform and breathe life into her brokenness. It's probably the first time I've been thankful for fire ants.
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