There’s something poignant about walking home slowly in the rain while numbing your mouth with a mango popsicle. I think experiences like that might be healing for the soul or something.
Healing for the soul because not a single one is whole. And we’re all just groping around, trying to find things to shove in there to make it better. He said, “Come unto me, all who are weary, and I will give you rest,” but we’re pretty sure that we’re not the weary ones. That’s probably someone else because we might have it together just a little bit more than your average person, even if we feel a little run-down and worn all the time.
When they sing that all the poor and powerless and all the lost and lonely will know God, we think about how great it is that those poor unfortunate souls find Jesus. We are those souls. We’re the souls who are ripped and torn, even if we don’t know how we got that way. Even if our story doesn’t indicate how we ended up broken, we got there somehow.
So those nights where Jesus walks with you through a beautiful rainstorm and puts a healing hand on your soul – not with words or with power but with tender gentleness – must happen. It’s not just for the people who know they’re broken.
Or maybe it is.
Maybe we have to become them or realize that we already are them. Maybe He heals us when we realize that we weren’t whole to start with. Maybe when we cast down all of our walls and our presuppositions about who needs Jesus, He meets us there and wraps our hearts in His holy bandages.
Not just once, but over and over again, because the hurts and the sins and the brokenness aren’t a one-time deal.
Thunder crashes, and the lightning illuminates a holy moment.