I Am Rescued

Because he loves me . . . I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.

—Psalm 91:14

In a crowd of forty thousand strangers, my five-year-old son disappeared. One moment, he was holding my hand. The next moment, he was gone.

Minutes before, I’d crossed the finish line of my first 10K race. I’d long dreamed of becoming a true runner, otherwise known as someone able to move faster than a crawl without passing out. So as a New Year’s resolution, I’d set my sights on a worthy goal: the Bolder Boulder. One of the most famous 10K races in the United States. Held every year on Memorial Day in Boulder, Colorado. I committed to run the entire course.

Thus began my training, otherwise known as self-torture. For months I agonized, pushing myself to go a little farther, a little faster. Eventually, I picked up the pace enough that passersby might have called that thing I was doing a slow jog. All the while, I never took my eyes off my Memorial Day goal.

Only the experience didn’t turn out quite like I thought it would. Yes, I ran the entire Bolder Boulder. A total of 6.2 miles in sixty-two minutes. For a first race, I couldn’t have been more pleased.

But my feeling of accomplishment vanished as quickly as my son did. Within moments of my crossing the finish line to the welcoming faces of my family, my youngest son let go of my hand. And the sweetness of the moment got swallowed up by his disappearance.

Almost every parent I know has experienced a moment similar to this one. They vanish so quickly, like water slipping through our palms, and we’re left standing alone in the shopping mall or grocery store or parking lot, realizing how easily bliss can be swallowed up by fear.

The following fifteen minutes were some of the longest of my life. My husband and I instinctively split up, screaming our son’s name into the churning mass of finishers and well-wishers. An impossible task. How were we to find a five-year-old in such a sea of humanity? How would our voices be heard among thousands of others?

By some miracle, we found him. Twenty or thirty yards away, surrounded by strangers, oblivious to both the danger and the distance.

But I knew. As I exhaled in relief, I contemplated, with trembling, how differently it could’ve turned out. In all, the rescue took fifteen minutes. Yet I would have searched for days and weeks, months and years if necessary. No amount of time would have been too great.

Luke 15 records three short stories that remind me a lot of that day. Jesus tells each story in response to the grumbling religious leaders who turned their noses up at the kind of company He kept. Sinners and criminals and reprobates. People who were no doubt spiritually lost. Individuals who didn’t follow all the rules. They were like children. Prone to trouble. Destined to wander.

The first story features a shepherd and his wandering sheep. Stating the obvious, Jesus asks, “Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it?” (Luke 15:4).

The second scene is more intimate, more desperate. After saving up ten silver coins, a woman notices she’s lost one. This is 10 percent of her savings, a sizable chunk of her livelihood now gone. She tears her house apart to find it, turning over couch cushions and digging through the washing machine until—at last!—she finds her missing coin. Just as in the case of the shepherd, she invites her friends and throws a party.

The final story is far more emotional than the other two, like the slow but certain crescendo of a symphony nearing its culmination.

A father has two sons. The older is well behaved, follows the rules, and stays close to home. The younger is impetuous, selfish, and immature. He can’t see beyond dollar signs and freedom. So he asks for an early inheritance and takes off for parties and personal satisfaction.

This third story is often named the parable of the lost son. But if you look closely, the story is more about the heart of the father than the habits of his boys. In the cases of both the wayward son and the stay-at-home son, the father does all he can to hold his children close. He knows an important truth: You don’t have to run away to be lost. The younger son eventually returns home, broken and contrite. And yet the older son—the one who obeyed the rules—still remains distant from the true heart of the father.

Even so. Even with a younger son who blew his father’s money and an older son who scorned his father’s grace, the father makes it clear he’s all about the rescue.

Like an anxious mama who would give her last breath to find a little boy who let go of her hand.

Now let’s get personal. Have you ever let go of the Father’s hand? Of course you have. So have I. Probably far more than once this past week. Sometimes our wandering looks like rebellion and rejection of everything we know to be right and good. A lie. A betrayal. An affair.

Most of the time, however, our wandering is far less plain. Self-righteousness. Unforgiveness. Apathy. Pride. Like the older son in comparison to the younger, these offenses may appear more acceptable. But the resulting distance is the same: We slip our hand out of the Father’s and attempt to make our way on our own.

But here’s the good news, both in our intentional wanderings and our unintentional ones. We have a Father who will turn His house upside down to bring us back to Him. A sheep and a coin have nothing on a beloved child. He will rescue you, and He’ll do it with more grace and love than you’ve ever known.

He has given His life to the cause of rescue. Hands and feet nailed to a cross so we won’t fear slipping from His grasp. Ever.

This is the most profound spiritual truth I know: That even when we’re most sure that love can’t conquer all, it seems to anyway. It goes down into the rat hole with us, in the guise of our friends, and there it swells and comforts. It gives us second winds, third winds, hundredth winds.

—ANNE LAMOTT, TRAVELING MERCIES