It's the story of ten men who wanted pity and got a miracle instead. And it's the story of me.
I know my leprous spots. I know them well, the loss of feeling, the flesh rubbed raw, the broken parts of me that I want to hide and can't.
All I want is a little pity and He gives a miracle instead.
Last night I remember the ten lepers who were healed and the one who comes back and I want so desperately to be the one who comes back. I want to not forget what He has done and what I could not. But forgetting is what I do well and here is why:
I asked for pity, received a miracle, and am desperately afraid that the miracle was a one time occurrence, so I run. Because what if He sees that He has healed me? What if He takes it back? What if I stumble on this and fall on this and lose this, and He takes back the miracle?
I run instead. Grab my grace, gather my wits and run.
This week I am exercising gratefulness. Because to return to the miracle worker is humbling, to return is to submit that there might be more brokenness to be healed, to return is to say to Him "There is more of me that can't reach You."
Last night our church gathered for the first night in a series of five nights of prayer and praise. I opened my eyes during one song, looked across the room at arms spread wide, voices ringing out, heads thrown back, and I heard the sound of gratefulness.
Gratefulness that says "I was looking for pity and got life instead."