READ: PSALM 139:7-12; LUKE 15:1-7; ROMANS 8:31-39

I spread mortar on the next brick. The thick sludge looks like grey toothpaste as I smother it on the porous red block. I set the brick firmly on top of the others and reach impatiently for the next one, scoop another trowel-full of mortar and slap it down. Another brick, and another, and another.

The wall is tall enough, and now I’m making it thicker. I lost track of how many layers of bricks I’ve put up. It doesn’t matter.

I don’t bother to focus my eyes on anything. I just keep going. I don’t feel anything. I just keep going. I’ve gotten pretty good at not feeling. It takes practice, but it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. Detach. Disengage. Just keep going.

As I place the next brick, the wall thumps. Thumps? I pause with my hand midair. I listen. The wall thumps again. And again. And again. It’s getting louder. And suddenly I realize—something’s trying to get in.

I work quickly, my hands trying to keep pace with my racing pulse. I grab more mortar, more bricks, and focus on adding more layers to the spot where I hear the thumping. I can feel the wall shaking now. Just a little. But the pounding is getting stronger with every blow.

I’m working furiously now, trying to build the wall faster than it can be broken down. I have to keep myself away from what’s on the other side. Who’s on the other side. Detach. Disengage. Just keep going. What’s on the other side is the stuff of childish hopes. I won’t be a fool. I won’t let myself get drawn in—again. I used to think everything that was good and right and beautiful was possible and real. But now I’ve grown up. I know the truth. Don’t let yourself hope. Don’t let yourself feel. Don’t be tricked into trusting. Even the light casts shadows.

But then, I hear a crack. I look to my right, and suddenly the newest layer of bricks bursts open. And I see a hand. Reaching for me. Oh, that hand! It’s Him—it’s really Him! I grasp His hand, and every feeling I haven’t felt bursts open in sobs of pain and relief.

Jesus, my Jesus. My only Jesus. They told me you weren’t as good as I thought You were. They hurt my friends. They hurt me. They told me that’s what You wanted. They told me I didn’t really know You. And after a while, it hurt too much to hope.

I cling to His hand, His warm, strong hand. And He holds on to me. “I’m here. I will always come for you. Always.”

My sob catches in my throat, and all I can do is nod. I have so many tears left to cry, and yet, I can feel myself beginning to hope again. Then He says gently, “I’m not going anywhere. Now, how about I take down the rest of this wall?” • Hannah Howe

• Have you experienced things that made you feel like Jesus wasn’t as good as you hoped He was? Maybe you’ve seen a devastating natural disaster, or lost someone you love, or maybe people have said or done wrong things—whether people in the church or outside the church—that have hurt you or people you care about. Consider taking a moment to ask Jesus to help you notice how He is even now pursuing you with love.

• Jesus invites us to tell Him about all the hurtful, confusing, and infuriating things we encounter in this broken world—and He also provides trustworthy Christians in our lives who can help us process what we’ve experienced and get out of unsafe situations if needed. God sees how messed up things are, and He grieves all the world’s brokenness far more deeply than we do. He knows how bad our sin is, yet He wants to forgive and restore us. He longs to enfold us in His arms and bring healing to our hurting places. That’s the kind of love He has for us. That’s why He went to the cross and rose from the grave for us. He came “to seek and to save the lost” (Luke 19:10)...