The Lord is like a father to his children, tender and compassionate to those who fear him. For he knows how weak we are; he remembers we are only dust. Psalm 103:13, 14
I posted those verses, as well as the ones right before them, last Saturday. It’s not just a re-run… These verses have been in my head all. week. long.
And it was long. Fighting colds. Late nights. Sleep disturbances. Early mornings. Cranky children. Cranky Mama. Cold, cold weather.
But things could have been so much worse. I could have been spat on, ridiculed, whipped, tortured, accused of things I didn’t do, forced to carry my own tool of execution all around our city in front of gawking rubber-neckers (that’s what we call shameless on-lookers around here), and slaughtered for crimes I didn’t commit.
I could have had a week like Jesus had once.
But I didn’t. And yet I moaned and griped and had such a hard time pulling myself out of the doldrums. Over and over I was reminded how compassionate God is toward me, how He spares me grief and suffering, protecting me in ways I may never even know.
He remembers my frame because He made it. He formed me and has compassion on me as His child.
Going in to Sunday worship, that’s what I want to remember: The picture of Jesus carrying my sins to the cross, disposing of them through His death, and rising in power to be the hope of the world. “I CAN do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:13)
Jesus is Compassion’s face.