“Drink the medicine, dammit.”
Suspended in mid-air, a spoonful of orange sticky liquid reached, beckoned, and pleaded for the boy to open his mouth.
“Just open your mouth.”
He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He insisted he couldn’t—and never would.
“Drink it”, I would say. “Take it. It’s for your own good.”
How can a sick boy resist a cure? How can this child sputtering through thick coughs and a drippy nose say no to healing?
Maybe it was my approach.
The more I came close to him the further he backs away from me. The more he backs away the louder my voice gets.
“Drink the medicine, dammit.”
Yeah, maybe it was my approach.
Nevertheless, healing is in the boy’s grasp and he dares to say no and never. My anger rises at the absurdity of it all. I send threats like cannon balls and before he knows it his whole life is doomed and pointless because he won’t take the orange sticky medicine. The boy is in tears and swears on his life he will never ever take it.
Healing is here. He need only reach out, or simply come close, open his mouth—and drink it.
But he refuses.
And I am beside myself.
And somehow this scenario feels strangely familiar.
There He is standing across from me extending a spoon filled with the thick ooze of forgiveness and grace.
“Just open your mouth”
I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I insisted I couldn’t—and never would.
“Drink it”, He would say. “Take it. It’s for your own good.”
How many times has my sick soul refused the healing my God can give? How many times have I backed away from Him only to act out and become sicker still? How many times did my choice infect my soul, my life, my everything?
More times than I can count.
The boy retreats to his bed for a sleepless night. He coughs and sneezes throughout the night. There is no rest for his body. And no cure he allows.
I wake to his coughs digging deeper into his chest. It is 4:30AM. I come to his room where he has fallen in and out of sleep during the dark night. For there is no rest to the one who battles pride—I know this well.
Standing near the boy I tenderly brush his hair off his face.
“I can help you, Son? Are you ready for my help?”
His coughs come before words and his voice is muffled through congestion. He sheepishly nods and utters a “yes”.
The boy has relented and surrendered his pride for the sake of healing. He yields and learns to trust the one who knows and loves him best.
The dark night of the soul left me weary and tired. For I know well there is no rest when battling my pride. Overwhelmed by my soul sickness He came to me in my brokenness.
“I can help you, Daughter? Are you ready for My help?”
And I don’t know how it happened—but I yielded to the One who knows and loves me best.
Maybe it was His approach.
His eyes filled with love and His words full of hope. In spite of me, He never withheld His goodness from me. And somehow in the midst of my refusing and backing away from Him—I was drawing near.
Drink the medicine, Beloved.
Yeah, it was definitely His approach.
On the journey with you,