"Back more, Daddy," she stands and dares.
I dramatically comply, confessing admiration for her courage. After two giant steps I stop. "More?" I ask.
"Yes!" Sara squeals, hopping on the bed.
With each step she laughs and claps and motions for more. When I'm on the other side of the canyon, when I'm beyond reach of mortal man, when I am a tiny figure on the horizon, she stops me. "There, stop there."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," she shouts. I extend my arms. Once again she crouches, then springs. Superman without cape. Skydiver without chute. Only her heart flies higher than her body. In the airborne instant her only hope is her father. If he proves weal, she'll fall. If he proves cruel, she'll crash. If he proves forgetful, she'll tumble on the hard floor.
But such fear she does not know, for her father she does. She trusts him. Four years under the same roof have convinced her he is reliable. He is not superhuman, but he is strong. He is not holy, but he is good. He's not brilliant, but he doesn't have to be to remember to catch his child when she jumps.
And so she flies.
And so she soars.
And so he catches her and the two rejoice at the wedding of her trust and his faithfulness.
***
I sit a few feet from a man on death row. Jewish by birth. Tentmaker by trade. Apostle by calling. His days are marked. I'm curious about what bolsters this man as he nears his execution. So I ask some questions.
Do you have family, Paul? I have none.
What about your health? My body is beaten and tired.
What do you own? I have my parchments. My pen. A cloak.
And your reputation? Well, its not much. I'm a heretic to some, a maverick to others.
Do you have friends? I do, but even some of them have turned back.
Any awards? Not on earth.
Then what do you have, Paul? No belongings. No family. Criticized by some. Mocked by others. What do you have, Paul? What do you have that matters?
I sit back quietly and watch. Paul rolls his hand into a fist. He looks at it. I look at it. What is he holding? What does he have?
He extends his hand so I can see. As I lean forward, he opens his fingers. I peer at his palm. It's empty.
I have my faith. It's all I have. But it's all I need. I have kept the faith.
Paul leans back against the wall of his cell and smiles. And I lean back against another and stare into the face of a man who has learned that there is more to life than meets the eye.
For that's what faith is. Faith is trusting what the eye can't see.
Eyes see the prowling lion. Faith sees Daniel's angel.
Eyes see the storms. Faith sees Noah's rainbow.
Eyes see giants. Faith sees Canaan.
Your eyes see your faults. Your faith sees your Savior.
Your eyes see your guilt. Your faith sees his blood.
Your eyes see your grave. Your faith sees a city whose builder and maker is God.
Your eyes look in the mirror and see a sinner, a failure, a promise-breaker. But by faith you look in the mirror and see a robed prodigal bearing the ring of grace on your finger and the kiss of your Father on your face.
"God's power is very great for those who believe," Paul taught.
"That power is the same as the great strength God used to raise Christ from the dead" (Ephesian 1:19-20)
Next time you wonder if God can catch you, read that verse. The very arms that defeated death are the arms awaiting you.
And next time you wonder if you will survive the jump, think of Sara and me. If a flesh-and-bone-headed dad like me can catch his child, don't you think your eternal Father can catch you?
-Max Lucado
(When God Whispers Your Name)
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