The summer I was six, my family went to Cedar Campus Family Camp for a week. The Week of Bloody Knees for me. I remember stumbling along the gravel roads, clinging to my dad's hand. Gravel roads are a nightmare for clumsy girls and it didn't help that my dad's only mode of transportation is the power walk. I kept tripping. A lot. Every time, my dad would lift me up, set me on a rock, and wrap my knees in red medical tape. When my tripping and flailing were uncontrollable, he carried me.
This reminds me of what it's like to "walk" with God. It's no stroll through the garden. His strides are long and smooth over rough roads, while we're six years old, struggling along, falling constantly, and sometimes bruised in places we don't remember bumping.We will fall. We'll always fall, but He will always pick us up, clean our wounds, and bandage our knees. He'll even carry us.
My dad is a great dad. I wish he could be everyone's father; he's that wonderful. He isn't perfect, but that's okay because I have two fathers. One of them is perfect and can be everyone's father.
The road is harsh and your legs will never be long enough to keep up, but He has your hand. And when it's more than you can handle, God breaks out the piggy back.
"The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged." Deuteronomy 31:8
