I have a lot of relatives and friends that I could probably identify with my eyes closed. They wouldn't have to say a word, but if they came in the room - I would know it.
They have a smell.
I have an Aunt Betty who lives up to her name. Her full name is Betty Crocker. Not the Betty Crocker, but she's a wonderful cook just the same. I know she cooks a lot and maybe she uses a lot of vanilla. When I hug her I feel like fresh summer days, lemonade and warm baked pies cooling on the window sill.
My Grandmother Craft had a distinct smell. She smelled like old leather. The only leather thing she had was her Bible. Since she was an evangelist and built six churches, I know she read her Bible every day.
My Dad smelled like a bold scented cologne. I don't remember the name. Whenever I was sick or frustrated with the world, he would pick me up and hug me. For hours after he was gone I could smell his cologne and I was comforted.
There's several stories circulating the web about children reaching out for Jesus in difficult times. One story was about a small child that wasn't expected to live. She was in intensive care for months. Miraculously she recovered. Several years later she was sitting at her brother's baseball game. A fresh breeze brushed over them bringing scents of flowers and the freshness that announced rain was on it's way. The little girl grabbed at her mother's sleeve. "It's him."
"Don't you smell that? It's the smell of Jesus. When I was so sick he held me and that's what he smells like."
Max Lucado tells the story of a small missionary child being rushed to the hospital. Laying on the front seat of the car with his head in his mother's lap, he would raise his hand toward the sky. His mother gently took it and returned it to his chest. Just a few moments and he raised his hand again, this time when his mother reached for it - he fought her.
With concern for his well being she softly whispered. "It's okay darling. We are getting you to the doctor as soon as possible." Again he fought her hand and in his weak voice whispered.
"It's him....I want to hold his hand."
"Jesus. I need to hold his hand."
How wonderful that small children and often those that are dying can remind us that we are not alone. There are others watching - especially Jesus.
When I'm hurt I often look out my sliding glass door at the stars above. Everyone wants to see God as living in a far away unreachable place. They point and say, "He's up there somewhere in the sky." I only smile at the stars because I know different.
Walking around us.
Holding out his hands.
And whispering in our ears.
Jamie is going to have major surgery tomorrow. Please pray for him. He is alive and well and we are so grateful. But his hand will need a pin to hold the pinky bone in place while it heals. And his tibia will need a metal plate, screws and possibly a bone graft. He will have 3-6 months of recovery time. He's a good man, a good Christian and an honest business man.
Tomorrow I will be sitting in the waiting room with Ken and Ron. At some point I will cross my arms around my chest, close my eyes and take a deep breath. It is at that moment that I hope Jesus and his angels will rush away from me and into the surgery room. They will watch and carefully guide each movement.
When they rush to Jamie's side, the breath I take will fill my lungs with a deep fresh aroma of their scent. The smell of a loving and compassionate savior.
Close your eyes. No matter what your pain let your senses reveal the sweetness of a loving God.
God loves you,