Arms of Warm Water

The Indiana winters are still. The snowflakes have blown around the streetlights every night for the past two weeks, but banks and drifts have not significantly increased. School days are rarely canceled on our well shoveled streets. Winter just falls and sits here for a while.

Our house stays a cozy 63 degrees during the winter. Before our son was born, we would keep the temperature at 60 or so, perfect weather for snuggling up close and keeping each other warm. I loved to lay my head in my wife's lap or relax with her gentle sleeping on my shoulder. I wrote a poem back then called "With Her Head on My Shoulder..."

Splitting the living air, this silence that grows;
The rumbled breath of the plow through the snow,
The rustling breeze of the cars and their beams,
The name of the Lord on your lips as you sleep.

Speak out of the space that surrounds my time,
As salvation and righteousness mingle inside,
The movements of spirit are grounded in place,
Those high and holy and those low and base.

Winter is a time for simplicity it seems. With snow falling, snow plows roaming the streets, darkness falling over the city in the early evening, my attention can easily be turned to the most important things: my son hunched over his wooden train tracks or my wife taking a Sabbath's snooze on the couch. As we spent the evening together, there is a warmth of company, of family, that winter chills and icy precipitation simply cannot break through.

Right before bedtime, I wrapped my arms around Gideon and read him a story. More like 15 stories. We read Cat in the Hat, Snowy Day, Even Firefighters Hug Their Moms, and on and on. Gideon pointed out with exuberance whenever he saw golf clubs, or a tennis racquet, or a train; one finger pinched by his thumb rapidly extending to the pages. "Oh, dere it is," he would say as he found what he was looking for. But my favorite thing about reading to him is holding him. He doesn't squirm, doesn't kick, doesn't fuss to be still, he just sits with his head on my chest, with wide eyes looking at the pictures, listening to his daddy's voice.

My image of God right now has really been shaped by the metaphor of a fatherhood. A couple of nights ago, I read the story of the prodigal son. What an image of God! Often, we are so familiar with the stories of Scripture that they are never considered at an emotional level. But God charging out to wrap his arms around a penitent son, and reading this right near Ash Wednesday? It registered with me emotionally.

In this cold of winter, I want to feel God's arms wrapped around me. We used to sing a song at River Oaks, with the youth group, that went like this:

"Take me to that place, Lord,
to that secret place where
I can be with You,
You can make me like You.
Wrap me in Your arms, Lord,
wrap me in Your arms.
Wrap me in Your arms."

I wanted to feel the love, the arms, of the Father in a physical way. And the other day, I found my secret place. The shower. It has always been a place where I've talked to God. Quiet, secluded, no external distractions. Many people sing in the shower, I pray. But the other day, I just contemplated in silence.

The warm water washed the chill of my skin, the shower began to fill up with steam, and I thought about how the heat had enveloped me. Then I thought, these are my Father's arms.
This is the warmth of embrace as we run back to Him and He comes running out to us. This is the release of tension when He declares us forgiven, and pulls us tight to his chest. This spray upon my head is his fingers, rustling my hair and telling me, "I love you."

I turned my face into the warm flow. I let it pound across my chest and then my back. I could not help but smile in the knowledge that my Father was smiling in embrace of me.