Sons on motorcycles are for following!
by Debi Irene Wahl
(Shoemakersville, PA, USA)
Sixty miles an hour we flew down the Schuylkill Express nearing the exit for Route 1. I followed.
I hate to follow! Especially when the person I am trying desperately to stay directly behind and keep a safe distance from all the other crazy drivers on this merciless highway, is my son on his motorcycle.
Heading toward our destination, his first apartment and solo living arrangements, didn't make matters any better.
Most of the ride I sat with tissue box close to my side, ready to supply me with the scented, lotioned squares that I continually forgot not to wipe my tear-stained glasses with.
Now I was driving half blinded by sun glare and sun lotion.
The entire 1 1/2 hours I prayed. "Dear God, protect him and guide him. And help me to let go and let You do what needs to be done to bring this boy to You. Amen."
How many times, moms, have we had to learn to let go and let God? If you are like me, it's a daily battle between my Walton's complex (wanting to fix everything) and my understanding of God's direct word.
It reminds me of another mother, following her son. Picture with me....
The woman followed, as closely as the hardened soldiers permitted, stifling cries each time her first-born was prodded by the sharp tips of the bloodied swords. Unnoticed, her headdress slipped from her hair, kicked aside by the streaming crowd of gawkers who couldn't wait to witness the executions and pushed behind her.
Praying - aching, heartrending whispers to an Unseen Listener. She questioned, "Almighty One, please deliver Him. Why would you give Him to us, if You were only going to let Him be stolen away by this evil? I cannot understand? WHY!"
In her distress, her last plea came through stiff lips, causing her heart to beat erratically in her chest. Certain she was going to be overcome by the heat, heart palpitations and mind-altering agony as she watched her first-born's hands and ankles yanked unto the wood that He had carried up the long, rough walk to the crest of the hill. She prayed for death... her own. "Almighty One, let me die first. Let me not see what He must go through... I beg You!"
The loud pounding of metal upon metal, crunching bones, cries from Yeshua, seemed to be magnified in her head, echoing over and over even after the dastardly deed was done and the vehicle of death was slapped into the predug holes in the ground.
The dismal setting, soldiers laughing, betting over His death, the other two prisoners verbally sparring in their own private agony of hell. The casual, "party" atmosphere of the crowd, added to her intense pain.
"What good can come of this!" She wept openly now. Dirt, tears and mucus competing for a place on her worn face.
John put an arm around her and finally He looked directly at her, smiling that smile he had used since he was but a boy in his father's carpenter shop. That smile that said...
"I love you." His beautiful brown eyes gazed kindly upon her. Her tears poured fresh. She wondered how many tears one body can possibly produce. And then Yeshua spoke.
"Woman, behold thy son...son behold thy mother." And He smiled again, a sincere, loving smile before His face broke out in sweat, his features twisted as His body slipped further down the instrument of torture, the skin, bones and sinew losing their hold around the long, metal nails.
So long...so soon..."It is FINISHED!"
From this point in scripture, God began to move His mighty plan into speed mode. So much happened in the next few days, weeks and years as the church embraced the Living Christ and Christians began to serve Yeshua.
And so I will follow...The SON as I follow my son and daughters...I will pray without ceasing. I do not need to know how long...how soon... I only need to know, "...Whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day." 2 Timothy 1:12
