My Jesus, I love you — beginnings and roads
My Jesus, I love you.
You are the one who showed me I was lost. No one was more surprised than me!
I didn’t know I was lost. It’s hard for me to imagine now. Nor did I know you could be my most intimate friend. But one November evening–we both remember it well–you washed away my sins and began to live in me. I couldn’t help but be amazed! How could that be? I was just me. But you were the Creator of the world and all the stars above my head. Why did you even bother with me?
I could not have ever imagined the wonder of fellowshipping with you. You became my closest friend. My dearest friend. And, at times, my only friend.
There were roads winding through the red and gold hills of autumn in Pennsylvania. And the road that slanted to the Kidron below the Eastern Gate in Jerusalem, where trucks and touring buses searched for a lower gear. Some roads looked down on waves scrambling up the banks of the Pacific like castaways from a sunken ship. You and I also watched waves roll in on St. Andrews North Sea coast and Copacabana Beach. And what a sight it was, when we observed your Magnificent Frigatebirds glide above the ocean in Mexico! Not to mention the times without number, when we watched canyons in western Montana swallow the sun. And remember how, later, we would watch the sky lower its stars over their peaks? I know you do. Neither you nor I can forget that.
We were walking on a road then, too.
My Jesus, I love you — piers, conversations, and tears
At times we sat on the end of a pier in Lakeside Montana, and Angoon Alaska where we had to persuade an old raven to move over. Make room on the pier, old coal-feathered friend. Or, we walked down quiet streets, in small towns emerging with billboards along highways that crisscross America. But do you remember when we walked below a golden moon in upstate New York? (At least that’s how I recall it when I look back.) Of course, you do. Together, we were bearing my broken heart down a country road.
But the times and places are more than I can remember.
I always longed for your fellowship. Likewise, you enjoyed mine.
You remember the conversations, don’t you? You will never forget them. I probably wouldn’t forget them either, if I was talking to someone like me. Yet I have probably forgotten most of them.
You saw all the tears. And you kept them in a bottle. That’s what your Word says. (But how big can a bottle be?) So, that means you felt them too, didn’t you? Somehow, they were dear to you. I must say. You and I went down many roads, walking on tears from my eyes. Though most of them fell on the end of a bed, late at night, while I knelt before you. I called upon you so many times, didn’t I? Too many for me to count. But you always heard me. That is one of the reasons I always longed to see you when I prayed. I opened my heart to you. And you saw all that was there. . . The sadness, the fears, the weakness.
Thank you for caring. Jesus, I love you.
Answers to prayer
And, as with the times and places we shared, your answers to prayer are more than I can remember.
And they are more than I can ever begin to count.
But here is one. (Looks like I’m beginning to count.)
It may seem simple. But it is very special to me. And I think it will bring a smile to your face. For, you know what I’m going to say. And what it means to me. . .
Home for Christmas
One night you put me on a crowded bus so I could be home for Christmas.
I was a young man traveling by bus from out east. I had to make a bus connection in the midwest to get home in time. And the depot where the connecting bus pulled in was filled with people who were as eager as I was to get on. But there wasn’t room on the bus for everyone. It was nearly full. . . A Christmas blues sort of thing. And so. Needless to say. No one was singing “I’ll be home for Christmas” in the face of that plight! It was more like, “maybe I’ll be home for New Year.”
Then someone squeezed me in at the last minute! It was kind of a surprise!
So I was the last one on, to the dismay of some people: those who were left behind, of course. No surprises there. But I had my blinders on! I had to ignore the pity I felt in my heart for the others. After all. There was no point in looking back at a bunch of sad eyes. I was focused on getting on the bus!
As the bus pulled out, a statue of you praying in a churchyard rolled past my window. A light in the churchyard fixed a beam on it. The timing was perfect. I know you well enough to know: it was your way of saying, “I did this for you.” You heard my prayer! For I had asked you if you would let me be home for Christmas. You knew the desire in my heart.
You are so dear to me. Jesus, I love you.
The most beautiful Person I know
You are the most beautiful Person I have ever met. You are my Creator. My Lord and my God. My Savior. And, my best friend.
You hung on a cross and were laid in a tomb. Who can plumb the depths of that kind of love? And you walked out of the tomb, early on a Sunday morning. I know. You did this for all of your sheep.
But you also did it for me.
So. Does that make me feel special, or what?
Yes, it does. Even among all the other sheep, I feel special! Especially since I know I, for one, don’t deserve it. But then, none of your sheep feel they deserve it. I could be wrong. But I think it’s only the occasional goat who wanders into the fold, who thinks they’re entitled to something like that. You know how goats are.
My Jesus, I love you — giving thanks
Thank you for giving me hope, an understanding heart, and wisdom. I needed it a lot. I still do. Also. Thank you for your forgiveness and for restoring my soul so many times. And thank you for your words and presence that always directed my steps.
And, thanks for hearing my prayer on the flight to Myanmar.
For these reasons, and so many more. . . My Jesus, I love you.
One more thing.
Thank you for Kathy! She makes me love you even more! 🙂
The world does not know: like the morning star, you are watching (Gen. 16:13; Rev. 1:14). You are the morning star (Rev. 22:16). And you will return.
So now, after many hours of study, you can see a critique of our
© James Unruh 2022 and beyond