Going In

We were getting ready to leave the library.  I gathered my older two and shooed them toward the door, intending to collect Jonah from the children’s section on the way out.  A hip-high wall defines a corner of the library designated for the smaller set.  Picture books, stuffed animals, and a cheerful rug invite the young ones to stay and read.  The entryway into this welcoming area is made magical by the presence of a white latticework arch, brightened by ivy and plastic flowers.

Jonah had spent the past fifteen minutes by himself, quietly enjoying this little corner area while I looked for a book in another part of the library.  Now, as the time came for us to go home, I motioned to him to come out and join us.  Instead of scooting out immediately, however, he stood still and looked at me with concern in his eyes.  Impatiently I scrunched my face at him and whispered, “Jonah!  Time to go!”  Still looking at me, lips tight and a little quivery, he lifted one uncertain finger and pointed.  In the archway entrance to the children’s area were two women, standing and talking to one another casually.  I looked back at Jonah.  His shoulders gave a tiny helpless shrug, and his eyes glistened with the hint of tears.  My poor little bug – he didn’t know how to get out.  He knew he was supposed to pass though that archway but, confronted by grown-up strangers blocking his path, he was trapped.

My reassuring smile was of no help to my son.  He only lifted his hands a little, palms up, in a familiar gesture of puzzled resignation.  It was clear that, until those talking women moved out of his way, he was not going to go through that archway.  I couldn’t think of any alternative.  I was going to have to go in and get him.

The talking women,  still deeply engrossed in their exchange of trivialities, didn’t look up at my approach.  They were pleasant-looking, smiling, probably moms like me.  As I moved closer, though, it suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t want to walk past these women, either.  I don’t like being rude, and I don’t like confrontation, and I didn’t want to interrupt their conversation and ask to be let through the archway.

But my son was trapped inside, and I needed to get him out.  I breathed in, breathed out, and then marched up to the gatekeepers.  A simple “excuse me” gained my admittance, and soon I was holding Jonah’s hand and leading him out of the children’s area, stopping for a quick reassuring hug before heading to the car.

It’s funny what we’re afraid of, isn’t it? 

Moving to a new town has been scary.  Raised in the cornbelt, we’re complete strangers to northern life.  So much is new and intimidating, from learning how to recycle at Glen’s to struggling with the pronunciation of last names laced with rogue consonants.  It’s gorgeous here, breathtakingly gorgeous, but there are days I wish we hadn’t come, because being new is scary.  Going in is scary.  Getting to know a new place, a new people, a new church, a new life . . . scary.  Becoming a part of this new place is going to require me to open my heart to new things, new relationships.  It requires me to make myself vulnerable to being hurt.  It means knowing that I’m going to feel like I don’t fit for a while, because I don’t, yet.  It means feeling like I’m intruding into something which is already established and already good just as it is, without me.  Going through that doorway is scary.  No, not scary – terrifying.

Sometimes, when you’re scared, you have to take a breath and go in anyway.

And sometimes, when you’re really scared, someone comes through the door and gets you.

A bag of fresh-picked vegetables is left on the doorstep.  The neighbor helps you fix your well pump late at night.  A new friend takes you to get a Knaebe’s caramel apple, just because.  A hand is extended – you take it – and the newness becomes a lot less scary.

*

The world can be an intimidating place.  There is much that is strange, much that is wrong.  There is evil in the world, man hurting man, sadness and despair and pain.  Standing in the middle of life, trying to figure how to escape the walls around us, perhaps seeing glimmers of hope but unable to get to them alone, we raise our palms in mute despair.  It’s a scary world, and we are alone.

But sometimes, when you’re really scared, someone comes in to get you.

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.  God came in.  Instead of standing on the other side of the wall, beckoning me to come to Him, to pass through the gate on my own, He came right in with me.   On the cross Jesus took my hand, called me His own, and led me to the safety of my Father’s warm embrace.

It’s funny what we’re afraid of.  Because we’re never really alone.  No matter what, no matter where, there’s a hand reaching out for me.  And I can’t wait to grab hold of it.