Free Indeed, Memories

Hand in Hand

Iron Bars courtesy of Peter Griffin

for he breaks down gates of bronze and cuts through bars of iron.

Psalm 107:16 NIV

Hand in Hand

She sits alone in the cold cell.  Arms wrapped around her ankles.  Legs pulled to her chest.  Glancing to and fro at the dreary walls her eyes grow weary.  The shadows, they blare out the memories of her short life, and their voices scream in silence, you will never leave here.  She hears the sound of the door down the corridor opening.  Hearing the voices exchanging words she stains to make head or tails.  There are footsteps coming closer.  Those she hasn’t heard before.  The cell is opened.  A man dressed in all white opens the door.  His eyes penetrate the darkness, and the chill leaves her body.  She backs up against the wall.  “Come”, He says.

Over and over He beckons her.  She looks for a place to hide.  Leaving is not something she could fathom.  She moves off the cot and along the walls.  Slowly hand over hand makes her ways to the bars.  He says, “Come.”  She looks at Him still gripping the cold steel bars.  The ones that have protected her from the world outside.  She presses her face against them relieved at the feeling of the cold on her face.

Her heart was beating wildly as if it were going to jump clean out of her chest.  Breathing is in and out heavy.  She can form no word, scream, or shout.  He comes face to face with her through the bars.  “Come.”, He says.  He reaches out and grasps her hand.  She pulls back.  He says simply, “Come.”  “Do not fear.  Come.”  She inches, bar by bar, toward the open cell door in which He stands. Remembering the sound of the slam that would make her feel so much more protected. The sound of the motor humming, the clang of the metal, and the click of the lock are secure.  But the door is wide open.

His other hand extends and she wants to take it.  Something tells her this Man may be trusted.  The shadows screaming still, she places her tiny hand in His.  He says, “Come home.” “Home is dangerous!” She replies.  “Come home with me.” He says.  She steps outside the bars.  As she peers down the corridor a guard sits at a desk by the steel door.  There is only one sound of footsteps.  Are they hers?  As they approach the guard He stands with hand on His pistol.  Where do you think you are going with that one?  He replied, “Home.”  The guard says, “Not on my shift you’re not.”  He refuses to unlock the doors.  The man in white lifts His other hand.  The light pours through the wound, and dumbfounded the man sits and looks on in awe.  He said don’t worry about unlocking the door the son of man walks through them.

This is a sneak peek at my manuscript.

The reason I have shared it here is that often,  we the abused, oppressed, shamed, regretful, and wounded,  would rather stay in the prison cell of the past even though the door is wide open to the future.  We stand begging for the One who stands in it, and yet hoping someone would lock the door so He would go away and leave us alone.  We prefer the cold of the iron bars over the warm hand and heart of Jesus in the steel place we try to make our heart’s home.

Come home to Jesus Beloved ones.  Take His hand.  There is no prison that can hold you, and there is no door He  cannot walk you through. There is no cell that can hold you against His will. The sound of His footsteps are those she heard.  He wishes to carry you too. ❤ Mindy

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