His left arm is under my head, and his right arm embraces me. (Song of Solomon 2:6) (NIV)
We were three man-friends trapped in California’s Sierra Nevada Mountains. A rogue bear had cleaned out our treed food cache. The shortest way out was to cram two days of hiking into one day and climb over a fourteen thousand foot peak. Survival mode kicked in and we plied the stream for fish and combed the meadow for edible roots.
Drawing on our wilderness savvy to overcome a bit of peril bonded us as friends. It was a grand adventure. We emerged from the woods a few pounds lighter, but flush with male victory grunts.
I might act the competent survivalist, but spiritually I’m a fledgling chick fallen from the nest. Demons swoop about my head while my own flesh threatens to dash my faith on the rocks of sin. I’m defenseless and weak willed, exposed and shaking. So I don’t need a distant God who will only be near when I get to heaven. I need one who can hold me through this howling dark night.
Jesus pulls me into his embrace and tells me to stay low. If I rise to my feet of self-effort, he can’t guarantee protection. His left hand cushions my skull against the hardness of life. His right arm—the symbol of his might and power—is around my waist. It protects me from attacks, and keeps me from bolting.
This is the Savior I need. I’ll never survive the horror of the world if I squirm away. The manly thing to do is to curl under his mighty embrace until the storms are over.
Prayer: Lover of my soul, don’t let go of me.