Weariness pricks the corners of her eyes as she slowly flutters them open to observe her surroundings. Where was she now, and just how far did she travel? How long had she been running away? What had she hoped for? Him to come hurling after her and begging her to return, promising everything will be perfect if she agrees?

Well… probably. She never really was a dedicated one, it seems.

What have her actions reduced her to? When she ponders His sacrifice for her, she doesn’t feel joy or thankfulness. She feels guilt. She sees Him hanging there, His love bleeding from every pore of His body, and yet, all she could see was her guilt – her guilt for running away from the Man who did this for her. It is no mystery to her that her place is not at the foot of the cross but on it. She should be looking at herself, yet there He is, blatantly in front of her and taking the punishment meant for her.

Is this what His gift to her has been reduced to? The gift He meant to give from His heart, the gift He meant to draw her towards Himself, what has she done with it. The sacrifice of true love by the Pursuer of her heart has been reduced to a tool to destroy their relationship.

She wants to see this gift as exactly that again – a gift. She wishes to accept it with joy and love and gratitude. She wishes to love Him more powerfully than she had before.

But what is stopping her? She can’t detect His presence near her? Has He left her? Is she in this wilderness by herself, completely defenseless against what lurks behind the shadows? Is she sailing into the eye of the storm, waiting for her little boat to capsize and the waves to drag her into the depths? She would deserve nothing less, she knows.

Yet faintly, she sees the image of a Man she knows, desperately trying to get to her. His image flashes before her eyes. He is being held back by the shadows of her heart – shadows she cannot bring herself to let go of. He reaches an arm out to her, calling her to take it, pleading her to accept it. Tears run down His face as she begins to see more clearly the weariness etched upon His features. He had been battling for her since the day she left Him, since the day she accepted the lies to be truth. Bruises, cuts, scars she’s never seen before mar His face now. Through barely opened eyes, she peers at Him. She is so weary – the shadows she clings onto suckting the very life and energy from her body. She only needs to do one thing – reach a hand toward His and take it. But her body is so heavy, and every inch of her is so tired.

Take His hand. Please, take His hand. What will it take? What does she have to let go of?