God with Skin On

When I was growing up, our pastor would use the phrase "God with skin on" on a fairly frequent basis. It stemmed from an anecdote he told about a little kid who was scared of something (I don't remember if it was monsters or a storm or what). The child's father would come in and say "Oh, it's ok, God is with us all the time, He's protecting us," and the kid honestly shot back with, "I know! But I want God with skin on!!" The congregation would chuckle appropriately whenever this story was told, but recently, I've been thinking about it a bit more.

I'm not sure when I really figured out that I wanted God with skin on. I guess part of me has always known that, but there have been times when I really really wanted someone, anyone, to just hold me and tell me that everything is going to be ok. The first time that I consciously realized that there was not anyone to actually hold me was under a pine tree in mid-December. Some friends and I went for a moonlit walk in the snow, and after they went inside, I stayed out to look at the crisp winter sky. I was acutely aware of how much I missed: home, my exboyfriend, attending classes full time...the list went on. And all I wanted was a pair of strong arms and a soft voice. Just hold me and tell me it will be ok. Wrap your arms around me until I drift into that blissful netherworld of sleep. But there were no arms, and there was no voice. The yearning in me heart had to be silenced...or at least ignored.

The practical side of me settled for "ignore" and I got busy with Stuff again. Besides, I was going home for Christmas in a few weeks, and Daddy was always willing to oblige with hugs. I could cuddle up next to him while watching TV at night, or go into his office in the middle of the day just to say "I love you" and I didn't have to worry about him thinking I was pretty enough or anything. He just loved me. Anytime I needed a pair of strong arms, he was there.

But now, two years later, Daddy's dead. And the old yearning is tugging in me again. It's harder to quash some nights. The air is cold and loneliness seeps into even group activity. I feel distanced from those around me. I don't want to. I don't try to stand apart. I just feel . . . part of another life. I've always felt this way. It's as if everyone around me is living life, and I'm watching. Why?

Why can I not find the total completeness that I know exists in Christ? Why can I not content myself with Him fully? What am I doing so wrong that causes this ache within my very core? I despise my physicality and the fact that I want to worship something tangible. I am bereaved at my foolishness, and long for simple fellowship.

On some level, I know that I hope for and believe that completeness is possible and indeed forthcoming. Yet, on a more shallow plane, I feel utterly lost. These are the thoughts that really keep me awake. Not the lists of things that I should do or want to do or might do someday; just what is it that God has planned for me, and why can't I seem to be content with that the way I know I should be?