Grandpa took the hit

Grandpa was playing with his two-year-old grandson, ragging around on the couch. He lifted the wee boy aloft and leaned back, misjudging the placement of pillows and backrests, and suddenly found himself rolling right backwards and off the couch onto the floor beneath. The wee boy giggled wildly, thinking it was all part of the game. Grandpa grimaced as his rib hit the wood, but he didn’t say anything.

The bruise was deep, invisible to the naked eye. He ignored its soreness and ache, so happy was he that his grandson came through unscathed. And they continued to play.

Jesus took the hit for us. He didn’t complain, either. He chose to be hurt in order to save us. He still takes the hit for us, every time he intervenes, stepping into our messes and helping us sort them out. There is a price to pay, and Jesus pays it. Because of his love for us. For you. For me.

Thank you, Jesus, from the depth of my being. Thank you.