I think of myself climbing a tree. All I want to do is reach that one branch. People laugh at me from down below, people say I shouldn’t have ever climbed up there. I want to come down… where it’s safe and comfortable… where everyone else is. But I think of that feeling when I grab that final branch and it keeps me moving forward.

So I keep climbing until I reach the branch. I step up onto it. It’s shaky underneath me. I pray for strength and I pray to be brave. They said this branch was a risk but I thought it would pay off to see the view down below.

But then… the branch snapped. HOW? WHY? I scream as I fall down the tree hitting other branches and scraping my knees. I think of all the moments that brought me to the top of the tree and I start to cry. I shouldn’t have tried. All those people laughing at me, they were right.

The branch that broke gave way to a new unknown. And I wasn’t ready for it.

But what I didn’t realize was there was someone standing below, underneath that broken branch. He watched patiently as I climbed up the tree, and was so, so, proud of me. He watched me fall, scream at him, and blame him for ever making me believe I could try. But he stood there still, waiting to catch me in his arms.

I didn’t fall on the ground. He saved me. Jesus saved me.

As I fall into his arms he cries with me, because my pain is his.

When the tears have stopped he leaves me with his final words “Go and climb the tree again. Go reach a new branch. And if it breaks, I’ll be waiting here to catch you.”