He Stares and Time Stands Still

I read in John 8 about the Woman caught in adultery and this is what I imagine:

The Uncreated God locks eyes with the eyes of a young Jewish girl standing alone. He knows her; He remembers when she was created, every crumb of her being thought out. The curve of her body, the shape of her lips, the sound of her beating heart sewn together to create a uniqueness that will never again be cloned. What was it like in that moment to stare back at the eyes of the One keeping the stars in the sky and sustaining her breath right now? The Maker stares at His perfectly designed masterpiece and can recall her as a small child; remembers the time when He took His hands and painted the color in her eyes. The Incarnate, dwelling outside the colorful canvas of the universe, places Himself right in the center of all the flesh, bone, blood that makes up humanity and stares at His beloved, His soon to be bride. "She turns away, she denies my truth and yet I still love her," He patiently waits.

This woman caught in the ultimate shameful act, stripped of all privacy and dragged through the streets of those who mock her, now stands bare, undone, vulnerable in front of her only reason for living. He stares and she stares back and time stands still. "Has no one condemned you?" Her King asks. Time still frozen. She whispers back to her Maker, "No one Lord." And then that moment comes that we are all waiting for; the one that we live for. When our King looks into our soul and judges with a judgment only found under the mercy umbrella held by the Uncreated One. He says, "neither do I condemn you, go; and from now on sin no more." I can only imagine what that statement did to the inside of her; what she must have felt like in that moment. Those words have the power to make her fully alive. That gaze has the intensity to shake her inner core as the truth is unveiled that the One who made her does not see what the world sees. Though the world drowns Her heart with darkness, His breath washes clean every crevice of her soul.

I feel like this young girl. Darkened from the world, but lovely to Him. He peers through me and knows me better than I know myself; not because I always let Him in on my life, but it is because of His working hands that I can ever be one to be known. Twenty years ago for me and outside of time for Him I became a thought amongst the communion of the Godhead. As the three-in-one dwelled together and within each other a moment came where I was desired; a blank canvas was laid down and my Father drew up my existence and then named me. I was not a random object placed here by mistake; my life was perfectly planned. He carefully chose every trait and feature that would mold together to make up my form. I started as an idea, an intricate plan, and was made alive by just one simple blow of His breath. He is my Master and I His puppet; with my strings attached to the Heavens, He, without mistake, controls my every movement. In, out; inhale, exhale—I breathe because He lets it be. His gaze into my heart is no change into what He has always been doing and will do. Even when I didn't want Him He was always speaking and I closed my ears. I turned my eyes from my Designer, from my Papa, and sold myself to the world's opinion of satisfaction, but He stayed near. "I love you," He screamed as I scratched hopelessness into the hips He handmade. I found comfort in the arms of others, yet His arms stayed open, empty—waiting for me. My thoughts dwelled in the bondage of fantasy of what I could be, while my pathway He calls good laid open waiting for the trail of my footprints. So with this passion, with His all-knowing love He bruised my heart with His gaze that never leaves. I will take your pain His compassion shouts. I take your sins His scars prove.

So here I am again—bare, stripped, waiting for His love to fall afresh over me once more. As the young Jewish girl I stand in front of my Maker tainted by the deception of this fallen world waiting to hear what He calls me. He sees into my inner core and calls me pure.

"I love you lord," I whisper under my breath and in Heaven He moves. "I put my trust in You," I say (half believing).

"Okay here I am for you to trust" my Maker responds.

I stare back at my Father, my Redeemer, my Husband and give myself over. In this moment my strings are pulled and I stand upright walking with His strength--alive with His light. I can feel my blood flow and my heart burn and I know that His hand is touching my frail, weak body--I fall in love. In this moment I find my resting place just as the young Jewish girl experienced 2000 years ago. I am safe. I close my eyes and see Him gaze as He sings over me and within me. As a Father He embraces me, as a husband He calls me beautiful, as a Maker He restores me to my original being. And as I stand motionless listening to His melody I wish that time didn't have to start up again.

A White Wall Always White

I used to have a white wall. It was beautiful and bare and without blemish. Put it in a museum or at an open house and it would speak of freedom and safety, freshness and purity. There was an innocence to it for the wall had never before left its created whiteness. And within it anything was possible. The imagination would soar with what it could look like and become, dreams that could one day be reality. But what happens when this white wall isn't white anymore? When it becomes stained with color and every white spot disappears? When it becomes wet with red and dark red colors that drip down from top to bottom soon causing all the white to disappear.  My wall is no longer new and pure, it has been exposed to the outside world--touched by color. People come and carelessly paint over my blemish free wall. They expose it to greens and blacks and different shades of gray. They don't see its beauty. They don't see thats how my wall was made, thats the color it was meant to be. They only see emptiness waiting to be exposed to the destructive color wheel.  They don't enjoy it's presence. "That's how I was created," the white wall shouts. But no one hears and the screaming voice becomes quieter as it is slowly covered by the darkness that it now lays beneath.

Soon my wall has every color causing it to have no one color. Each pigment blends together, eyes look upon it, but no one can give it a name. It's identity lost among the array of colors layered atop each other. Though over time the paint fades and loses its brightness the wall does not go back to white. Where will my wall find its whiteness?

When I thought there would be no resting place, no place to call home for my once white wall there appeared eyes that looked with a gaze of complete adoration. They are altogether different than the eyes that failed to give my wall a label.  These eyes stare with a fiery passion and loving intensity as if they've seen my white wall before it was tainted with the hands of humanity. The sun finds its resting place under the earth and then meets the sky once more and the hands on the clock twirl round and round yet the One staring at my wall never leaves. "I see" a Voice says, "I see the white. I see its roots, I know it's origins. White is the foundation, the first layer, I see it."

Where do the colors go in these gazing eyes? Why can they see beyond the ruined surface? How can they see into the darkness of each layer? All other eyes stare and do not see, but these, glistening with flames, look and know the truth of my wall. The voice says once more, "I see because I created it. I am the Maker, the Designer, the Artist of this white wall. This wall I painted with My own hands. No color can taint it; it is perfect, without blemish. An open canvas to imagination, to creativity--to the purpose it was created for. Oh how I love My white wall," the Voice proclaims "Though the world touches it and only sees the blended darkness, I see beauty and purity. I see originality and uniqueness. I see my beloved adorned with the innocence I first painted. This wall is my masterpiece and I will forever call it white."