As Brave as a Bunny

We own a bunny colored like an Oreo. He hops around a pink cage, finishes our broccoli stems, and receives fresh water every hour (on hot days with ice) because he has five admirers that adore every fuzzy facet of him. Perhaps that’s why we started listening as a family to The Green Ember, an adventure story about bunnies with swords. In the very beginning, one young rabbit called Picket encounters danger. In the face of it, to his humiliation, he faints. After the matter, he talks to his father about what happened and the wise, older bunny comforts him with kind, sympathetic words. He says that this fainting is in their nature. Something they have to deal with. One of their weaknesses. His words are soft, his face lined with experience. Picket is not happy to hear this. He doesn’t like it or want to accept it. He wants to be brave.

Never have I related to a bunny so much. Lately, I’ve been fainting all over the place. Our water tank runs out again, language progresses at the speed of molasses, attempts to rest fizzle, and I’m down for the count. The stubborn sadness crushing my chest appears monstrous, my old life is painted in rosy hues, and I fear my kids will suffer from my lack of energy. 

I’m having the same conversation with my Father, as Picket did with his Dad inside the Elm tree. I feel inadequate and embarrassed. I’ve read the stories and imagined myself as the hero. I’ve waited for such trials in hopes that my sword would plunge through the enemy without hesitation. However, to my dismay, when I encounter danger lately I don’t feel courage, but the sweeping of my feet and the crashing of my body. 

Picket had a good Dad. Gentle and loving. He understood from his own experience just how defeating fainting can feel. I have an even better Father. One called a man of sorrows and who extends his hand and heart tirelessly towards me. I can hardly believe there’s no annoyance in his tone when I’m found flat on my face. Yet, I’ve met Perfect Love before. And will again. And again. 

I’m certain of this for many reasons. One being that I have a three-year-old with a weakness concerning people. In her short life, we’ve hopped back and forth between two continents, half-worlds away. Sometimes her high-chair is covered in mac-n-cheese, other times, rice and spiced lentils. She has been at the Mall of America, only to be swept into the flurry of an Indian wedding where people are smashed together, eating with their hands, and all attracted to her blonde hair and fairy face. She was small in my womb and still looks like a wisp in the wind when playing with her siblings. When my daughter sees a crowd and starts whimpering, I don’t spank her and tell her to toughen up. When she sticks her hands in her mouth when she feels nervous, I don’t make fun of her. Instead, I draw her closer. My instinct is to protect. My heart is grieved for her. Without thinking, I am looking for ways to comfort and help her. I want her to know that I’m there. I am a fallen creature, self-seeking through and through. I am temporal and broken. If I move towards my daughter in her weakness, how much more would a holy God move towards his children when they faint? 

Weakness invites the Strong One to come in. I’ve been reading about the life of hymn writer Helen Lemmel. She was blinded by disease and left by her husband because of her limitations. She wrote hundreds of hymns, but received neither fame nor fortune in her life. She died impoverished, but with a mouth full of songs. In her weakness she penned words that have nourished thousands of fainting hearts, including my own. In her blindness, she wrote: 

“Turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full in His wonderful face. And the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of His glory and grace.”  

Glory ushered in by weakness is a surprising plan. I faint like a frightened rabbit more than I would like. However, I will own this weakness if it means that stronger arms will carry me.