The tough wooden cross in my hand was given to me by a man I’d never met before that one day when by chance or design our paths crossed and we prayed together then he shared testimony with me. As my wounded spirit soared I shared mine with him as well. Time and other responsibility flew as we were drawn together and when we parted he gave me a small wooden cross carved by hand from a bit of storm severed cypress and by a man I will never know.
This morning when the crisis of the moment which kept me from sleep last night found a way to steal my joy of the new morning, I retreated to my quiet place and gripped this cross in my tremor ravaged left hand. I could not think or pray but only rest in my quiet place and grip it. I came to feel the love and prayers of the one who carved it. I realized my pain lessened as did my tremors. Just now as I pondered this knowing it was not any holistic healing power in the wood nor in the preserving oil, but in the significance it held, I looked at it and saw that nature had damaged the wood in a way that took my spirit higher still. There are tiny cracks the eye, or mine anyway, needed to look closely to see. Where do these cracks appear? Just where Jesus hands and feet would have been if this had been the tree on which He gave His life for me.