At least there is hope for a tree: if it is cut down, it will sprout again, and its new shoots will not fail. Its roots may grow old in the ground and its stump die in the soil, yet at the scent of water it will bud and put forth shoots like a plant.~Job 14: 7-8 (NIV)

She was invisible in plain sight, a nine-year-old child living in a chaotic Irish family. The little girl was one among several siblings, her mother round with another child. She couldn't read well and her face flushed red when her mother yelled, "How could you do this again? Make this mess every night?" when she wet the bed. It was as if the girl needed to apologize for taking up space in the cramped, overcrowded house. These were the opening scenes of a movie I recently watched called The Quiet Girl.

The girl's mother had relatives who lived in a neighboring town. The girl went to live with this older couple for the summer. Suddenly, there was space for this lovely child. Connection with two people who paid attention--who were curious about her. Told her those long legs were made for running. There was affection and good long sleep. The little girl stopped wetting the bed. Her reading improved. The unconditional positive regard began its healing work, was the catalyst for disassembling the little one's shame. The child was like the tree cut down who detected the scent of water and put forth shoots.  

Summer ends and the child must return to her unruly household. The parting is painful, palpable as the child waves goodbye to the couple who has made room for her, loved her. As they drive away, the girl breaks into a run down the long road that leads to a gate. The man who was a substitute father for the summer, stands at the gate and sees her running toward him. He moves toward the girl and sweeps her up in his arms. The little girl buries her head in his neck and whispers, barely audible, "Daddy, Daddy."

I think we're all a bit like this child in our individual ways. We have pain. Sometimes unspeakable traumas and losses. And sometimes pain that doesn't seem as bad as others, but still we are wounded. Everyone has wounds. I wonder if the scent of our Savior is like the cut down tree that gravitates to the water and puts forth shoots like a plant. When we are harnessed by our pain, captured by regret and uncertainty, loneliness and self-doubt, we get that whiff of our Lord's scent, that fragrance that draws us to His desire to make eye contact That person who invites us to be with Him without looking at His watch. The Good Shepherd who speaks and we recognize His voice, because we know He loves us, the sound and scent of Him a comfort. The Son of God who encourages us to move toward Him as He is Living Water. He is life and breath.