Some years ago on a hot summer day in south Florida, a little boy decided to go for a swim in the old swimming hole behind his house.
In a hurry to dive into the cool water, he ran out the back door, leaving behind his shoes, socks, and shirt. He jumped into the water, not realizing that as he swam toward the middle of the lake, an alligator was swimming toward the shore. His mother, looking out the window, saw the two as they drew closer. In utter fear, she ran toward the water, yelling to her son as loudly as she could.
Hearing her voice, the little boy became alarmed and began to swim back. It was too late. Just as he reached her, the alligator reached him.
From the dock, the mother grabbed her little boy by the arms just as the alligator snatched his legs. An incredible tug-of-war began. The alligator was much stronger, but the mother was far too passionate to let go. A farmer happened to drive by, heard her screams, raced from his truck, took aim, and shot the alligator.
Remarkably, after weeks in the hospital, the little boy survived. His legs were severely scarred by the vicious attack. On his arms were deep scratches where his mother's fingernails had dug into his flesh as she fought to hold on to him.
Later, a newspaper reporter asked the boy if he would show his scars. The boy lifted his pant legs. Then, with obvious pride, he said, "But look at my arms. I have great scars on my arms, too. I have them because my mom wouldn't let go."
You and I can identify with that little boy. We have scars, too. Not from an alligator, but the scars of a painful past. Some are unsightly and have caused us deep regret.
But some wounds, my friend, are there because God has refused to let go. In the midst of your struggle, He's been there holding on to you.