Escape is Tempting
“Keep me safe, O God, for I have come to you
for refuge. I said to the Lord, “You are my Master! Every good
thing I have comes from you.” Psalm
16:1,2 - NLT
This passage is a quiet cry of trust—a soul seeking shelter
in God. It begins with vulnerability: “Keep me safe.” Not because the psalmist
is strong, but because he knows where to run.
Refuge isn’t found in escape—it’s found in presence. In
turning toward God, we find the only safety that truly holds.
Coming to God for refuge is more than asking for
protection—it’s choosing intimacy. It’s saying, “I trust You with my fears, my
future, my very life.” It’s the posture of surrender, not just in crisis, but
in every moment.
“You are my Master” This declaration is saying, “You
lead, I follow.” It’s a recognition that God’s authority is not oppressive, but
freeing. In calling Him Master, the psalmist is choosing to live under the care
of a loving Lord.
“Every good thing I have comes from you.” This line shifts
the lens. It reminds us that blessings aren’t random—they’re gifts. It invites
us to trace every joy, every provision, every breath back to the
Giver. Gratitude becomes a way of seeing the world: not as something
we earn, but as something we receive.
Gratitude is a lens. When we see through the eyes of
gratitude, we begin to notice the sacred in the simple: the warmth of sunlight
on our face, the kindness in a stranger’s smile, the breath in our lungs.
Escape might offer a moment of relief, but it rarely brings
healing. Presence—especially the presence of God—is where restoration begins.
It’s where we’re seen, known, and held. Refuge in God isn’t about avoiding the
storm; it’s about finding shelter within it.
Escape is tempting. It promises quick relief—a distraction,
a detour, a way to numb the ache. But it’s fleeting. Like mist in the morning,
it vanishes, leaving the pain untouched beneath the surface.
Escape is tempting because it offers a shortcut—a way to
bypass the pain, silence the noise, and avoid the weight of what we’re
carrying. It whispers promises of relief: “Just walk away,” “Just numb it,”
“Just pretend it’s not there.” And for a moment, it works. The ache dulls. The
pressure lifts. The world feels quieter.
But escape is a mirage. It doesn’t heal—it hides. It
doesn’t resolve—it delays. It’s a temporary detour that often leads us back to
the same place, only more tired, more tangled, more lost.
What we truly need isn’t escape—it’s presence. The
presence of God. The presence of truth. The presence of grace. Because healing
doesn’t happen in avoidance—it happens in encounter. Escape is
tempting because it’s easy. Presence is powerful because it’s real.
When we invite God into our broken places, He doesn’t rush
to fix us. He sits with us. He listens. He weeps with us. And slowly, the
weight we carry begins to feel lighter—not because it disappears, but because
we’re no longer carrying it alone.
God doesn’t meet us in the places we pretend to be. He
meets us in the raw, the real, the right-now. And that’s where healing
begins. He doesn’t ask for perfection before presence. He meets us in the
middle of the mess— in the questions we’re afraid to ask, in the tears we don’t
want to cry, in the silence we don’t know how to fill.
True healing begins not in running away, but in showing up.
In sitting with the discomfort, the questions, the broken pieces—and inviting
God into them. His presence doesn’t erase the struggle, but it transforms it.
It turns wounds into wisdom, ashes into beauty, silence into song.
In His presence:
wounds become testimonies. They stop being
silent reminders of pain and start speaking of perseverance, grace, and
healing. What once felt like a mark of brokenness becomes a story of
redemption. The ache that once isolated you now connects you to others who need
hope. Your wound becomes a witness.
Scars become symbols of survival. They
are no longer something to hide, but something to honor. Each scar tells the
truth: “I’ve been through something, and I’m still here.” They are proof that
the valley didn’t swallow you, that the night didn’t win. They are sacred
etchings of endurance.
What once felt like defeat begins to look like refinement. The
moments that broke you down are now the ones that built you up. You start to
see how the struggle shaped your strength, how the loss deepened your
compassion, how the waiting taught you trust. Defeat loses its sting when you
realize it was never the end—it was the turning point.
God doesn’t always extinguish the flames, but He walks with
you through them. And in the heat, the unnecessary burns away: pride, fear,
false identity. What remains is gold—faith that’s been tested, character that’s
been forged, love that’s been refined.
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