I often wonder why it’s so hard to accept the fact that God loves me just the way I am—why I feel I need to hide stuff from Him, from my community, from those who are around me to hold me accountable—why it’s so easy to say,

“There’s no way someone so ugly, so full of sin, so broken – there’s no way someone like me could possibly be beautiful in God’s eyes.”

A friend from work, Jeff, has a little boy who was born in February—a broken little boy—one who will have to undergo many surgeries. Carson’s skull is fused, his cranial passages are very narrow, he is very likely at least partially deaf, there is some question as to how well he’ll be able to see, he has a hard time breathing while he’s eating, he’s constantly snorting. Cosmetically, his eyes bug out just a bit, and they angle to the sides ever so slightly. His big toes point in, perpendicular to the rest of his toes—and his thumbs, same thing.

But Carson is a happy little boy. He smiles, he cries, he eats, he’s active.

Last week they spent 10 hours at Children’s Hospital—Jeff told me all about it: the battery of tests, consultations, the revolving door of doctors, no food, no bathroom breaks. He described it as hell—hell, but productive—because there is a plan in place now. Surgeries are being scheduled, and he feels a bit better about his son’s future.

But he’s tired, and his wife is tired, and his older son is tired, and his baby boy is tired.

The day after his child was born Jeff sent an email that said, simply,

“Carson came into the world with a distinct set of physical abnormalities….”

He was back at work for about a week before he would talk about what those abnormalities were, but in our fourth or fifth conversation he said,

“He’s got…you have to understand, my little boy is beautiful to me…”

And I have absolutely no doubt that Carson is beautiful—none whatsoever. I can see it in his dad’s eyes, hear it in his voice, I can feel it in our conversations. Carson is perfect, a beautiful little boy, one full of promise and dreams and future. I have absolutely no doubt that Carson is loved—that he is, and will be, cared for—that he is, whenever Jeff looks at him, holds him, burps him, changes his diaper, the most important person in his father’s world.

Why, then, do I doubt God’s love for me? Why do I so easily slip into a place of denial? How much more perfect is God’s love for me than Jeff’s love for his son, than my love for my own children?

When God looks at me—at my life—he says,

“He’s got…you have to understand, my little boy is beautiful to me…”

No matter how broken I am, no matter how full of sin, God looks at me and calls me beautiful and, on top of loving the broken me, he allowed his own son to take my place in death.

This, my friends, breaks me further, and the only place left to run is into the arms of my Father.