The tears pouring out of me like rain, like hard, deep, crystal cleansing rain until I could not breathe at all, could not see or hear or move, until whatever had been haunting me came rushing out with a shudder and a gasp and helpless hollow howling, and then died, the room perfectly quiet. And, for the first time in many years, without moving from the spot, I floated effortlessly into the pure and perfect sleep of a child, to a place far beyond my broken heart.


Waking, I did not move. I lay there, blinking dumbly at the light shining through the window as if I had not seen such a thing in a very long time. For the briefest of moments I wondered if perhaps I’d finally succeeded in killing myself. Then, slowly, I began to feel that just the opposite was true. I could no more put it into words now than I could have then, but somehow—in a way that had much more to do with my heart than with my brain—I knew.  I understood.




And though it seemed to me as if many lifetimes had passed since I last called out His name, I suddenly realized something that again brought tears from a place not yet dry: He had not changed. Time meant nothing to Him. Lying there in His arms, in the afterglow of resurrection, I knew that in His eyes I was again a little boy, once more a child. 


His child.


Today, I’m putting little photographs of my children in my wallet. My wife has written on the back, marking the time. I stare at them, sometimes—this family, this home. This life, risen from the ashes. These are the things that matter. Even now, I often catch myself startled by the gift, constantly awed by the unlikely reality of them in my life.


I’ll sit still (in one of those rare moments, having small children, when it is possible to do so) and watch them, astonished at the sheer wonder of it. They are so much more than I deserve, and so much more than I’d ever hoped or prayed for, that there can be only one possible explanation for their nearness.


When I’m lying in bed with my wife, or sitting with my daughter in the back yard listening to the songbirds, or holding the latest last hope for the lineage, baby James, in my arms just before he drifts off to sleep, it becomes as clear to me as it is mysterious. 


They are miracles.


And I am thankful.


Jim Robinson is a successful songwriter, musician, speaker, author, and recovery counselor. A graduate of Christ Center School of Counseling and Addiction Studies, Robinson is founder of ProdigalSong, a Christian ministry utilizing music, speaking, counseling, and teaching to convey healing for the broken spirit. Jim’s web site,, contains information about his ministry, numerous recovery resources, and additional articles he’s written. To subscribe to Jim’s monthly newsletter, click here: