Jacob Glassner

I was about 6 years old, and we were headed to church or Kmart or maybe some other place. I really can’t remember.

As my mom herded my three siblings and me into her 1978 Fiat hatchback, I rubbed my hand along the sleek, dusty lines of the yellow car. And that’s when it happened. My older sister Jill accidentally slammed the car’s hatch on my fingers.

I screamed in pain, and then I screamed in terror when I realized my fingers were stuck in the closed hatch. The neighborhood heard my cries, and a group of kids soon gathered around me. My mom tried to get the hatch open, but it was wedged shut. I was hysterical.

My dad, who worked nights, heard my cries, and he bolted out of the house in his brown bathrobe, quickly tied and flapping in the breeze. He slid into the back of the Fiat and began trying to dislodge the door. As he reached the point of frustration, he began bucking his back against the door, but it wouldn’t move.

Dad yelled to my older brother Brian to get a flat-tip screwdriver, and Brian ran into the house.

Among the crowd of onlookers, Jim, a painter who lived down the street, suggested, “Why don’t we bust the back window out with a sledge hammer?”

His absurd comment made sense to me. “Yeah, let’s break the window,” I thought.

Brian soon appeared brandishing the screwdriver above his head as he ran to the car. Dad grabbed the screwdriver and went to work on the latch. As I watched him working through the rear window, I began to wonder if my fingers were broken or mangled.

Pop! The hatch opened. I fell into Mom’s arms, and she led me into the house. My fingers were purple.

Mom cracked an ice tray on the counter and filled a plaid dishtowel with ice cubes. She took another look at my fingers. I couldn’t move them. She placed the ice pack on my fingers, and Mom and Dad prayed over them.

My fingers were cold, but Mom kept the ice pack on them until the ice melted. After about 10 minutes, I tested my wet, cold fingers again, and a smile crept across my face as I moved each finger in succession.

“I’m OK,” I said. A weight lifted off my shoulders, and I wiggled my fingers a few more times.

Thirty-something years later, I’m using those same fingers to type this story. And 30 years from now, I’ll still remember my dad running to my rescue in his brown robe flapping in the breeze. (A few years later, I wore that same robe as Joseph in a Christmas pageant.)

Until I had children of my own, I don’t think I realized the depth of love a parent can have for a child. Without a second thought, most parents would lay down their lives for their children. They would do just about anything to protect them.

Our Heavenly Father is no exception. He looked down at us, hopelessly trapped by sin and death, and He sent Jesus to rescue us. Some may ask, “Why would God want to rescue a bunch of messed-up humans?” But the real question should be, “Why wouldn’t He?”

If God is a loving Father, then running to rescue His children was an easy decision (minus the brown robe, of course).

“But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).