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
 shoes, socks, and shirt as he went.  He flew into the water, not realizing that as
he swam toward the middle of the lake, an alligator was swimming toward
the shore.
   His mother--in the house was looking out the window--saw the two as
they got closer and closer together.  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 made a U-turn to swim to his mother.
    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.  That began an incredible tug-of-war
 between the two.
   The alligator was much stronger than the mother, but the mother was
much 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 and weeks in
 the hospital, the little boy survived.  His legs were extremely scarred by
 the vicious attack of the animal; and, on his arms, were deep scratches where his mother's fingernails dug into his flesh in her effort to hang on to the son she loved.
   The newspaper reporter who interviewed the boy after the trauma, asked
 if he would show him his scars.  The boy lifted his pant legs.  And then, with obvious pride, he said to the reporter, "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.  No,
 not from an alligator, or anything quite so dramatic.  But, the scars of a painful past.  Some of those scars are unsightly and have caused us deep regret.  But, some wounds, my friend, are because God has refused to let go.