I keep a little cross in the smallest pocket of my scrubs, no bigger than my pinky finger.
It’s silver and shiny, small and smooth, and helps me be strong when weakness lingers.
Sometimes I feel like crying, when the work seems like too much,
When I feel a tear at the corner of my eye, this cross I reach to touch.
When a child I care for kicks me, when the enemy tempts me to be cruel,
I reach my hand to that special cross in my pocket; God uses it as a tool.
A tool to remind me when I deserved cruelty, but instead, He gave me grace.
When I touch the cross in my scrub pocket, I see my Savior on that little child’s face.
When it seems all I do is mess up, when doubt is biting at my heels,
I touch the cross and remember that Jesus has made my fate sealed.
I keep the cross in my pocket because it reminds me of the one,
The one my Savior went to in order to save me, the one where He said “It is done.”
The little cross in my pocket gives me strength when mine runs out.
The little cross in my pocket has a whisper that is louder than the enemy’s shout.
When I feel that little cross, I remember Who is always with me,
I remember He is where strength comes from and that He is what sets me free.