On Friday, oh, on Friday . . .
I want to return to what is comfortable and familiar, what I know and trust, not just because I am afraid, but because I am desperate to rest in something I can depend to be true. But my old understanding isn't satisfying anymore. I am so hungry. Something is pushing me forward. "My sheep listen to me, they follow my voice, no one can snatch them out of my hand."
We were sitting on a ratty couch in a college coffee shop, opposite some terrible sketches of a lumpy nude woman. Clearly there was truth somewhere in this scenario. Jessie was smiling at me, and nodding in empathy, and saying, "Perhaps we are afraid of His power, because it is so much stronger and yet so separate from our own feeble abilities. We have to decide to trust that He is good, that He is who He says He is."
What can I do but listen to the Spirit, and do as He leads? ["Else, wherefore born?"] Whatever that looks like. [Without getting hung up on technicalities of charisma?] I'm trying not to be so afraid. My faith is so small. [And yet His grace is so big.]