Sometimes I am like that prophet—so firm and strong, calling down fire from heaven on water-drenched wood piled high on the altar. Every cell inside me blazes with Spirit and intention and confidence that He is “I AM” and I am His. I know the fire will come—and it does.Then, even as the ground is still warm from that holy flame, I am suddenly very afraid. I fear that it will not be as He said—that He could not be who He says. And I run. I am exhausted. But then—perhaps, especially then—He is there, with bread warming on the coals and a jug of crisp, cool water. And, in that long journey, comes His gentle, quiet whisper.
And I remember. And I rest. I rest.
(Image: Elias in der Wüste—or Elijah in the wilderness—by Washington Allston via Wikipedia)
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