I love watching baby ducks and geese. I connect with them more when they walk on land. I’m terribly afraid of water. The way they put one little webbed foot in front of the other is delightful. And when they’re really in a hurry, the way they flap their tiny wings and stretch their necks is a lesson in life for me. These little ones want more. Of their mother. More corn or bread bits from watchers like me. More speed. More strength.
Today, I feel like a duckling walking over uneven ground. Gawky. Clumsy. Vulnerable. Behind. Reaching with arms too short. And like these little water birds, I want more. More of God. More of His power.
My spiritual condition is not backslidden, or stagnant, or lukewarm. Although I do confess I’ve been somewhat comfortable for awhile. I have a feeling that is about to end.
The last few days, there’s a hunger in my soul for more of Him. I don’t want to just know more about Him, although I do – I want to be so near to Him that like Moses I radiate.
The first time this happened, I was 15. I wanted to know God. So, I asked Him to send me someone who would show me the way. He did. A few days later, Carl Calloway came to my door.
The next Sunday I was a mini-skirt wearing, sassy-tongued, bus kid looking for Jesus.
Within a few weeks, in a back pew at Faith Church (now Cornerstone) I raised my hand when the preacher asked if anyone wanted to be saved. I did. So, while everyone else was supposed to have their eyes closed, my hand went up and I prayed the believer’s prayer and meant every word. I know he asked me to come forward, but I was not ready for that professing thing just yet.
This will sound clichéd to some and dumb to others, but when I opened my eyes, the lights in that sanctuary were brighter – as if while I wasn’t looking, someone increased the wattage.
I immediately turned to my friend and told her my news about Jesus and His Good News. I guess I was more ready for the professing than I’d thought.
Maybe it’s that for an hour or so a few weeks ago I was back in that church for the funeral of my Head Master, Rollo Armour. Memories of those first days of loving Jesus rolled over me so fast they took my breath away. Salvation. Baptism. Repentance. Forgiveness.
Witnessing. Door to door. With a handful of tracts and a heart full of courage ignited by Jesus.
I was fearless.
The gentle Catholic priest who opened his door to my knock and graciously listened as I invited him to ask Jesus into his heart. The young man who smelled of beer and dirt and smoke and stumbled when he reached for the tract in my out-stretched hand. The older lady who I asked to ride the bus with me and told we even had a Sunday School class for old ladies. She sat with me the very next week although after that she drove her car – turns out she wasn’t so old after all. If the door I knocked on opened, I got as many words out about Jesus’ love as I could before they took my tract (The Romans Road) just to shut me up.
I told my friends. I told my teachers. I told the boy who wanted to get me drunk – first I told him no and then I told him why. He never spoke to me again, but that was okay – he’d heard about Jesus. I told my family. I wrote letters to long-distance family.
Was I effective? How do you measure that? It wasn’t about keeping score. It was about being a disciple and spreading the Good News of Jesus Christ. He birthed a love in my soul for their souls. I know that was Him because only He does that. We can love other people, but you know it’s Jesus when you’ll risk everything for them to know about His love.
Did I make a difference? Only God knows.
Anyway, that gut-level desire is rising in my soul again.
Although the citizens of Rochester and Pine Island (where I work and live) won’t find me on their doorsteps with my hands full of tracts, there are people who will encounter my heart full of love for Jesus. I have no idea what that looks like. I’m not looking for a new system, program, or suggestions. The One I want to share with my tiny corner of the world will tell me when to speak or write and what to say.
I’m listening anew for His still small voice. Sometimes I hear Him when I read His Word to my Mom. Other tines it happens when I’m coloring with a little boy I love who listens while filling in the lines in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles book. Or when I’m buying a shirt and someone asks how I am and I hear the Voice tell me this person really wants to know. Some days I hear Him whispering to my heart to be more real in what I write – blog posts included.
He’s speaking, I’m listening, that means God-sized things are going to happen.
I wonder. . .what is He saying to you?
Until Next Time,