Love moves slow

Not everything is fast.  Most things aren’t.

Most things build, block upon block, grain upon grain upon grains.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I am of the building.

I like the drops of rain that lazily drip down the tree trunk, slowly, steadily watering her roots.  I like cookies that puff up and brown as they stay in the heat. A song that begins with one voice, only later to be joined by a second. A lone cello, then his sister violins.

God is after my heart,.  The process is 53 years old.  And I’m after His.

My faith is not a fire, as much as it’s a glow.

Steady, and often slow.

Love   moves   slow

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