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