Shooting stars elude me.
The grand crescendo, the mountaintop experience… I chase them and fall, tripping over cynicism and self-consciousness.
The burning bush, the ray of blinding light on the road to Damascus, the pillar of fire that devours doubt? All absent.
But like You did for Elijah, You speak to me in the still, small voice. You are a diety of details in the middle of a fog-shrouded forest.
You push through the clutter.
Create texture and intricate patterns that demand me. “Be still, look closer.”
Show me beauty in sharp edges.
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