The early morning sunrise would be more magnificent were I not sleep-deprived and intent on calling it a night. The humid air rests peacefully for a change, hours ahead of the looming sweatfest of the Hoosier summer day. This is the finest hour: dew cooling the thirsty grass beneath a faint cover of fog, dividing pinks from blues.
I have witnessed the authority of my Lord in the casting of demons. I have known the joy of Christ in the laughter of a child. I have felt the presence of His Spirit on my knees in worship. However, this demonstration leaves the Fatherly impression of being safe, as if He and I are the only ones awake, and He's assuring me, "I've got this."
I am wonderfully relieved. The heaviness of my spiritual responsibility is weighted only by my fear -- my fear is founded through my underappreciation of His personal interest. How could I be so dull? Why would I presume to care more about the burden on my heart than the One who placed it there, as if the lost are not infinitely more important to Him? Do I think He would allow me to screw up His plans?
Driving with Him in the quiet of the morning is easy, and I could become easily content with just the two of us. But soon the world will wake -- they will look to meet their fleshly desires, and I know I will lack the stomach for it. And I must cry out and interrupt this current rest to offer my God to the world. Certainly, He belongs to me no more than He belongs to anything. But I belong to Him, and He asks me to share His grace. We must place a blissful retreat on the backseat, for He must make Himself known.
Through the pinks and the blues,
Through the fog and the dew,
Through the redemption of you,
He will do just that.
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