not the act itself, but rather the level i dare to have.
because i don't have nearly enough, because my Jesus meets His loves at the level of their expectancy. i didn't notice that my tank was brushing e, that i didn't have nearly the amount that He aches for me to have.
the man whose daughter slipped from Earth to death, he begged Him to come and heal, to come and raise. just come, don't linger, just come now.
:: and Jesus went, and raised ::
:: and Jesus spoke, there on the road, and healed ::
and Jesus whispered in the pulsing crowd of a thousand fingers,
:: "who touched Me? power went from Me, and I felt it go." ::
i don't expect enough from Him. i whisper "maybe You can...can You?" i should reach out with two tiny fingers and touch, and know. all i have to do is touch, and He will give.
and so i let the branches of self-doubt and human reasoning twist so that no more hope can seep out. it's just too risky, you see, to expect so much. too much gets lost, too much me gets forgotten, i think.
but oh, and then i realize that light is unconstrained, or else it is darkness. and expectation becomes the knowing, the watching and waiting not with maybe but with will come.
and i let my dreaded soul open, and run, and wail joy and knowing to the skies.
i'm kneeling in the dirt here, barefoot and broken. i'm reaching out for the hem of His robe.
and i know.