God has a way of putting us in our place. He has to, if there's ever going to be any hope of us being what He wants us to be.
Back in the 90's, there was a stretch in which I was regularly hearing from God, regularly sensing what was on His heart, able to pray those things back to Him, seeing frequent answers to those prayers, and experiencing what it's like to be part of His wonderful encounters with others. I'm not much of a car guy, but somehow a car analogy popped into my head. It felt like God and I were really moving smoothly and in style. It was great, sort of like I was His Ferrari. A Ferrari Testarossa, to be precise.
[Right about now, you may be thinking that they'll let just about anybody write a blog. Well, they will. You want me to be honest, right?]
Things with God went on like this for awhile. It was like being on an extended mountain-top journey with Him. Then one day, in the seeing that God gives to the eyes of the heart, I was looking down on a narrow road that passed between two steep hills. The hills were covered in dense green vegetation, something like you might see in rural Tennessee. From where I was high up on one of the hills, I saw a car, a sad example of a car, sad even for a junker, barely moving down the road from right to left at what must have been about 20 mph. It was an old sedan, what we used it call a land yacht. It was dented and rusted and beat-up. It had peeling, mismatched paint. The pillar behind the driver's door was pushed in, taking part of the door with it, as if the car had been T-boned at some point in the past. The tires were wallowing in an off-center, uneven, out-of-synch wobbly sort of way that says the frame and axles were bent. The car was struggling along and wasn't anywhere close to comfortable or reliable. It was transportation, but just barely, and definitely not the kind you'd want to be seen in or have to take very far.
I watched this scene for a few seconds, wondering what it was all about. Then the Lord broke the silence. He said, "That's you."
Back in the 90's, there was a stretch in which I was regularly hearing from God, regularly sensing what was on His heart, able to pray those things back to Him, seeing frequent answers to those prayers, and experiencing what it's like to be part of His wonderful encounters with others. I'm not much of a car guy, but somehow a car analogy popped into my head. It felt like God and I were really moving smoothly and in style. It was great, sort of like I was His Ferrari. A Ferrari Testarossa, to be precise.
[Right about now, you may be thinking that they'll let just about anybody write a blog. Well, they will. You want me to be honest, right?]
Things with God went on like this for awhile. It was like being on an extended mountain-top journey with Him. Then one day, in the seeing that God gives to the eyes of the heart, I was looking down on a narrow road that passed between two steep hills. The hills were covered in dense green vegetation, something like you might see in rural Tennessee. From where I was high up on one of the hills, I saw a car, a sad example of a car, sad even for a junker, barely moving down the road from right to left at what must have been about 20 mph. It was an old sedan, what we used it call a land yacht. It was dented and rusted and beat-up. It had peeling, mismatched paint. The pillar behind the driver's door was pushed in, taking part of the door with it, as if the car had been T-boned at some point in the past. The tires were wallowing in an off-center, uneven, out-of-synch wobbly sort of way that says the frame and axles were bent. The car was struggling along and wasn't anywhere close to comfortable or reliable. It was transportation, but just barely, and definitely not the kind you'd want to be seen in or have to take very far.
I watched this scene for a few seconds, wondering what it was all about. Then the Lord broke the silence. He said, "That's you."
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