Recently, I find myself going about my day, trying very hard to look normal, as though I’m going about my day. My head ruminates over the wrong I’ve done. The sin. The denial. I listen to my friends talk about their experiences with the living Christ, and I pretend to be the same kind of excited that says: Yes, wonderful! It’s happened to me as well. Aren’t we lucky? We will help turn this world upside down!
They smile and nod at me, but I think they know better. God hasn’t shown up to see me. I’ve sinned so badly. Denied Him again and again. And again. God has no use for me. He reveals Himself to only the true followers, right? What does that even mean?
Great. It’s awkward and quiet now. I’ve made them uncomfortable, perhaps. My stomach reminds me that I’m hungry. Crankiness and hunger are working together. Sitting in this boat, all I hear is the lapping water. That’s okay, it’s a sound I can rely on. I’ve grown up on these waters. It’s familiar. The sea I know and can understand. Nothing else makes sense but the water, the tides, the fish… The fish haven’t shown up, though.
Someone speaks and jolts me from my thoughts. What? Suddenly I find myself in the water, swimming like mad for the shore. Consumed. It feels like I’m swimming for life. Despite shame and overwhelming guilt, all I want is to see Jesus face to face. There’s so much I need to say. What if He has nothing to say to me? At least I’ll know. As my head continues to spin, I can feel the sandy bottom, some small stones, and I’m dragging myself up, in a slow-motion run to the shore. Soaking wet and out of breath, I fold over, panting. The water drips down my face, my lungs burn from exhaustion, muscles quivering.
Then I hear, “Come and have breakfast.”
I love you, I love you, I love you.