disciple to The Master

I have followed you, Lord, at a distance--trudging at the straggle ends of the crowd where your words are faint and you seem, somehow, small and flat. Was it to make you manageable? Or was it because, at that distance, you seemed less likely to notice me and shake your head and send me packing back to the foot of the table? I could not see well enough, from there, to note a flicker of disgust in your eye or to run hard against a challenge.

But there is something about you eminently irresistible. And I find myself nudging through a press of doubts, little by little, the churned dust thinning now and then to show your back ever larger and nearer. If I imagine, I can almost feel your words stroking through my heart, the heart you have promised to make tender. Nearer and nearer I come now, until I poke up beside you, sweaty and dust covered, and crane my neck for a glimpse of your face. Funny how faith means, at this moment, believing you will do the opposite of turning me away.