There are stretches of dryness where I haven’t been praying, reading His words, reflecting on Him, singing to Him, really engaged, really in tune. He slips in increments, like purple light beneath the coast, like a voice from a lumbering train. And it’s then I miss Him, a distinct pang of far away memory as much as I miss better times and real people, as much as I miss the sepia tinged laughter of childhood.
I sometimes choose later. I tell Him, “Tomorrow I’ll make the time, tomorrow I’ll miss You enough, later when I’m ready” — and tomorrow He is there, but I am not. So I have to stop. I have to take to the ground. I have to force a confrontation. I have to run through the fits and starts, the stutter of that first prayer, the tightening coil of distractions, the noise of my own mind. I need urgency to find Him. And there He is always, like warm water for cold bruised hands, like sun upon the hill: and I remember how good He is, how right, how so above the fleeting, how utterly true. I remember that I don’t have to wait, that He is not mad at my distance, and I don’t have to hold myself back from Him. I know that Sundays can be today. He is here, with grace.
— Pastor J.S. Park