I want to bring Jesus home with me.
But I can’t.
I don’t know why I don’t bring him home with me after today, Sunday. When his love sits beside me and sings along. I feel his love, want his love, would devour his love in front of every other starving heart, displaying my selfish nature.
I want to bring Jesus home with me. I want to put him in my cart with my eggs, my bacon, my orange juice and milk, my daily requirements. I want him easy to replenish, or borrow from a neighbor should I need a quarter cup more.
I want to know him with certainty, with the same confidence and reliability and predictability that I know fatigue and the dark still hours before dawn.
But it wouldn’t seem right to toss him in with a cart of disposable goods, everyday items, and yet…
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