A young tree yields before the wind, but often we won’t yield to anything, much less the Holy Spirit. It’s a matter of pride, don’t you know.
That is probably why I stood planted on the street corner, watching the throngs ebbing and flowing.
Unable to say a word of warning or greeting, shuffling from one leg to the other, keeping the blood pumping against the cold. Connecting the dots between that which was brought to remembrance in my mind’s eye to that in my field of view.
Is this the day? Is this the time?
I’ve not heard the call. Nor the sound of the trumpet.
Only the echo to remain ready and to watch the skies.