I was kneeling on the floor, overwhelmed in the bright glory of the real and actual Son of God, my Brother, Jesus, prostrated soul, humbled mind, overwhelmed, moved. Tears flowed freely from the spring of my wounded heart. Thoughts of disbelief crossed my crowded mind. Shoulders tight, neck pained, the situation, the reality, the heavy MIRACLE of that moment stretching through and to the gates of heaven wore me down, smoothed me, revealed to me my essence. Resistance tempted me. Resistance begged me. Resistance commanded me to halt the tears, hold the breath, dismiss the sure and certain knowledge of the sureness and certainty of that long moment, that longest moment. And then He spoke. “Brother.” A floodgate of joyous tears and ecstasy crowded out the grey malaise and black fears and all was perfection, brilliant, the whitest white.

How could doubt ever visit my house after that experience? How? And yet, doubt still plagues me. The curse of humanity. The beauty of incertitude. The sweet innocent state of needing to ever grow, stretch, LEAP to faith, not faith from yesteryears, but the subtly brave faith, bathed in fear, salted with doubt, the faith of a perfectly imperfect adult child of God, big brother to my best friend, Jesus.