Talk to me, Abba.
As the waves of summer pass over me, I find myself looking for solitude to process, to reflect, to rejuvenate. We have been entrenched in warfare. We have been praying for souls to be won for Christ and He has been working. He has been winning. There is always a backlash from this sort of thing. I find myself walking and praying. I often utter the same phrases over and over. My thoughts as a mother of three constantly in travel mode ministering in chaos are not always intelligible. So, I simply say, "Maranatha." Come Lord, Jesus. Come to this place. Come to my neighbor's house. Come to this worship center. Come to my weary soul. I know God is everywhere, but this is a deeper thing I am crying out for. I cry out for the Spirit representation of the Son of God to come into the core of all I can see or feel or think about. When I have no good or beautiful words, Come Lord Jesus. When my mind is so full that I cannot think of what to pray for my friend, Come Lord Jesus. When I am aching in the core of who I am for someone I love, Come Lord Jesus.
There are words, and groans, and phrases, a symphony of Spirit grace and mercy.
Our Lord has come.
"Amen. Come, Lord Jesus."