Well before I was aware of myself as a singular being, I was immersed into what is referred to as the Christian tradition. Peering through my baby eyes into the faces of my mom and dad who bent lovingly over me, I was ignorant of the favored circumstances into which I had been born. It has been said that within every human culture is the innate desire to worship something. Whether it be to a god of millions, a chiseled stone, or an animal of the field, we intrinsically thrust our arms upward, lift our eyes to the heavens in response to this need we have to worship.
Christians worship Jesus Christ, the God-Man, the incarnate One, who, having assumed a human form when He was born in Bethlehem of Judea, lived on the earth for a short period of time, then was crucified, but rose from the dead and ascended into Heaven. His shed blood is the source of our redemption. A glorious facet of Christianity is that we experience a personal relationship with Jesus, and are of the keen thought that He hears us when we pray, and that He is distinctly aware of us, and of our situations.
Imagine my delight then as I walk this rugged detour to have one of my four children, my son Andrew, call me today, and after regaling me with encouraging words, say, “Mom, I want to pray with you. Right now.” And so he did. This child, born favored and unknowing as was I, in a simple, informal way, spoke with Jesus, and asked Him to touch his mother. I wept, and added my supplications.
Such are the smooth stones intermingled with that of the rough and sharp of my ugly detour. Such are the tiny flowers scattered about the trail as I go. Such is the sweet incense I press beneath my feet as I press forward.