by Holly Pritchett I am not at all like my Jesus. My worship has been convenient, slight. Ephemeral and immaterial--a good girl with a limited glory. No--my Jesus is GLORY. He stands at the threshold of time ushering it away--He will come. A sweeping return and the storms will cower at His majesty. Beautiful and terrible to behold. No--I am not at all like that. Hiding under the bed, crying at the storm, my distrust weakens my vision and I no longer see that I was fashioned thunder, lightening, and rain. Glorious, my Jesus WAS and IS and IS TO COME. The very voice of God calling to one still deciding on her voice. There are roads and maps and signs and I am too stupid to find the way. No--I am not like my Jesus. Opening doors, tipping well, hoping for greatness, yet my deeds condense into a small box labeled self. Having never really died nor lived. Lukewarm is the venomous adjective best describing my treachery. My Jesus went to the people fixed on ripping and shattering and butcherin...