Even as he heals you. Discomfort is often the raw material of wholeness.
Like spit made into mud and then pasted onto your eyes. Like being told to go wash in a pool that you cannot see the way towards. Like the tentative responses of those from whom you ask directions, who aren’t sure if they should say anything about the mess on your face. Like the moment you splash the cool water on your face and rub your eyes, awkwardly focusing your vision for the first time. Like the brightness of the sun that blinds you in a more shockingly beautiful way than the darkness ever had.
The Gospel of Comfort is no gospel at all.
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