Sometimes I struggle with the words.
When I climbed up the embankment at the crash site yesterday where Midwest Boulevard passes under Turner Turnpike, what passed between me and that redbud tree with magenta buds peeking out on its branches was more than just some diffuse emotion. The physical contact was comforting and reduced my own internal jangling confusion just a little. I had ridden up there in response to some wordless moral imperative in the first place.
You could call it a sense of conviction, but that moment shared with an unfallen member of God’s Creation passed something to me that didn’t register on my conscious mind right away. The conscious mind is too immediate to process eternal moral stuff. I could tell you that God spoke to me from the middle of a bush that doesn’t yet appear aflame as it will later, but you might get the wrong impression from such an image. If I remind you that all Creation sings of God’s moral character, it might make more sense. But the tree itself had experienced things individually in its odd location there.
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