Jesus spit on me this morning

I was on jogging through Cherokee Park, being led by the soothing sounds of Horse Feathers playing from my ipod. The morning was grey and particularly warm, the trees were naked, and my legs were sore from my first week of Crossfit. I'm not a runner, but I do enjoy running sometimes. It's usually interspersed with walking or sprinting, and it's almost always a spiritual experience. God's voice is especially discernible within my moments of tension and fighting against something (like my own body).

So there I was, running, thinking about this time in my life. I am an inbetweener. I feel incomplete and a bit lonely and pretty confused about my path. I don't always feel this way, but when I'm not intentionally fighting against those feelings, they sometimes rise up and spook up on me. I felt the need for healing. Something is wrong and afraid. Something about these feelings of doubt are not from the Lord. And in my head, to the rhythm of "This Bed" I prayed for a real change. Healing, I guess. Whatever needs to happen to normalize my heart toward my Jesus so that I can find my sustenance for life and love in him again.

It was then that the sky starting spitting at me. A few drops at a time of warm liquid, hitting my face, my bare arms and knees. Ah. It felt good. I haven't run in the rain in a while. Smile to my lips. And thankfulness to Jesus. For everything, complete and incomplete both. An image came to mind of Jesus spitting before touching the deaf, speechless man (and then saying Ephphatha-- "be opened"), and spitting on the blind man's eyes. He took them both away from the crowds, spit, and then laid hands to heal. (Mark 7:33-34, 8:23)

He's taken me away from crowds, spit on me, and is now proclaiming me "healed" and "opened".