I’ve prayed for the gift of healing for a long time now. I’ve asked for the supernatural ability to lay my hands on someone, requesting that the Lord intervene in their body, hoping to watch a miracle unfold, to see surprise and joy and freedom blossom in a moment. I’ll admit that this prayer may partially be motivated by vanity. People can resist prophecy, but who can deny a body miraculously restored to wholeness? How many people would come to faith after an event like that? Also? I love to tell a good story.

I flipped the yard light on and the living room lights off before closing the door. I’d had a disappointing evening and I needed to walk. I had figured out that it was good for my head to slip on the tennis shoes and to just start moving. It created space for me to think and to pray. Just put one foot in front of the other, take in the sights, the sounds and the smells, and let my mind do what it needed to.

I was late, therefore I was anxious. I could go off on all the reasons why one shouldn’t be late, but my emotional response to my own tardiness is probably a bit excessive. I was late, and freaking out, and therefore kind of speeding. Just a little. I try to avoid egregious law-breaking, but I was trying to avoid being later.

I’d promised a meal to some friends going through a hard time and had lost track of the day. Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal, but they live 45 minutes away. So I’d ordered pizza to be picked up along the way, jumped in the giant Ford Expedition, and I sped west.