The year was 1983, and I was seriously trying to be holy. Only the holy ought to minister God’s Word to God’s smallest lambs. I so much wanted this to be my ministry for the Lord; thus the need to be deemed holy enough to fill the bill. I had just wrapped up an all-day soul-searching session. Had really worked up a stupor after hours of praying, singing, confession, weeping. I had really put my soul through the wringer. I walked over to the window and knowingly patted myself on the back for being so worshipful. God knows I care. Must be why He made me to be calm and listen as I watched the other children from my station at the window. I took up the Cross that day, as I had promised, and learned the difference in being Christ-like, and in being a Christian servant. Being holy came only after the crushing weight of the cross was laid on the very back I had just patted. My will was devastated and God’s will put me virtually in fear’s grip.
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