For the past year I’ve been caught in this quiet, holy stalemate with Only Jesus. I’m still parked in chapter five, not because I lack ambition (I finished several other books in the interim), but because this meditation on “And Jesus slept” keeps undoing me. Every time I open the book, I reread that chapter, feel it land and float at the same time, like an orchestra swelling all over again, and then close it like you do when the food’s too rich to rush.
Weeks go by. I chew. I pray. I circle back.
Maybe one day, maybe all at once in an afternoon, or before month’s end, I’ll feel emboldened to move on to chapter six. But right now, chapter five keeps finding me exactly where I am: tired, human, and oddly comforted by a God who knows how to sleep in the middle of the storm. And I keep praying for the grace to let Him sleep, not waking Him like the frazzled disciples, but learning to trust in quiet adoration as He rests deep in my heart.
Part of me wants this book shouted from every parish rooftop alongside all the other spiritual classics by every spiritual father. The other part knows its power lives in the fact that it’s discovered, not assigned.
