The wind blows wherever it pleases.
You hear the sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going.
This is how it it is with all who are born of the Holy Spirit. Into their hearts It eases.
But into our soul, is this message like our spring grass seed, gently sowing.
In shady gladed area I have lain this seed. It lies buried waiting for gentle rain.
The rain will come. The grass green, luxuriant will grow multiplying one hundred times over.
Yes my feeble faith lies buried, hopeful, waiting to wipe away future death’s stain.
And this wind, never ceasing, brushing my cheek, caressing like a spiritual lover.
I cannot tell from whence it comes, but into my heart steals a presence.
It did not come from storm tossed Atlantic or North Sea. It came from within, a breath of life.
An atheist within tells me poppycock. All self-delusion. Have some sense.
But it can’t be resisted. Not physically real it cannot be cut by any reasoning knife.
But if a nagging doubt remains in some undefined deep mind’s cove.
Where does this presence come, if not from Holy Spirit above.