Faith comes down to taking God at his absolute word
So If he says “Jump!”
I imagine it wouldn’t be too high
Or how long
Or do my shoes work for that?
Or will I pull my butt muscles?
Or if an Irish beagle in Cincinnati could do it on a Thursday morning at 10:06am and then also do it for the next consecutive week, a little more here and a little more there, trying to gain altitude and stature as he went, so that he might tackle the rest of the world from the pulpit and be home from dinner to make chicken fried steak and white gravy and pick up a spare gallon of milk at the church then I guess maybe just for a second I could quantify the research on how he did that so that I could at the end of the day equivocate over an envelope and weep over a bucket and then douse myself in those tears so I could ring them like oil from my hair and sell them into jars and bake some braided bread in an easy bake and then hopscotch down an aisle and braid my babies hair like the bread and then after a long life of happy wafers and awesome awesomeness and snowflakes and glitter and beaded bangles morning stars and promises cast into metal, I could maybe just
It would be Jump.