The little golden foal had just had her fill of fresh, warm milk from her mother. She was now leaping around the hillside while her mother continued grazing behind her. Tall green grass peeped beneath the foal as she pranced around, frolicking through scattered wildflowers. She almost seemed to laugh as tiny orange butterflies flew away from their resting places upon her arrival. A small whinny burst from her strong chest in glee at her new companions’ flight. The wings of a few butterflies flit against her muzzle and she sneezed. Everything was so new for her; as she was new for it. This world. It was massive to her, unending. Unyielding. As far as she knew. The fields were endless. The trees could touch the sky. Oh the sky!
The thought had her throwing back her head, running in a circle and bucking her back legs into the air.
She sometimes daydreamed that she was one of those birds soaring way up high.
What would it be like to fly?
But then she would miss the thrill of a good run. How she loved to run. Nothing felt more freeing. She never felt stronger. Lighter.
Almost like she was flying.
Running was her flying.
The foal imagined that her passion to gallop was akin to the eagle’s love for soaring. In this they were the same. Created with a purpose. One that was both necessary, yet also a gift just for them.
Just because it seemed good to Him.
Passion.
Passion in purpose.
She was made for this. This innate ability. This intentionally deposited passion. To run.
And dare another try and stop her. She was wild. She was free. And she was made to be. One with the world sweeping under her as she blitzed across the open plain like an arrow. Just for fun. This was what freedom felt like. Her hooves stomping beneath her. Every muscle in her body working in tandem to move her onward. She felt the tension, the pressure and the exerting of energy that required perseverance at times. But the physical exertion grew dim in comparison with the joy of being and living and moving exactly the way she was made to. Freely. Unrestrained. And she imagine that the One that made her, smiled as He watched her. His creation living. Living how He had made her to be.
Could it be?
That my greatest worship
is to be
fully me
unto my King.
Where passion
meets purpose.
A design
intentionally crafted
and uniquely me.
Not a mold or chisel
that I take upon my flesh.
Not a lover of self,
but a freeing,
unrestrained
yielding
to the One in whom I
have become one with.
To the One in whom I
live
and move
and have my being.
Could this be my truest worship?
to
walk
to
run
to
fly
in
my
original
design,
both spirit and in truth?
Could it be?
An offering of life,
to live for Him
my purchased life.
Could this be death for me,
to live as truly me in Him?
Could our greatest stumbling block,
our sneakiest sin,
be
our own desire
to be
other
or
less than
all that Creator has made us to be?
frolicinfields 