From village to town the trodden roads of a Murid's trail settling in the dust before the night fell. Train to bus and house to house their journey would lead them hundreds of miles beyond any doubts. Searching for the Shaik from Mosque to store, their research would take them right to his door.
Low and behold together they sat, stories and memories etched in ones cap. A whisper, a cry, a runaway train, Master's, Servants and sacrifice made. What our journeys behold, no man can explain, death that escapes us and lives that are changed.
Like the pain and the joy wove into one thread, life pours like a river shifting ones head. When starting from mire in darkness untold there is life in mere Word's that begin to unfold. Once hearing the Shaik there's decisions to be made, a commitment, a grasp, a birth to be gained.
A ha! I see it, the Spirit has come, a Kingdom uniting under One sun. While some not perceive it my eyes have now seen, the wind is now blowing and carrying me.
The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.
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