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I recently started Henri Nouwen's "The Return of the Prodigal Son" and was reading this past Tuesday afternoon while waiting for my sister to complete her first soccer practice of the season. The parking spot which I had happened to choose was located in front of the baseball field and behind the plate. A young girl began warming up, throwing the yellow softball over-hand to her older partner, moving back and back as she threw. She stood sideways, her feet placed far apart from one another, and I was beginning to wonder if softball pitchers always stood that way when she suddenly flew into action. Leaping in the air, her arm spun around once, her right foot kicking forward while the left came down behind to act as a break. In a flurry of motion and a cloud of dust it began and end and the ball landed with a thud in her partner's glove.
"I really did not have an inkling of how difficult the journey would be. I did not realize how deeply rooted my resistance was and how agonizing it would be to 'come to my senses,' fall on my knees, and let my tears flow freely. Each little step toward the center seemed like an impossible demand, a demand requiring me to let go one more time from wanting to be in control, to give up one more time the desire to predict life, to die one more time to the fear of not knowing where it all will lead, and to surrender one more time to a love that knows no limits. And still, I knew that I would never be able to live the great commandmente to love without allowing mylse fot be loved without conditions or prerequisites. The journey from teaching about love to allowing myself to be loved proved much longer than I realized." H. Nouwen
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