“What do ya think? Should we be Mary and baby Jesus in the live nativity?”

It was slightly a disconnected question, neither of us had been talking about the baby Jesus, a live nativity, or her child.

She was a young mama with two small children, a newborn and a toddler. I smiled and answered, 

“How sweet. You would make a cute Mary and that sweet newborn baby would be a darling Baby Jesus.”

She corrected me, she wasn’t talking about her newborn, she meant her toddler. “They have all the newborn Jesuses they need, they need a slightly older Jesus for when the wise men come.” I understood better what she meant. When the magi came to present their gifts to Jesus he would have been a bit older, Mary the mother of a toddler. 

I giggled when she clarified. “Oh, your little fella will be so perfect! 

Then she said out loud what must have been her reason for hesitation when answering the call for participants. 

“Yeah but I don’t want anyone to see Baby Jesus throw a temper tantrum.”  

I envision Jesus having a toddler tantrum in all the moments of His earthly life and ministry when it would have been completely warranted, reasonable, and understandable. Moments when disappointment would have prevailed, sorrow pervasive, and despair prevalent. In all those moments He maintained self-control and never sinned. I pondered on that further.

“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.” Hebrews‬ ‭4‬:‭15‬

‭In every respect He was tempted and yet remained sinless, He didn’t throw a toddler tantrum and neither should I. 

I asked my friend if she knew what other details would pertain to the live nativity gig, and she she told me that the toddler Jesuses would take shifts and that the The Wise Men will bring some gifts and open them up presenting them to the Jesus stand-ins. “But it’s not gold frankincense or myrrh… I’ve actually heard it’s Cheetos,” and I began to laugh, deep belly laughs that the word says are good like a medicine. I laughed until I wheezed at the irony of the gifts and the presentation of a snack food to pacify grumpy toddlers, and for the appreciation of my King and what a good gift-giver, Savior, and friend that He is. 

In my line of work one must cause pain to bring about healing. It’s a fact that Intravenous (into the vein) medications can only be introduced into the vein one way, through a small catheter introduced with a needle. That introduction hurts.

In over two decades of working IV access has been called many things, a stick, a poke, an ouchie, an owie, the devil’s fingernail, all number of negative things. An IV placement is never a fun experience and it can be challenging at times. It is painful but necessary for healing.   

So the day I walked through the hallway saying, “I’ve stuck that baby twice already today” and it wasn’t even noon it was no surprise my coworker looked up from his computer puzzled. He knew what I know, multiple sticks in a short time frame is a bit of an oddity. He was puzzled and his expression told me so. He leaned forward like he was ready to help me remedy the situation. I noticed his confusion and quickly clarified. 

“Not the baby, her baby.” He was still confused. “Her baby doll, I’ve had to pretend stick that baby twice today.” He leaned back in his chair, the confusion dissipating from his face.

I’ve had to pretend stick lots of babies, teddy bears, Lego dudes, cartoon characters galore. If it is an accompaniment to my patient made of plush, plastic or rubbery covering and can be held together with adhesive I’ve been known to pretend place an IV before placing a real IV in my patient.

Time and experience have taught me having a friend with a similar ailment, in this case an IV, is oftentimes helpful for my little friends. That particular day the plastic patient was just shy of six inches tall making the maintenance of its pretend IV placement a tad difficult; in addition the pretend patient’s caregiver kept carrying her around by said IV. The tape kept giving away. Hence my second stick prior to noon. Before the day was over I would have pretend placed that IV no less than six times.

I’ll be honest I’ve practiced pretend IV placement for a number of years and known it’s helpful for my patients but I’ve never thought about why it’s so helpful until after that sixth stick that day.

As humans we tolerate suffering better when we are not alone. The word is clear in numerous places that we are never alone or forsaken if we know God. We will endure trials and suffering but we are promised we will not do it alone. The enemy works through isolation, God works through community. When we find ourselves in times of suffering we can trust that God is near, close in fact to the broken-hearted, and that He cares for us. Like a friend with a pretend IV, just knowing we aren’t alone is so very comforting and ushers in healing on the heels the sorrow and pain.

But there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.

Proverbs 18:24

James 5:16 “Therefore confess your sins to one another AND pray for one another, that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person has great power as it is working.”

That’s the ESV version. The AMV (Amy Martin version) goes something like this:

“Pray for each other for all kinds of things, but especially for healing, the prayers of God’s people get stuff done!”

In the wee hours of the morning a few weeks ago I sat in the hospital next to my mama. I found myself  somewhere between midnight vital signs and dark-thirty. There was her rhythmic soft snoring in my right ear and a Jane Austen documentary playing from my phone in my left, I thought about that verse.

I looked over to my right and mama was lying on her side sleeping and I thought what a gift of grace and mercy I had been given. Immediately my thoughts turned to all the prayers of the people and how powerful and effective they were, how what seemed like an impossibility just a few hours before was now the reality.

My mama had a stroke, what could have been a bad one. Had things been different words like catastrophic and detrimental, would be the only ones to describe what happened rather than healed, good, expected full recovery.

I thought about time and a domino effect that led to that moment in time and the providence of what happened, and I told my Lord I was sorry. I confessed my sin, not so mama could be healed, but because she had been despite my confession. I call it backwards thinking, I think backwards leading up to an event to determine if I can sort out what happened. It is a strange practice but I must admit I learned it from one of my favorite writers. This writer would take the reader backwards in time discovering the facts and actions surrounding circumstances until the logical conclusion could be reached. Oftentimes it is a series of seemingly small or unrelated circumstances, possibilities of chance, choices and actions that have an impact on the world and way the reader is living today. 

The entertainment business has also taken up the practice. There are shows that recreate the moments leading up to a disaster in order to figure out what and where things went wrong to produce such catastrophic outcomes. My backwards thinking moments do not always come with such dramatic and intense results like say, a bridge collapse, but in this circumstance, in that moment, it was life over death. 

Several Sunday nights before, 4 weeks to the day actually, I sat in an emergency vet holding our little dapple doxie as she died.

I was wrecked.

Life has been especially grueling and one of my sweetest, most comforting, and constant companions was that little doggie. She hardly was out of my presence and when I so desperately needed a tangible reminder, encouragement, and ever-present friend that little wiener-dog was it.

Even if I hadn’t said out loud but a few times, I’d said to God in my heart at least a dozen if not more,

“Really God? Really? I mean life is crummy right now but did ya have to take my dog too?!”

That question was always met by silence, and a bitterness about it all was growing inside of me. Isolation, silence, anger and resentment are like growth hormones for bitterness.

I kept trying to remind myself of what I know, God’s ways aren’t my ways, He is good and He can be trusted but I just kept meeting that with “But what good could come from taking my one doggie friend?”

I now know.

A good that He couldn’t have explained to me in full but I reckon He knew I’d figure out in the wee hours of the morning, while sitting in a yellowish hospital chair, next to mama with a Jane Austen documentary playing in the background.

A couple of weeks after Macy died Charlotte and Shelton adopted a pup from the pound (I don’t even think that’s what it’s called anymore, but I digress.) A pup that is named Dot and belongs to Charlotte. Had Macy not died there would be no Dottie Joe Martin in my house. 

Dottie is kinda dumb. But I’ve discovered she’s also kind of smart. She’s a bonafide mutt of some sort and a puppy, for sure. I had been trying to teach Dottie some basic things necessary to survive her puppyhood under my roof.

The Sunday before had started out rough, so as divine providence would have it I was home, walking that dumb Dottie when my mama called me. Any other Sunday afternoon I wouldn’t have been home. Any other Sunday afternoon I would have been miles and more than just minutes away.

Any other Sunday I couldn’t have done what was done to save mama’s life. Any other Sunday I wouldn’t have had Dumb Dottie training in progress when life took a drastic turn.

It wasn’t until that moment in the hospital when I knew and understood what I had no way of knowing or understanding before. As I sat next to mama (who has mostly regained everything lost, who is expected to make a full recovery but just needs a little time to get there, who received a life-saving, “time-critical” medication, exactly within the window of needing it) I knew and understand why my dog and sweet friend had to leave my side at the exact moment she did. And for the first time in my life I recognized and understood God’s sovereignty in a real and tangible way. 

My eyes began to water and I confessed my sin not so that, but because my mama was healed.

Mama is home and besides some medication management and minimal changes she has done remarkably well. I will admit  she can’t cough without my mind going to dark places. In time, I am trusting as mama heals, my heart will too. And I recognize that it was my backwards thinking and God’s higher thoughts that yielded that outcome.

She stood with the lake to her back, her voice drifted up from the amphitheater. She was dressed in a skort and a bright pink shirt. 

Once upon a time she was a teacher, now she’s the camp director and it’s her job to ensure safety and to clearly communicate rules and expectations. Just shy of seventy-five faces were looking in her direction as she laid out the ground rules of the week’s camp session. She was giving the dos and the don’ts, the places of safety, the places that were off limits. She was clearly communicating when she made the statement that caught my attention.

 I’ve never been a good rule follower, but in certain situations I like a rule, life or death for example I like a rule.

Rules ensure safety and survival. Rules ultimately are for the protection of the one who does follow them. She had just told the listening audience, also known as “the campers,” that if they had any contraband, food or phones they should turn them into her. She said very directly and clearly, “You’re not in trouble, we just don’t need those things in the cabins.” I smiled, knowing some aptly named pirate’s booty snacks had made it into a cabin earlier in the day. If the Pirate’s Booty wasn’t surrendered voluntarily, it would most definitely be confiscated during bunkcheck. 

She’d asked for questions, and like a good speaker she repeated it back for both the question asker and the other listeners. 

“Can we use our flashlight when it’s dark if we brought one?”

She answered the question immediately. “Of course you can! A flashlight is always a good idea.” 

I let the statement rattle around in my mind for a moment. 

“A flashlight is always a good idea.” I wondered if in history there was ever a time when a flashlight was not a good idea. When light shining in the darkness was ever a bad thing. My mind wandered to what I knew about the Watergate scandal of the Nixon era and its depiction in the film Forrest Gump. I thought about how it was the phone call Forrest made after seeing flashlights shining in the darkness that alluded to the exposure of the scandal. 

Most people do not even give much thought to a flashlight these days. Most cell phones have a flashlight feature. But here in this place, that camp where children and adults are unplugged a bit, a flashlight seemed the most necessary object, valued for its total illumination, and not to be overlooked. 

A flashlight has a way of cutting through the darkness to reveal what was unseen previously. 

A flashlight makes a way in the darkness, and without it one is prone to stumbling. 

A flashlight, albeit small in the big scheme of things, is powerful and effective. 

A flashlight is always a good idea. 

When the Lord Himself spoke of being light in darkness, words recorded in Matthew, I wonder if He looked forward in time and thought as he commanded them then, and as He commands us Believers now, if He was saying,

“Be a flashlight. In my Kingdom, a flashlight is always a good idea!”

As my nurse friends and I  peered into the display case we first tried to figure out what it was we were looking at. The informational display case had recently been redone and laying before us was an unusual object, dry and fragile in appearance, slightly transparent but not. As we all walked closer to the glassed front display case, we all seemed to realize simultaneously what it was we were looking at, a shed snake skin. The specimen before us  had once been the outer covering of a snake. 

The skin was large and all I could think at the time was, “That is one big ol’ timber rattler.” There was a collective “Eww!” once we all realized what it was we were looking at, and without verbally communicating it, we moved quickly past the glasses in case outlining snake bite first aid. 

I do not love a snake, not even a little bit, but as I walked briskly away from the shed snake skin a recent conversation was brought back to my remembrance.

I had just come in from my morning quiet time.

“Oh I love a good snake bite!” 

The older Lady sitting next to me took a swig of her coffee.

Her eyes big as saucers she said, “Why?” Her “why” had three syllables and an air of disbelief and disgust woven within it.

Earlier that morning I had made my way to the outdoors for my quiet time just as the sun was illuminating the sky with dark pinks and yellows. The day was new and the sunrise over the lake promised that day to be a good one. It would be a day full of fun, just as the previous camp days had been good. Those days are days of smiles and laughter, boating, crafts, swimming, snacks and things good summer days are made up of.

I was sitting on the back deck, talking to the King when I spied a fast moving head in the water below. I thought initially it was a turtle having come to the surface for air and breakfast. I peered deeper into the clear water and realized it was a snake swimming as he crawled with a swiftness and silence that just barely broke the stillness of the water. 

I was telling my camp colaborers about the snake encounter as they drank their coffees. 

It was then I said the comment about loving a good snakebite.

Over the long career of pediatric nursing I have encountered many a snakebite victim. By the time I’ve met them, the snakebite victim is usually in the healing and recovery phase, and while they are still in need of anti-venom and subsequent lab monitoring they are mostly mending. 

It isn’t that I love that a kid has been bitten by a snake, I hate that. But it’s just I love a good story and those snake bite kiddos always have a good story. I tried desperately to explain this to my puzzled cohorts.

It was then I said a fact I knew and understood for quite sometime but had until that moment not fully wrapped my brain around the spiritual lesson.

“Crofab, the antivenom we typically give IV (intravenously) is made of sheep’s blood.” I’ve often wondered how that was discovered, and I love that in His wisdom and perfection the King designed the natural world in just such a way that the healing of an otherwise devastating, deadly, detrimental bite can be cured by the blood of the Lamb.

It amazes me that I’m His wisdom and in a foreshadowing in the everyday modern medical world God gives us a picture of redemption. 

The blood of the Lamb alone could cure the bite of sin from the serpent. Snakes aren’t my favorite, I avoid them if possible, the them being snakes for they are a reminder of that first mention of a serpent who tricked our first mom and dad into believing God was holding out on them. The first venom sting of the serpent, known as sin, reverberating throughout time causing pain and suffering to humanity, yet all along the Lamb would come to redeem and restore what the serpent tried to take. 

It was a half mindless scroll the day I came across the posts of a friend, I have literally known her as far back as I can remember. She was our babysitter one summer; she drove a fancy blue trans am kind of car; her mama taught me every Bible song from childhood I know and made peanut butter cookies that might make the Pope use profanities. Susan, our babysitter introduced me to Prince and “Raspberry Beret.” Truth be told, back then I didn’t even know what a beret was, much less how you would make one from raspberries, but I knew you could get one like it from the second-hand-store. Susan was with me the time I was swinging and accidentally swallowed a wasp. My tongue swelled and I had a hefty antihistamine dose that caused me to wake up from a nap wondering if I had skipped the summer and already turned 8 years old.  

Through the gift of social media I can keep up with Susan now, and she had taken a trip across the world. Again in full disclosure I won’t lie. I was a tad jealous. Susan was checking one off on my very own bucket list, however, to my satisfaction she had and was posting magnificent pictures to the social media. My mindless scrolling had turned from pausing to stalking. I was enthralled with her pictures and then I came across one with a caption. It asked if anyone knew what the apparatus was located next to the toilet. I smiled to myself, I am somewhat cultured after all, and I have watched the 1988 film “Big Business” so many times I can quote lines verbatim whenever the mood strikes, which is precisely where I learned about just such an apparatus, and “It’s called a bidet.” I even said it in Bette Middler’s voice. 

Then I read the next line in the caption, “It’s not a toilet or a bidet, it’s a foot washing sink.” I stopped cold. I examined the picture, stretched my fingers across the screen so I could get a better look and then I remembered Susan was in the Middle East, the land of my King. 

I immediately translated the foot washing sink in my head into a “footwasher” and then I went backwards in my memory. It was Easter week some years or a year ago and again  I was mindlessly scrolling again and a picture or a text question with a graphic background asked the question: “If you had one day left to live what would you do?” I paused and began to hypothetically answer the question, and then I read the second half of the statement, “Jesus knew and He washed feet.” That statement hit me like a ton of bricks. Jesus on the last day he was to live gathered his people around Him and he washed their dusty, stinky, dirty, sand covered, aching feet. Jesus, fully man and fully God, sinless and perfect on the last day He lived got down on the floor and He was a footwasher. I came back to the present in my mind and I examined the modern day footwasher more closely. I reasoned that feet still get awful dusty and dirty in the middle east and out of modern convenience, placed next to the modern day commode was a footwasher. Low to the ground, humble, and waiting to be used and I realized My King really did come not to be served but to serve and He has called me to do the same, to be a footwasher. 

They were utterly astonished, saying, “He has done all things well; He makes even the deaf to hear and the mute to speak.” Mark 7:37 NASB

I was weary from the week and to be honest I kept having to take baby steps to get to the next thing. When I was a child I used to play a game called “Mother May I?” The object of the game is to reach the mother and the finish line. Baby steps are advantageous to the mother but frustrating for the children, it takes so much longer to reach the finish line when one is shuffling along as opposed to giant steps that are a much wider gait.

 Baby steps these days were apart from the “Mother May I?” and they looked a bit more like,

“Get dressed for work.” 

 “Get to the car.” 

“Choose your radio station, pick the one with the Bible quiz every morning.”

“Okay now Swing by the McDonalds and grab a sweet tea with a lemon. Go to the one that gives you a tiny bag of individual lemons.” 

If it were a “giant step” morning it would be “Go to work.” 

I was baby stepping my way to work in the cold rain and had pulled over to the aforementioned McDonalds. I paused in the parking lot long enough to turn the radio back up and I could hear the radio host speaking. The host sounds like a pastor to me. His words are always measured and deliberate. He pauses when he asks a question and he is friendly and kind. The radio host’s unconfirmed pastor’s voice came through the speaker. It was calm and measured and I recognized he was praying. 

He does this every morning. He chooses a people group and he prays for them; he asks the audience to pray with him. I used to feel awkward praying with a person I have never met, but I don’t anymore. My tea purchase had caused me to miss for whom we were praying for today, and for what. 

Some days we have prayed for husbands; we have prayed for wives, for stay at home parents, for people in the entertainment industry. We have prayed for those who are in a job search and those in the clergy. I was unsure who we were praying for this wet dark morning but he made a statement that was sobering and shook me to my core. 

He prayed, “If I should die in the next hour, may my heart cry out forever ‘My God has done all things well. Amen”

As soon as the statement registered I felt the pang of conviction, I heard that still small voice of the Spirit speak and I knew without question that should I die in the next hour that would not be what my heart would cry out. There was no way it could, if I couldn’t honestly say it for one minute now, how could my heart cry for eternity possibly be “My God has done all things well”?

I was shook, shaken, flabbergasted, astonished, bewildered, stupefied, taken aback, and all other vocabulary-list-worthy words conveying shock. 

“My God has done all things well.” 

It was a statement and not an interrogative, but the realization in that moment as I sat frozen and fixed, was that I realized my heart cry is actually “My God has done all things well, question mark.” 

Seriously, all things? All the things? I mulled over in my mind. All things? I began to dialog directly with God. 

“All things? No Lord, not all things.”

“All things Amy.” 

“But Lord, not all things. What about this circumstance that resulted in that outcome that has left these consequences? Not these things?”

“All things Amy Elizabeth.”

But Lord, all things? Really? But Lord you know right now, this moment, this hurt and season of despondency I am feeling, this is done well?” 

“Yes. All things. Have you forgotten my very nature, that I am incapable of not doing all things well?”

When He asks me questions, He knows I am forced to think.

I had not forgotten. The realization was, I had not even considered that aspect of His perfect nature. I had somehow in my mind compartmentalized and separated His perfection with His doing all things well. I had relegated His doing things well to the first six days of creation when he saw it as good. 

Tears came to my eyes and before long my face resembled the windshield in front of me. I told the Lord I was sorry and asked Him for His forgiveness that He had long ago already given me, and I thanked Him for being kind and patient, for abounding in love and for showing me that true nature of my heart and of His. I asked Him to help me to remember to take baby steps each day remembering and living out, “If I should die in the next hour, may my heart cry for eternity be. ‘My God has done all things well.’”

“You are good, and what you do is good; teach me your decrees.” Psalm 119:68 NIV 

If You Know You Know.

Sometimes I think to myself, “Later on this is gonna be hammered out into a story.” That kind of prognostication doesn’t always happen in the moment as something is happening, but it does happen. 

The thought began with an advertisement of sorts a month or so prior to the actual event, but the beginning of the story goes back a ways and began with an advertisement as well.

The Story

I was younger and it was still the era of the radio. I would listen to the radio as I prepared for my day. Many times a commercial would air, it was for a fine jewelry store. The proprietor was named Rhoda and she owned and operated Levy’s Fine Jewelry. I had never stepped foot in Levy’s, but I knew Rhoda. Well, I didn’t actually know Rhoda, but I knew her voice. I would recognize it the moment she started giving out free advice to hopeless romantics seeking her help to win another’s love. “Desperate in Dora” might write in to Rhoda, and Rhoda would reply with something along the lives of,  “Come on down to Levy’s Fine Jewelry, and we’ll help you pick out the right big diamond for your gal and before you know it she’ll be covering your face with kisses.”  Rhoda was always more than generous during her Christmas time advice sessions.

I read last summer that Rhoda had passed away, I didn’t know her personally, obviously, but I knew I wouldn’t be hearing her on the radio any more. I honestly hadn’t thought much more of Rhoda until I ran across that add for an Estate Sale. It was Rhoda’s house and her collections of fine art and furnishings were up for sale. I am voyeuristic in nature so I clicked through those pictures with intrigue and curiosity. Rhoda had some very fine art and furnishings up for grabs but I knew just by looking at them they were way out of my league. I’d watched enough Antiques Roadshow to know that Hudson River School Art painting she had was worth more than what I had budgeted for just such an occasion. I also knew that apart from a museum I’d likely never see that much art in one place in my lifetime again. I also knew Rhoda was Jewish and she may potentially have something I’d been wanting, something that was within my budget. So I made a plan. I invited my sister and mama, who both declined the invitation to accompany me, but my husband agreed to go and we set out with a plan. 

We, along with what seemed like a thousand of our closest friends with a common goal in mind piled into Rhoda’s home. My mouth hung open most of the time and I distinctly remember three things that stood out to me.

1. Rhoda’s boudoir. She had a wall of closets. he first one I entered had drawers upon drawers and shelves on top of shelves. A large number of ten drawers had locks on them and I pointed them out to my husband. Locked drawers in a bedroom closet, I was puzzled only briefly, and then I conjectured they must’ve been for securing all that Levy’s fine jewelry she had.

2. A woman who stood at the foot of  Rhoda’s bed trying on Rhoda’s clothes. Modesty and meekness did not seem to fit this lady’s M.O. I was still processing the dressing lady when Number Three crossed my path, or I it rather.

3. Rhoda’s bathtub. About the time I said “Whoa!” and had not yet even begun to calculate what a tub like that might do to a monthly water bill. My husband who does not share my same line of sight said, “Hey you want Rhoda’s sunglasses?”

For a mere $5 I purchased Rhoda’s former UV eye protection. A quick internet search after I got home revealed to me I’d purchased Designer Sunglasses. I should’ve expected nothing less from Rhoda whose head was a wee bit smaller than my own. 

I don’t rightly know what my expectations were for that Estate Sale, nor the story it would yield but I know this: in my wildest dreams I couldn’t have bargained for what I got.

I left Rhoda’s with what I had come for, a Seder plate (and not just one but three), a pair of sunglasses, fodder for storytelling, and memories that won’t soon fade.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later the Rhoda’s House adventure came full circle and taught me a spiritual application as well.

I was working and a coworker was looking at a house for sale. She has looked at dozens of houses, she too has learned about my curious and voyeuristic tendencies and gets my attention when something is particularly interesting, tacky, or just plain weird.

I heard her make a comment about the closet of a particular house. I  looked and recognized immediately what I was looking at, the MLS listing was a place all too familiar to me,

“That’s Rhoda’s house,” I said to my coworker. She knew about my trip to Rhoda’s. I pointed at the drawers with the locks.

“Really? How do you know?”

“And you’re about to see a bathroom with a big giant blue tub that all five of us could fit in,” was my reply.

I motioned to those of us working together and sure enough a couple of mouse clicks later and there it was. The tub.

Because my time at Rhoda’s had been the adventure it had been, I was able to recognize it weeks later, completely empty, on a computer screen. I’ve since termed that sort of recognition as “A Rhoda’s House Experience.”

The Lesson

As I study the Word I want to be able to recognize Jesus anywhere and everywhere in scripture. I want to know Him so well. I want to know the distinct character of God so solidly that I am able to discern him immediately as I study. I am not a biblical scholar by any means, but I can know Him well enough that by the Holy Spirit’s revelation I can recognize Him immediately from Genesis to Revelation. I can seem Him in the Jewish Passover, the Israelite Exodus, I can see Jesus in the Manna in the Wilderness. I can know undoubtedly that Jesus is the Messiah from Isaiah’s depiction of Him. I can understand His character in the dry bones made to live again in Ezekiel, and I can be reminded again that He is trustworthy and true all the way through Scripture.

Jesus said to him, “Have I been so long with you, and yet you have not come to know Me?” John 14:9