A prophet in his own land

This prophet thing is not really happening that quickly.  Three days, and so far just a light stubble. So I'm not so much looking prophetic as slightly scruffy.

I have cancelled today's pastoral visits in order to concentrate on eating raw steak and other such masculine food products, in the hope of rushing on the pastoral gift. Oddly, despite phoning seven people to tell them I wouldn't be round, I didn't detect in their voices any sense of desperation at missing the chance to see their pastor. I am glad to see that I am breeding in the Baptists of Frisby a sense of reliance on God alone, and not just on some unnecessary intermediary. And yet, I'm still disappointed that nobody begged me to come round,