Am I childlike enough to continue traveling on the only road—the narrow one—where the story of Jesus reveals both the stupidity and the arrogance of the story I prefer to tell, the one that I so easily believe has a better plot? As the narrow road squeezes out of me what I’ve long believed I cannot live without, will brokenness over my foolish narcissism release a cry for mercy from my soul? Or will I grumble and complain, and tenaciously hang on to whatever remains that seems essential to my well-being?
