Baby, when you hear hooves, sometimes it is a zebra—and that’s more than okay.
The uncommon shows up more often than we’re taught to expect. The outside-the-lines, thin-edge-of-the-wedge reality breaks in when you’re walking around dripping with grace, wrapped in forgiveness, joy shining right out of your pores like it forgot how to stay inside.
When you’re overwhelmed by the love Jesus has for you—when your spirit is undone and redone, recalibrated to true north, reoriented toward our Creator—you don’t tiptoe. You find a mountain. You lift your voice. You shout your praise. You hug your zebras.
You stop wasting time pretending normal is the goal.
Because once you’ve tasted that kind of mercy, you get very clear very fast: there’s no time left for small love. No room for quiet apathy. You get back to loving the crap out of everyone with both hands, full volume, whole heart.
And if you’re in a valley right now—wave your arms. Light a flare. Make a little holy ruckus. The zebras will come running. They always do. They’ll remind you that our Savior is not tame, not average, not minimal. He’s exotic and extra and astonishingly near—right there, next to you, just for you.
So go on.
Think zebra.
Be bold.
Love loud.
