Glass Batteries
Plus the Speed of Obedience
Glass Batteries
The first thing he noticed was the quiet.
Not the good kind—the kind that arrives after work is done—but the thin quiet that hums, like a room waiting to be told what it is for.
He was in the kitchen with the window closed, morning cold kept out, the parts on the counter.
They were smaller than he remembered.
Clear tubes, hair-thin wires, caps like thimbles. Glass everywhere. He had assembled this battery before, years ago. He remembered that now.
The remembering came without heat or accusation, just fact.
It had always been hard. It had always required care that bordered on reverence.
He fitted the first tube. It clicked. The second slid into place. His hands were steady. He had learned steadiness the long way.
The third tube shattered.
A soft sound. Almost polite. A spidering of cracks, then collapse. Shards spilled across the tile. He froze—not in panic. Assessment. Then he saw the cat step into the doorway, curious, nose down.
“Tsst!” he hissed, but gently.
He reached for the broom under the sink, sweeping the glass into a tight crescent, shielding the cat with his leg. It was too late to save the pieces but not too late for her paws.
He cleared the floor until it was safe again. Not clean. Safe. Grit still clung to the corners. Old dirt. Deferred thoughts.
He straightened, looked about the house.
Boxes by the door. Furniture out of place. Where to? Where was he going? No one else was getting ready.
Voices drifted from the garage.
He stepped to the door, saw the work, the sorting, the wiping, to what end? Every shelf under inspection. Tools rearranged. Rearranged again.
The floor was already clean. They were cleaning it anyway.
“Are you ready?” he started to say, then stopped himself.
Danger. Old knowledge. Deep in the bones. Not the time. Asking won’t help. Despite the urge. There could be no apology. Never enough. Better to just help clean.
He didn’t.
He went back to the kitchen and looked at the glass in the bin. Then, he rinsed his hands and went back to the counter where the battery bits still lay.
No more glass batteries.
Not after this one.
He went for a walk. The street thinned into a long stretch of morning. The cold bit. The sky was open.
At the park, a boy sat on a bench with a backpack at his feet, listening to something old. Battered headphones. Nodding along. Smiling like he knew a secret.
He sat beside him, took two CDs from his coat. They were scuffed, cases cracked, liner notes dense with scribbles.
“These are from before,” he said. “But they point ahead.”
“I can take one,” the boy said.
“Only one?”
“She says one is enough.”
He wanted to explain. Lineage. The old ways. Maps of tomorrow, when you know how to hear.
He let it pass.
“Take the one you’ll play,” he said.
The boy chose carefully and slid the other back across the bench. He smiled, grateful.
He watched him go. Felt the timing. The loss.
Back home, the garage door was still open. The shelves were empty. But they weren’t ready to leave.
He went to the kitchen, opened a notebook, and wrote a single line. Closed the book. Put on his coat. Petted the cat, and went to sit in the car.
The Speed of Obedience
There is a speed that looks like momentum but is not faith.
Momentum is often fear.
Haste is powered by scarcity, comparison, and deadlines. It asks, How fast can I get there?
Obedience asks, What is mine to do?
Speed rushes. Obedience arrives.
I have spent much of my life confusing velocity with virtue. If I moved fast enough, worked hard enough, produced enough, maybe I could outrun uncertainty. Maybe I could justify my place in the world. Maybe I could feel safe.
That kind of speed burns. It drains you while pretending to charge you.
Obedience is different. It is slow. Heavy. Quiet. It does not spike adrenaline. It settles the nervous system. It does not demand outcomes. It requires presence.
Obedience moves at the pace of clarity. You make the call in front of you. You write the paragraph that exists. You tell the truth you already know. You stop when the time is right. You receive correction as wisdom. You give thanks when mercy interrupts your day.
No heroics. No dramatics. Just fidelity to the next true thing.
God’s timing cannot be rushed. God is not trying to make you arrive somewhere else. God is fully giving in the moment.
Every moment.
Fear hates this. Fear is always out of time. Fear wants resolution that is not now.
God gives alignment.
You’re behind!
“No. I’m right here.”
Not running on borrowed courage from tomorrow.
Not chasing emotional charge from yesterday.
Not sprinting for validation, promotion, justification for being.
In glory. At pace.
In time.
With no more need for glass batteries.
