Bruised Follower

I'm following, but not like I've ever followed before. Not with the reins in my hand, not with my eyes on the mode of transportation. The feelings not the same, I have no confidence. I don't know the end result, but I suppose that's why they call it trust. As if I am travelling with the Son in the drivers seat on a cart pulled by a mule, but instead of grabbing the reins and swerving to avoid the pot holes I now have given him the reins and have to focus down the road. But this time, we are hitting the holes, and I have to reach out and grab His arm to keep from tumbling from the small seat. I'm not used to holding on to Him, more like grabbing what He had. So I have now commited to this journey, the road in His hands. It's bumpier than I expected, He doesn't swerve like I want Him too, dodge the rocks and the mud. I was happy at first, to see Him in the lead, no longer holding the responsbilty of life in my own leather-stricken hands. But now that I'm muddy, bruised, it's not as fun as it once was. And so I trust, hold tighter and resist the urge to snatch back the familiar feel of leader. Use me please, as I have become, a follower.