A sudden yearning for conversation

Where are You, God?

I can't see You, I can't hear You. How do I know that You're here? That You're real?

I tell people about You all the time. At times, I even recount the times You were real to me.

But more often that not, I'm not even sure I believe what I'm saying.

I know I want to believe. I know I'm choosing to believe.

But that notion has always made me uncomfortable. It seems paradoxical to me.

Isn't belief  a conviction of heart, a knowing of the mind? How can I will myself to believe? How can I choose to believe?

My beliefs are a guess.

Where are You, God?

Are You in the running orange water of the concrete steps of the drain? Are You in the tall grasses that make the birds high-step to their food? Are You in the bare-backed man sitting idly in the shade of the Sunday morning sunshine?

I sing praises to You. Loudly, wildly. But I need more than music to know You, Lord. To love You. I don't want to be riled up by the booming bass and the pulsating drums.

How do I know You're real?

MY LOVE.

...what? What do you mean?

I don't understand. Give me a sign. I want You to be personal to me. I want You to be my GOD. GIVE. ME. A SIGN.

BE STILL AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD.

...


BE STILL AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD.

...


BE STILL AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD.

...ok. OK, Lord. I will.