|October 12th, 2016
I don’t remember You asking me, Lord, about the direction of my Life. Not even so
much as an invitation to hear my side of what I think my story should really be about.
So then how come I have so many suggestions You “need” to hear?
You have ordered me to do a lot of things for a longtime now employing the voice of
my parents and those I hold dear. Especially when it comes to how I should conduct
my life. And I have obeyed the best I could. But since I neither have the world in the
palm of my hands nor that forever feeling I had with a girl, am I to deduct no quid pro
You have never once shown any interest in, say for example, my thoughts on sex
before marriage. Never sought any feedback to ensure Your Laws were well-adjusted
to my will. Never once sent me an email to write an essay on the merits of perpetual
sinning on the count of Your perpetual mercifulness and that, if I made a compelling
argument, I’d get a pass. To fail.
And yet, for reasons that are clearly suspect, I keep expecting you to. How come?
Although I’m super ready to impart my years of self-reflection with gleaming
enthusiasm to better serve You serve me, You have never needed me to confirm
anything let alone find any use for my elite masturbatory data.
And something tells me You never will.
Am I just realizing that You exist outside my definition of Your Role as God?
Will I never get to say "Wow, that was impressive!!" to You about Your Work in a
way that would make You proud of me despite - and precisely because of - how
astronomically inconceivable that is?
I believe my approval matters to You.
But only as it pertains to others. How they make me feel and vice versa. You want me
to pay attention to how I treat everyone You purposefully plant in my way. And not
worry about why You have planted them which, as You are sadly aware, that is all I
How can I not when I blame You for the lack luster stature of my life? For
compromising my beautiful heart and allowing my ego to overinflate my dream till it's
lying prostrate in the desert of meaninglessness with a distended belly like that of a
diseased hog deceased from hunger still pregnant with dinosaur ambition for unlimited
power and limitless control. Over everything. And anything.
I am actually to blame for all of that but even that You do not claim.
Instead, I notice You respond, unfailingly, to the permanent - Eternal - aspects of my
life. Like when it comes to my spirit, You are always present. You want me to feel
deeply. You want deep intention in my soul. You want me to simmer down to earth
from my lofty escape of fantasy. You keep challenging me, day in and day out, to
enlarge my compassion, enhance my maturity, replenish my confidence - in You. And
Your mysteriously terrifying ways.
But I, like a stubborn 4th grader, still refuse to learn to obey unwilling to let go of my
childish preference of play over paying attention to what's important. And You, the
Ever Patient Teacher, ever ready to instill in me much needed wisdom, kindly wait for
me to grow up while simultaneously overlooking the glaring fact that I'm in my thirties
still stuck in 4th grade. A fact, I feel You overlook not because it would demoralize me
if You pointed it out but because I will never understand just how much that does not
Because I suppose You want me to question what I find important. More important
than play? More important than great social standing, fulfillment of every
entrepreneurial endeavor? What's more important than worldly success so massive it's
My only guess is...
I feel that's all that matters to You, Lord.
How I care. How we care for one another.
Against all human inflicted atrocities and Mother Nature's fury, all that matters to You
is how we manage to care in the presence of chaos. How good we weather it with
whatever courage we can muster. Care opens the door to all doors. But more crucially,
it holds the key to mindfulness. And mindfulness is the passenger of Love. And Love is
the heart of Time. Which must be why when the heart stops so does Time for
Yet, no matter how mindfully I offer up every one of my opinions, You care not share
any of Yours with me. I don't imagine You withhold any opinions like a peaceful tree
would not about anything it witnesses. But my selfish desire to persist until You made
an exception rages on as implausibly as a vengeful tree on a war path against
I want to be the exception.
To Your Rule. By Your Rule.
I want the man I want to become to be more virtuous than the man You want me to
become – just by virtue of believing in You if nothing else. I know it sounds like I want
to be found knowing better than You. But I feel like the most satisfying offering I can
ever present to You for giving me, at the very least, an unprecedented courtesy to vent
my disrespectful words in Your name is if I impossibly became more than Your
expectation of me; if I offered You a heart richer than Time's.
I want to impress you by surprise. Vain, vain, vain, yes. But I almost want nothing to
be more rewarding even if it would have to be absolutely & paradoxically made
possible by You.
Almost as if You agreed to play peek-a-boo with my miniscule nature and finding
Yourself – no matter how briefly – genuinely surprised and lost within the tiny
innocence of my eyes while blissfully forgiving the grossly infantile title I indulge as a
But I understand now.
The problem is I want You to make me an exception without having to care at all.
I want You to care so I don't have to.
Can I at least convince myself I’m so far down the abyss of my hubris that I may
actually be coming out the other end, finally, and slowly, breaking free of my ego?
No? I didn't think so.