a quieter way

Forth from the bushes of ash the Lord bellows his request

I am the God of your father. The God of Chuck, the God of Mac, the God of Red and the God of you.

And I tremble in fear. I cannot recall who I am. My name, address, social security number…
Nor do I recall why I’m here.
All that is know is that the unknowable is shouting into my ear things which I cannot understand.
God is speaking so loudly, so clearly
that he is undeniable.

But this isn’t how it really works with me.
I mean, sometimes yes. I feel like I have received a clear signal from God, but never beyond the realm of doubt. Never beyond the thought that maybe I cooked up the premonition myself or from some other outside source and I have attributed it to the high and lofty idea of this high power who is active and relevant to this his created world.
Perhaps that’s what usually happens.
Maybe that’s how it always happens…

But sometimes the prick is so subtle.
So clearly, impossibly separated from me that I cannot deny the possibility that maybe this God is seeking an audience with me.
Or at least my attention.
That I should at least drop what I’m doing and listen.
Because if I do not stop mid-step I might miss it.
The voice of God wafts so light atop a breeze so slight that I have to want it more than breath, more than sound, more than thought.
He seems to have a quieter way with me.
He doesn’t scream or shout.
He doesn’t have to raise His voice.
I have to desire his voice, he has a quieter way.

The words from the flames did not motivate the surrounding air to move, nor did it reflect off the rock walls surrounding them, but shot straight through the space and time and divided my bones from the marrow, and the spirit from the soul, with such frailty and softness that their presence could have simply been either ignored or reasoned away but were yet still so alien a sensation that the only flawless explanation is that they are from without and above.

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