I knew we were being watched in the convent. Too closely in my opinion. But, in spite of their motive in saying so, I never felt watched by God. I also never felt bullied by that same deity. If anything, I felt his absence.
I felt ignored by him.
Forgotten.
Unimportant.
In spite of endless hours on my knees in prayer, I never felt one inch closer to that distant, male god of my youth.
Years later, however, I look back and realize how Spirit had been there for me all along, and how she/it tendered me along through the gray labyrinth of those seemingly endless days.
As I look back now and write about the emptiness, I reclaim that Presence, and allow it to wash over my years. And though I understand he/she/it no better, I embrace and celebrate it fully.
In every day–and every moment–and with every breath.
In my book, I retrace the journey of my loss and unexpected rediscovery.
I often think it would be so nice to have God actually visit and carry on conversations with me. As humans, the need to have physical interaction is so strong. Faith takes work.