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.
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.